Sometimes It Just Turns Out That Way

You hang as long as you can hang.

At times, it veered toward "The Big Chill," except without the death part.

It was a gathering of friends.

A favorite couple had invited me to join them for an evening of too many cooks in the kitchen, situational tests of memory and music old and new.

We brought each other up to date on our lives.

Over Ca'Berto Prosecco, they shared details of their weekend in Lovitsville, which seemed to be a delightful blend of reading, drinking and seeing the sights, while I countered with crabs, dolphins and wine.

Music selection got off on the right foot with "Under the Covers," a CD of '60s and '70s covers done by Matthew Sweet and Susannah Hoffs of the Bangles, two musicians I like a lot.

We had random dancing in multiple rooms.

Their version of "Cinnamon Girl" was excellent, "Different Drum" took me over the moon, but truly, it was the Who's "The Kids are Alright" that had me dancing with myself in the dining room, just my Ca'Berto and me.

We all pitched in for meal prep.

Then duty called so I joined my hosts in the kitchen to chop, slice and present a summer supper of the best kind.

Garlicky hummus with a hot sauce finish. Olli sausage Toscano and a dry Italian sausage. Sliced cukes. Bowls of olives and gherkins. Pita. Three kinds of mustard.

My contribution had been four succulent tomatoes raised in downtown Jackson Ward, which I sliced and gave a whiff of pink salt to before placing on the table.

We had our major chord feel-good moment.

Happy vibes abounded as we listened to the Sweet/Hoffs cover of "Monday, Monday" while eating these exquisite summer tomatoes, all three of us smiling, dancing and head bobbing in our chairs as tomato juices dripped down our hands.

We had surprises.

My host is a multi-talented man who impressed us over several times with his ability to do or know something.

At one point and only slightly off topic, he informed us with no warning, "I castrated bulls in the '70s." It's the kind of thing you expect to read in a Hemingway novel.

But just to clear (because he did clarify), he's only seen other types of castration.

Apparently that's a distinction a lot of castration veterans want to make.

We had a killer soundtrack.

The music rotated through Sergio Mendez and Brazil '66 (more dancing), Roxy Music (limpid movements and swooning) and Bobby Darrin (to give you some idea of the vibe) as we each spun stories and sipped Graham Beck Brut Rose.

Our humor exceeded the sum of our parts.

At one point, my host had to take his glasses off because he was laughing so hard he was crying. You don't see that every day.

And the conversation grew and bloomed like a stinkweed in a city yard.

We had information sharing.

They were unimpressed with Southern Seasons, she's coveting a steak from Belmont Butchery and he acknowledged men having sensitive nipples.

This is noteworthy mainly because I saw a friend's video this afternoon in which he commented, "Men's nipples really do get hard," after ice water is thrown on his head.

I can't say I've ever had a day where nipples came up so often.

While my host provided color for the conversation with small detours and slight tangents, we tucked into chocolate eclairs and chocolate lava cake, perfectly lovely with the Graham Beck.

You have to appreciate a man who lays in supplies of bubbly and chocolate.

We had laugh attacks.

During a conversation about goodness know what, my host tried to use the word "bodices," pronouncing it "bo-deeces," sending us off into gales of laughter.

We've all been there - read words, understood them, but with no kind of idea how to pronounce them.

My friend couldn't resist playing and talking about the band Time for Three, a classically trained string trio that seemed to meld every genre of music - bluegrass, jazz, rock, classical.

"I'm buying seven or eight copies and giving them to people for Christmas," my friend said. Can't say I've given Christmas presents a  moment's thought.

We shared future plans.

There was my friend's screenplay idea, which involves Beethoven, Bach and Mozart being dropped into the '60s to see how they would have changed music. Brilliant.

But after 5 1/2 hours together, these people who had gotten up way earlier than I had today were getting tired.

We went our separate ways.

Back in Jackson Ward, roving packs of freshmen were walking up and down sidewalks, looking for the party, the cool place, to be seen.

Getting out of my car, a trio passes by, all of them intent at making a success of their first Friday night away at college.

"Let's stay up all night!" one squeals as I put the lock in my door and smile to myself.

It's 12:15.

That's a hell of a hang you have ahead of yourself, son. Do what you can.