Rock the Boat
Miraculous. This is the only word to describe our class' ability to organize together one last time (as a large group at least).
At 5:30 the Afro- Persian Palace was empty save for some multi-culti electro- tango. Suitably, I suppose, since I did invite people over to my place at "5:30p brown people time." A half hour later, the doorbell rings to reveal some fellow Scandinavian cinephiles and a China travel partner. 6:15 (about 30 minutes before we were technically supposed to be at the Rice University parking lot to catch the buses down to Clear Lake) there is a flood of nears and dears all swapping recent travel stories. I love fourth year. The living room became abuzz with future cooter cutters (OB-GYNs), pediatrons, shrinks, and of course the ubiquitous Morehouse Man. So, after quick refreshers we headed out to the Rice Parking lot around the corner to catch our ride out to our class party.
We headed out to Clear Lake (which is apparently between the Gulf of Mexico and Houston) to have one last class party out on a boat. Correction. Out on two boats. The first boat seemed to me, someone who is sensitive to Texas stereotypes, a bit on the honky, Mississippi riverboat, Adventures of Tom Sawyer side. But much to my delight it was actually none of those things. Just casual Texas exuberance on two levels of party deck (one of which was a frigidly air-conditioned). The second was a one level casino boat. While gambling laws in Texas and certainly the restricted funds of Baylor College of Medicine's Office of Student Affairs forbids us from real gambling, we did enjoy fictional chips and the raffle tickets they garner.
Relatedly, this was perhaps the last time I will see some of my classmates. This is obviously both good and bad. It was a great opportunity to say adios to the needlessly borracho, the gauche conversation hogs, and of course, those unfortunate souls who refuse to discuss anything but tests and medicine. To them, I say adieu. But I will miss the Jewish-Ethiopians, my Saudi-raised Indian country-dancing teachers, the high-stung and just as fun grandmother-approved Dallas natives, and many more. I them, I say à bientôt.
The night progressed suitably. Thanks to Edward (and his approaching move to Los Angeles), my alcohol collection has burgeoned. So as any good receiver of gifts, I decided to pay it forward and share. Using my fellow future psychiatrist's Australian "Go Green" bag, we packed away our boating essentials and dropped it off with the bar tender. "So, is this for just your friends or everyone?" the Southern blond inquired.
As any good Morehouse Man, I decide that there needs to be an appropriate password. This was with the knowledge that the password would essentially become useless in 20 minutes or so, but would still require those that would like to partake blithely in spirits to know where it came from.
"The password is, 'I love kicker dancing.'" Add wink to the bartender here subsequently followed by the big toothy smile and slowly raising eyebrows of a bartender resigned to the idea of a Black physician kicker dancing fanatic.
Needless to say it was a fun night. Our East Texas drama-queen, I'm fairly certain, crossed some personal space boundaries with one of our Lebanese classmates with a fairly popular Michael Jackson song accompanying her. There was also the requisite quasi-homo erotic kisses our Indian friend was giving out to his golfing buddies' cheeks. This is not to mention any number of plausible would-be sexual harassment claims. Man-nipples are not to be pinched. At the very least, not on boats.
There was a suitable amount of drama from desi former couples and homophobes, newly returned faces from the bowels of academia, and of course my 7 year old Panameño rum. The music was great (good work Guzu) and I enjoyed myself thoroughly. Sigh.