Say what?

We went to a 5th of July party Saturday night. It was wonderful.

Dolores’s “partner,” the social worker on her unit at Stony Brook University Medical Center, throws a massive 200 – 300-guest bash every “Glorious” 4th Weekend. The party had everything! All the food was homemade by Roy, our host. He cooked-up baked beans, baked ziti, collard greens, string beans, shrimp, sausage and peppers, eggplant parm, pirogis and sautéed mushrooms, ribs, hot dogs, hamburgers, kielbasa, fried chix and more, more, more!! Plus desserts!!!

Open bar and two bartenders!!!!

Plenty of tables, chairs, tents in case of rain, and parking wasn’t a problem.

The guests were charming – lots of co-workers clearly comfortable with each other and lots of spouses putting faces to names and not quite comfortable….but all making a great effort and generally succeeding, at congeniality.

It was perfect.

Almost.

My nemesis was there. The ubiquitous DJ. The accursed DJ. The destroyer of live music DJ. Damn, I hate DJ’s.

He was young (20-something); had a half-dozen speakers each roughly the size of the Pyramid of Cheops; and a selection of music that can only be described as LOUD; VERY, VERY LOUD.
And modern. Very, very modern -- which means VERY, VERY, LOUD; with a deep, percussive, driving bass that probably corrected my slightly arrhythmic heartbeat and most certainly forced everyone to shout, effectively killing any chance of conversation, unless you left the party, went around to the front of the house and walked from West Bayshore, Long Island, NY (the party’s location) to somewhere close to Hackensack, in Jersey, across the Hudson on the far west side of Manhattan Island.

We were at the party for 4 hours. He played three songs I could recognize (Mack the Knife, something Stones, and an old BeeGee’s disco tune). The rest, well, I couldn’t possibly tell you the names of the songs, the artists, or anything else, except it all sounded the same. (Yes, I’m clearly getting old and crotchety.)

On the plus side, the kids seemed bothered not at all. They danced; they shouted in lieu of conversation; and they took pictures of each other with their telephones.

All of which was great for them, but for many of the hospital crew who might have enjoyed speaking with their co-workers; or their husbands, boyfriends, wives, girlfriends, etc. who might have enjoyed meeting the people their significant others spend more time with at work than they often do at home, it was impossible to talk and impossible to hear, making it impossible to communicate.

Now if it sounds like I’m an ungrateful slug, I’m not. I had a very pleasant time. A great time. The food: superb; the booze: top shelf and plentiful; the generosity of our host and his family: unmatched, amazing, and, well, unmatched and amazing. The company: hard to tell. Who could find out?

If the purpose of a party is to bring friends and family together for the occasion of social intercourse; for strengthening the bonds between co-workers; for providing an “out-of-the-workplace” perspective on those we see every day; and for, well, if we’re there simply to have a good time, then the DJ should be shot, (wounded that is, winged in his turntable-volume arm) or at least bound tightly, the volume turned down during the “let’s eat” portion of the party; and then, when everyone’s had their meal and the booze has had a chance to work lowering inhibitions; then, that’s the time to loosen him from his bonds, let him put on the dance music, ramp up the volume, invite everyone to the dance-grass, and all assembled can par-tee, at least them that wants to.

Again, let me state “for the record,” I had a wonderful time. I’m looking forward to next year, even.

But I’da had a nicer time if there had been fifteen minutes…no, even five minutes…when I didn’t feel like I was living inside a 6-foot woofer, with 5-foot tweeters surgically attached to each ear, and the sound turned up to “SUPER MAD MAX.”

If I’d wanted to dance whole night, I’da gone to Arthur Murray’s. Loud music could have been accomplished by stuffing my ear buds in a little further into my ears and screwing up the volume on my disc-man (no iPod yet).

But this was a party. A very generous, expensive-for-the-host, rare-opportunity-to-meet-Dolores’s-friends-and-co-workers party.

I just wish I could’a done that. Did ja hear me? I said, “I JUST WISH I COULD’A DONE THAT.” Oops, I’m shouting. Sorry.