Had a complete blast this weekend. After that fun night out on Friday, Saturday afternoon and evening were devoted to celebrating Babe (my college roommate)’s 30th birthday. Babe and Mr. Babe threw a luau-themed party, their large backyard hosting a homemade pit and brick oven to roast the requisite suckling pig; their patio festooned with lights and surrounded with tiki torches; and the guests in loud shirts, sarongs, and the like.

Babe and I have a sizable circle of friends and acquaintances in common, thanks to a shared college extracurricular; it’s the only group of friends I have that’s really a group—for the most part, my social life is one-on-one, so most of my friends, though they may have met, aren’t necessarily friends with each other—and I love the dynamic that this creates: all those shared inside jokes and references and the way you don’t even need to see someone for a year or two to be completely current on his or her life. I’m actually much closer to each member of our core group of five or six friends than I was in college, with the possible exception of Babe (it’s hard to be much closer than sharing a room with someone/living across the hall from her for four years, and we’re now in different states).

GWB and I hitched a ride to the festivities with the Fergusbergs—Mr. F. sporting a grass skirt, me baring perhaps too much midrift—arriving around 1 p.m. to start in on the ample supply of beer. The afternoon passed pleasantly, catching up with old friends and meeting various other guests from the neighborhood and from Mr & Mrs. B’s places of employ. Some guests went swimming, others invented new athletic events involving extra plastic leis. Tiki music wafted through the air (I’m proud to say that I contributed the Exciting Sounds of Martin Denny--that’s a trip to Planet Eisenhower if ever there was one!) The roasted pig was hoisted aloft, carved, and eaten; every time I looked over at G-Fav he seemed to be waving aloft or chowing down on the snout, or the tail, or the better part of a leg.

As darkness descended some of the older guests and those with kids started leaving, but the rest of us fired up the tiki torches and plugged in the illuminated palm tree. Mr. Babe brought out his string bass, another friend his sax, and they and a couple of their jazz buddies started jamming on the patio steps—live music, people! We ate leftover birthday cake, threw together several pitchers of Mai-Tais and Blue Hawaiians, and the collective blood-alcohol content got even higher. When the jazz combo was done we started raiding Babe’s iTunes for old favorites to sing and dance to. Mr. Fergusberg busted out his direct-from-Brooklyn break-dancing moves. Babe and I danced together, as I recall, quite a lot, sweating like the unfortunate swine (presumably) once did. We stood on the steps and collectively bellowed out “Living on a Prayer.”

After Mr. Babe smeared frosting on the chest of a male guest and proceeded to lick it off, we decided that the party had perhaps reached the point of no return—and since we had an hour’s drive back to the Chateau Fergusberg (behind the wheel the sober Mrs. Fergusberg), we called it a night.

How’s that to end the summer?