Oh, Crap. It's Slayer Night

Last night, after a balmy dinner at Deb's discussing the baby shower, I arrived at Chez Burrow chock-full of warm fuzzies (and some tasty homemade Italian food) thinking innocent thoughts of duckies and booties and what color to paint the baby room.

As I walk in the front door, I'm greeted by hooting. In my kitchen, I find The Varmint, Justin (a.k.a. Fabulous Brother of Varmint), and good friend Ian the Irishman. They each have cold Tecates in their hands. They are all wearing ultra-ratty t-shirts, stomper boots and sunburns. I hear them man-cackling with macho purpose. Ah, yes. Now I remember: It's Slayer night.

I admit it. At first, upon hearing that their gang of salt-encrusted, thirtysomething surfers were assembling to pay homage to Slayer - that theatrical, metalheaded bastion of teenage whitedude angst - I felt bemused, then a little horrified. After a few more minutes of picturing them in the mash of thousands of sweaty-chested longhairs, throwing the horns (see actual photo from The Varmint's mobile phone, above right), moshing and hollering "SLAY-YUR!" at the top of their lungs, I wanted to stick my fingers in my ears and yell "Lalalalalalalalalalaaaaa! I can't hear you!" at the top of mine.SlayerShanFone.jpg

I mean these guys are all highly intelligent professionals, good guys with happy marriages, functioning moral compasses, and for the most part, a passable level of maturity. Rare guys, in other words. Guys you can count on to not be snorting crystal and downing a fifth of Jack before coming home to mom and dad's basement - know what I'm saying?

But, here they were, fishing fruit flies out of the Herradura and doing tequila shots. I could hear them high-fiving from my hideout in the office. And as I sat there, working late, I found myself smiling. Here they are on a Thursday night, three old friends having a blast. They're not boring old middle-aged fat dudes laying around watching TV - they're out there doing stuff. Weird whiteguy stuff, yes. But stuff nonetheless - and they're having fun.

Around midnight, Ian the Irishman and Metal Varmint bust into my bedroom, eyes on fire. They're keyed up, shirts either sopping with sweat or missing entirely. They are over the moon, relating some great stories of Life in the Pit and grinning at one another like insane apes. Amid the miasma of elation, excitement and nostalgia, is the palpable hum of connection: "Ah," I think to myself, "reconnection. This is what male bonding looks like."

Normally, about here, I'd break any touchy-feely tension by throwing in some reference to latent sexual tendencies or maybe something about Freddie Mercury - but instead, I'll enjoy a rare moment of snarkless humility and let the boys have their due. It was a fun night, even for a spectator, and besides, I realize they aren't the only ones with an angsty Slayer fetish... 


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I am a writer and lazy artist who loves travel, architecture and design. Right now, I'm into photography. My fabulous husband (a.k.a. The Varmint) and I are also the principals of a San Diego-based creative agency - and new parents to the divine Baby Mak. Read More >