Graduation Day
Like my prolific blogging colleague, The Exec, I've decided to try my hand at movie reviews. Graduation Day is the name of two movies, one from 1981 and the other from 2003. I haven’t seen either.
In Foster City, we’ve been partying like its 1999. It all started at the Belgian’s house Memorial Day weekend. Mrs. Belgian received her master’s degree from SFSU so hubby went all out. On their waterfront deck was a samba band, oyster bar and cocktails. In the kitchen, the caterer was cranking out lobster quesadillas, steak lollipops and other delicacies. I entered the scene, appropriately, to the soft strains of Girl from Ipanema.
All the regulars were there as well as some other FC folks I knew and many I didn’t. I met up with The Exec and #1 at the bar. Their seething resentment was palpable. I discovered the source was a bartender that was challenged by the fact that he had only one martini shaker and no vermouth. Cooler heads prevailed, as I reminded them all this was on the Belgian’s dime, thus averting a protest of abstinence, which would make these guys irritable and largely unbearable. The bartender had just finished up making a mango martini when I ordered a desiccated vodka martini up. When he handed it to me I said, “I heard of dirty martinis pal, but this is ridiculous”. The Belgian then slugged me, so I promised to behave.
I ran into #2 and TCG at the oyster bar. After slurping down a few, I tried chatting them up. They wouldn’t talk to me. I don’t why. I then went looking for my wife. She wouldn’t talk to me either. I grabbed a second drink and tried meeting some new folks. No takers. I decided to sit by myself and listen into a political conversation The Banker and #2 were having. After a bathroom break, I came back to see them wrestling off the deck, into the lagoon. When I pointed it out to The Belgian, he slugged me again. However, the night ended on a positive note as I led a conga line in the moonlight. Few people realize I have the legs of a dancer.
This past week saw several events unfold. Six kids from the village graduated from their respective high schools. Four of them, including my son, walked at St. Mary’s in SF. It was two hours but went pretty quickly. It was quite brisk outside as the boys threw their caps in the air. After pictures with friends and family, we headed back home for a low key lunch. My big boy heads off to George Washington U. in a few months. We’re putting him to work until then.
That evening was another graduation party at The Exec’s house. His daughter, the guest of honor, was lovely and gracious. Mrs. Exec provided a bevy of gustatory delights. I couldn’t get a mango martini but the selection of Rosenblum wines made up for it. I conversed with many folks that evening, including some out of town guests. TCG, #2 and I kissed and made up.
I slept in late Sunday morning. I needed my rest. An afternoon party at The Banker’s house awaited. It was yet another opportunity for an excellent chow down. There was a ton of food so I didn’t feel bad about stuffing some tri-tip in my pockets on the way out. In the interim, I palavered with my hail-fellow-well-met village compadres and the rest of the guests. I thought the bar would be limited to The Banker’s drink of choice, Rosé, but that was not the case. As we sat in the sun, The Exec and I grooved on the rap music. It transported us back to our high school days.
Congrats Grads!!
In Foster City, we’ve been partying like its 1999. It all started at the Belgian’s house Memorial Day weekend. Mrs. Belgian received her master’s degree from SFSU so hubby went all out. On their waterfront deck was a samba band, oyster bar and cocktails. In the kitchen, the caterer was cranking out lobster quesadillas, steak lollipops and other delicacies. I entered the scene, appropriately, to the soft strains of Girl from Ipanema.
All the regulars were there as well as some other FC folks I knew and many I didn’t. I met up with The Exec and #1 at the bar. Their seething resentment was palpable. I discovered the source was a bartender that was challenged by the fact that he had only one martini shaker and no vermouth. Cooler heads prevailed, as I reminded them all this was on the Belgian’s dime, thus averting a protest of abstinence, which would make these guys irritable and largely unbearable. The bartender had just finished up making a mango martini when I ordered a desiccated vodka martini up. When he handed it to me I said, “I heard of dirty martinis pal, but this is ridiculous”. The Belgian then slugged me, so I promised to behave.
I ran into #2 and TCG at the oyster bar. After slurping down a few, I tried chatting them up. They wouldn’t talk to me. I don’t why. I then went looking for my wife. She wouldn’t talk to me either. I grabbed a second drink and tried meeting some new folks. No takers. I decided to sit by myself and listen into a political conversation The Banker and #2 were having. After a bathroom break, I came back to see them wrestling off the deck, into the lagoon. When I pointed it out to The Belgian, he slugged me again. However, the night ended on a positive note as I led a conga line in the moonlight. Few people realize I have the legs of a dancer.
This past week saw several events unfold. Six kids from the village graduated from their respective high schools. Four of them, including my son, walked at St. Mary’s in SF. It was two hours but went pretty quickly. It was quite brisk outside as the boys threw their caps in the air. After pictures with friends and family, we headed back home for a low key lunch. My big boy heads off to George Washington U. in a few months. We’re putting him to work until then.
That evening was another graduation party at The Exec’s house. His daughter, the guest of honor, was lovely and gracious. Mrs. Exec provided a bevy of gustatory delights. I couldn’t get a mango martini but the selection of Rosenblum wines made up for it. I conversed with many folks that evening, including some out of town guests. TCG, #2 and I kissed and made up.
I slept in late Sunday morning. I needed my rest. An afternoon party at The Banker’s house awaited. It was yet another opportunity for an excellent chow down. There was a ton of food so I didn’t feel bad about stuffing some tri-tip in my pockets on the way out. In the interim, I palavered with my hail-fellow-well-met village compadres and the rest of the guests. I thought the bar would be limited to The Banker’s drink of choice, Rosé, but that was not the case. As we sat in the sun, The Exec and I grooved on the rap music. It transported us back to our high school days.
Congrats Grads!!
posted by DJ @ 6:31 PM
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