It started innocuously. I believe it was Tom Sporney who suggested reviving the idea of a local Washington, DC Pike Founder's Day event. I must have said something along the lines of "maybe we could do something at my place." I pictured ordering a pizza and getting some of those half-price, day-old cupcakes from the Safeway. Tom had other ideas, and within an hour he had emailed invitations to every Pike on the Eastern seaboard. "I'll take care of everything," he assured me.
Soon I was getting bids from caterers and audition tapes from bands. Tom had the electric company rewire the house for klieg lights. I said "Tom, who's paying for this?" "Dues," he said.
Party day dawned inauspiciously, but by day's end my house and I would be on the TV news, and my wife would be on a plane to Switzerland.
The band set up too close to the pool, and when Peter "Friggy" Aufrichtig did his patented cannonball, the wave arced the starboard amp and shorted out most of Georgetown. Tom Berg took this as a cue to grab a Tiki torch and illuminate the neighborhood by igniting the thatched garden house. Naked and on fire, they jumped into the pool, bounced off of Friggy, and skittered across the deck, upending the buffet table upon which the caterers had just placed the Pike crest, made entirely of vodka Jello®.
Kevin Dean, hoping to get the helmet part, dove to the deck snapping at Jello® like a croc on a playground. Brett Sylvester had already staked a claim on the shield part, made of Stoli Blue Label, and the two of them made a dent in the spoils before the dogs arrived. Apparently the smell of roasting meat attracted the neighborhood dogs, some of them quite ornery. They caught wind of the vodka, dispatched Kevin and Brett, and finished off the crest. There's nothing more vicious than a herd of Jack Russels ripped to the tits on Russian vodka. Greg Paradiso attempted to capture them and was emasculated. Ed Catto rode one of the bigger ones down the street, but the dog got spooked by the fire trucks coming for the garden house, and nobody ever heard from Ed again.
Meanwhile, Paul Wessel and Neil Best commandeered the klieg lights and were sweeping planes descending into National Airport, thereby causing the Homeland Security threat level to go to red. When the National Guard troops arrived, Marc Rockford directed them to park their tanks on my clay tennis court "because you never know what that crazy bastard rigged up under the driveway." (Marc was angry at me for not lending him my rifle to pick off drunk terriers.)
The neighbors were livid, of course, at least the ones not preoccupied by the spreading grass fire, upon which Doug Wright was pouring rum. Tom Carbone pulled me away from the melee to point out that the fire had reached the kegs. The first one to explode drenched Ralph Olivier who, consumed by the holy spirit, threw himself onto the erupting kegs and rode them home to the promised land.
Just after the police arrived, Jeff Lowe grabbed a bottle of tequila and commenced doing the chicken dance on the tennis court, where he got tasered by a cop who had, fortunately, used up all of his bullets trying to shoot the exploding kegs for reasons only he can explain, which he never will, due to the ricochet factor. I believe he's in St. Elizabeth's now, playing euchre with John Hinckley.
This is when my wife left. I'll miss her, but three-to-five will pass before I know it, then I'll track her down. Next Founder's Day I'll be hosting a soiree at my place again, here at the Supermax. Bring rubber pants and leave your dentures at home.