Karl Klockars

When I was about 23 years old, I spent an evening celebrating the 27th birthday of a friend of mine who now plays drums for a noted nationally touring rock and roll band.  You probably wouldn’t know them if I told you their name, but they’ve got a slot on a label bigger than all the garage-based indie labels out there, and they probably have the guys from the Mighty Mighty Bosstones on speed dial.  I don’t know how much that counts for, but it’s gotta be something.

I digress.  In any event, we were standing in a garage on the far south side of Chicago drinking cans of cheap beer and celebrating the anniversary of the birth of my friend.  He looks at me and says the following words which galvanized in my head instantly and became a benchmark of everyone’s lifespan in these eight short words:  “27 is when the party stops, you know.”  Okay, so it’s 7 words and a number.  Doesn’t matter.

The point is:  I had never even begun to concern myself with the point at which one’s personal party would ever have to end.  It was as if someone told me that I only had so long to live.  You mean I’ll only be able to really debauch myself for another 4 years?  One presidential term?  One Olympics cycle?  Only 4 more birthdays spent getting covered with my own vomit at some dive bar in a suburb somewhere?  Perish the thought!

I crossed that particular age Rubicon a couple years back, and have still been known to have an entertaining time every now and again.  The party certainly didn’t stop on that particular dime that I was afraid my 27th birthday would be.  (Although one could certainly argue that things might be better if it did.  I’d have more money to spend on things like…um, other things that keep me from going insane.)  So the questions remain:  When does the party stop?  When should the party stop?  Who should stop it?  When should it even start?

Sometimes my wife wonders that if/when she gets to the age where I was told the party had to stop (“if/when” because I’m not going to deal with specifics when it comes to a woman’s age – I may look stupid but I ain’t dumb) she’ll feel that I’ll think she’s too old.  That I’m going to trade her in on a model that still has a year or two of party left in her.  That she’s going to have to sit at home, knitting mittens while she waits for her rule-breaking over-27 still-socially-active-and-drinking-to-nearly-excess-in-public husband to come home.  And much like that dude from the Talking Heads, I think:  My god, what have I done?

I didn’t really actively think about the 27-and-done death sentence until around the age of 26.  It was a quarter-life crisis of sorts, wondering if I was really going to have to force myself to get straight, grow up, be a big boy and pull up my pants for once.  That I was just waiting for someone to tell me that I was an adult now.  No more public urination or vandalism.  No more stumbling home babbling to yourself about the merits of Southern Comfort mixed with any kind of citrus.  No more 2:30 burritos.  I didn’t stop to think that some of these things might be a good way to be in general, not after the 27-year-old threshold.

But only now, two years past the 27-barrier, did I realize that the guy that told me about the barrier itself is living out the most grown-up fantasy life one could ever imagine.  That any rule about sobriety and responsibility goes right out the window when it’s being levied to you by a guy who hits loud things for a living, while drinking beer.  That anything said by a punk rock drummer should probably be taken with a grain of salt, no matter how sage it may seem.

So, as it turns out, it would appear that the party is only over when you decide it’s over.  That it can go on into your silver years if you have drive, dedication, and a liver of absolute steel.  (I seem to have a good precedent for this in my family:  my recently-hospitalized grandmother requested an Absolut mixer for her fiber supplement [which is completely effing awesome].)  I’m staring down the barrel of thirty, a birthday which my wife has promised me will be spent in the basement of a VFW Hall bar where the bartender’s cocaine supply holds more promise than the mixed drinks ever could.  So make your own determination on whether or not the actual party has come to a ceasefire.

On the flip side, I’ve been known to spend a Saturday night here and there A) at home and B) relatively sober.  (“Relatively sober” means when you go to bed, you can read 20 pages of a book and remember what you read when you wake up.  Another one of Karl’s Corellaries – coming soon!)  So it would appear that the only timeline one has to follow in terms of being moderately responsible is the one you set for yourself.  Because god knows Mr. The Party Stops At 27 isn’t on the straight and narrow.  And neither should the rest of us aging fools that still consider ourselves far younger than any number says, but also feel much older than we actually look.  At some point, we’ll fit into our age, but only if science finds a way for us to be simultaneously 19 and 43.