I won't know. I can't know the value of a party by the gigantic cannon, off Prospects. Note: that isn't a metaphor, there's a gigantic cannon (still occasionally used) and it sits proudly on the side of a road called Prospect in Ypsilanti, Michigan. I didn't go to the party and I ran into the host at a strip club a week later and we said hello like it didn't matter, but I know it did. I was a value added proposition --else why invite me? And I'd decided against it despite her penetrating eyes and our firm handshake at the invitation. In another life, she and I are lovers, by now, or 4am coney island confidants.
I do know there was value in the beatings. We four merry drunkards, bleary eyed and stunningly acrobatic and indefatigable on that green Friday night.
[Fo(u)r] two hours we swag from a fifth of someone grimier, sharper, hotter than Jim Bean and wooo'd and I wobbled around, meek and red, between the pile ons.
I caught a glimpse of the spirit of Ypsilanti, Michigan, USA, while we were out. We were walking an unlit bridge, having trounced the lonely horseman barring our way ("You shall not pass" --pah.) and our token female, more balls than the lot of us wither her leg braces and clicky klank swagger, was saying something and I only came back to her words when: "But sexually it just wasn't happening, so." got spoke.
And then there was a neighing and horse's breathe still somehow steaming in in that green night. all knees break with a kick and applied baseball bats.