Shrouded by two glasses of Irish whiskey, I return home. The rain has almost stopped; a few drops are whipped by the remaining wind, and fog shreds itself on the pointy tops of the tallest buildings, off to my left downtown, as I drive home, windshield wipers stating the obvious in two-four time. I feel pretty good. I am looking forward to seeing my dog in his usual spot on the couch. Wagging his tail glad to see me. I have seen very many upturned noses, rouged cheeks, gum-flashing smiles, flashing eyes and silken hairdos tonight, at the bar, while talking with my two friend/acquaintances, and all this has left me with a vague horniness mixed with the comfortable blessing of being able to watch and appreciatively raise an eyebrow without actually having to do anything. That’s the main thing I like about bars. They are full of stories if you want them, otherwise you can sit and drink and look. I have had a relatively good time, despite my earlier reluctance, my sense of strange longing unanswered--but it is good to be returning home, alone. I plan to make some chocolate milk. But a strange thing happens. I notice the signs many blocks away, before I cross the river even. They say, THIS WAY TO PARTY. And they have arrows and pointing pictures of fingers. The signs are posted on telephone poles, mailboxes, trees, every few blocks. And they all seem to be pointing the way I am driving. Great. Probably one of my damn neighbors having some weekend bash, and I will have to listen to the thump thump thump of the bass until I can force myself to sleep. As I turn onto my own block, the signs continue--pointing to my own house! What the-- I park next to the curb, and stride up the rickety porch steps to my door. I unlock my door, and stand there astonished. My stereo is playing Irish music, loud and ribald. My dog is going from person to person, getting all the attention he could ever want, grinning and wagging his tail. People are spread all over the apartment, doing various things. One woman, dressed in jeans and no shirt, fine breasts tight-skinned and almost demure in the candlelight, is playing guitar. A bird, some sort of parrot, sits on her shoulder. Two men are sword fighting on my bed. Couples are dancing, stepping in intricate rhythms and bouncing with laughter. One girl with bleach-blonde hair and a Green Bay Packers jacket is dancing by herself and talking to the wall: “When I’m dancing,” she says, “that’s the one time I’m free. I can say, fuck what anybody else thinks....” A fervent role-playing game is going on around my coffee table, played by people in trenchcoats and strange jewelry. A drum circle reverberates in the kitchen. I smell sage burning. Perched on my dresser is a man with almost-closed eyes going through some T’ai Chi movements. Two guys in overalls are fixing the spots on my kitchen wall where the tiles were falling off. They are talking passionately about the best way to fix the problem. Somebody seems to be cooking steaks at my stove, while a woman with long blond hair and an apron is mixing drinks, having devastated the contents of my liquor cabinet. A knight in full armor strolls past, talking casually with a harp-carrying bard in purple tights. From the bedroom, I hear the muted murmurs of a gentle orgy. While I stand there trying to think of what to say, frozen, as it were, in time, they all start to notice me--and then they all start to leave. I am still standing there, holding my keys, as they all file past me, out the door. “So sorry, sorry to bother you...” “Of course you’d rather drink alone...” “We thought you were going to be gone a while...” “Sorry, didn’t mean to intrude...” “Uh, gee, thanks for the liquor and all...” “I’m sure you’ve got to get up early...” “Gosh, don’t let us interfere with your plans...” What plans? I think desperately to myself, as the last one bows her way out the front door to the porch and disappears. My dog goes and sits in his usual spot on the couch. Oh no--not quite the last one. Two are left. One is the woman I had seen playing the guitar. Still shirtless, still with immaculate nipples like the crispness of Fall. And the other--a donkey. And the donkey is talking--though I can’t understand what he is saying. “Unnh-hæ Ürq ¥ë Bg ¡kung!” he says, along with some other unreproducable syllables. “What the fuck is he saying!” I ask the woman wildly. She smiles at me, definitely smiles at me, and my heart melts. “He is speaking in the language of most resistance,” she says. “Listen carefully. I think you know this language.” And then she tosses her hair once, takes hold of the donkey’s bridle which is made of daisy-chain, and they walk out, leaving me alone. And in the silence I listen to the language of most resistance.