Prepare two weeks in advance by meticulously scrubbing every surface in your Ballard Craftsman incessantly until your fingers permanently smell of caustic chemical solutions of varying levels of astringency. I particularly like the Meyer's lemon-scented all-purpose cleaner. Accidentally ingesting that shit tastes like the paradichlorobenzene-flavored transcendence of human subjectivity in a machine built for the unpleasant production and pleasant consumption of commodities. It is also lemony.

How might I increase my degree of difficulty in completing such a task? Own two dogs -- two energetic Springers (one, technically, a Cluminger who is blind, slightly paranoid of unknown city sounds like sirens and doors knocking, and, as the woman from Montana who gave him to us suggested, horsies, and drools and slobbers like a mental patient in a Kesey novel) who perpetually counteract any gains you've made on any surface within paw distance. Given Cooper's projectile drooling, this can also include ceilings and objects in three rooms over.

Not difficult enough? Get stay-home-from-work feverishly ill two days before the event when you've realized you're still two weeks behind having spent every spare minute playing Rock Band 2, but note that you do feel some pride in having survived some death metal song called Visions on medium difficulty when the crowd kept threatening to boo you off during the entirety, and that you've won the services of Merch Girl in a club in San Francisco, but those services are somewhat hollow when you consider she really just sells merchandise and not other things groupies are good for.

Still not difficult enough for you? You certainly must try the expert-level Rock Host which also includes: your girlfriend gets sick the day of the event, you overdose on Tussin, Theraflu, and Bayer to become nearly comatose hours before guests arrive, your girlfriend's cousin shows up with her retriever whom your constantly wrestling dogs like to chase (or vice-versa), and your girlfriend's sister's husband's brother stops by unannounced thus upping the attendee count from 15 to 16 (technically 17 -- your girlfriend's sister just had an Emma about a month ago, but she, fortunately, will not be seated) at a dining room table that you've already had to move to the living room and figured out a way to seal people's skin together s.t. you can remove unnecessary appendages from taking up valuable table real estate at said table that would otherwise only comfortably seat 10.

Go vegan so that additional accommodations can be met s.t. you, too, can eat, and I think you win something. Good friends at Tofurkey, Inc.: I'm waiting.

But let's say you aren't the Lee of Seattle with a loving girlfriend with whom you are anxiously awaiting next weekend when you will get away to the getaway you planned: a two-night stay in Friday Harbor in a third floor hotel room overlooking the water and the other San Juan islands in a room that includes a jacuzzi and a fireplace. If I can get my Windows XP SP3-installed (long story) desktop to fucking recognize my new iPod, I will have a Dean MartinPod. And THAT, my friends, is amore.

Let's say you are the Lee of Nashua, New Hampshire. You are the Lee who had mastered the art of pining for a woman whom you shared almost nothing in common with. You are the Lee who had friends who all had real lives, thus making you seriously long to spend more time in cities that had more than strip malls, mall malls, and auto malls. You are the Lee who celebrated birthdays by cranking Suicidal Tendencies (on headphones) in his apartment because Mike Muir shares your birthday. What do you, Lee, do to simulate this experience?

Real M-80s are no longer legal in the United States, and anything that claims to be an M-80 is probably just an M-50. Here are a list of states where it is legal to buy these:
http://www.cpsc.gov/CPSCPUB/PUBS/012.html
For a real M-80, I'm afraid you're going to have to roll your own, or, better yet, help some poor amigo at the true South of the Border (Tijuana or Juarez, for example) by contributing a few pesos to the cause. But for the authentic experience, nothing else will do justice. If you're really stuck, just tie the fuses of two M-50s together, but note that you're not getting the same dynamic force.

Now buy a lot of red and brown shit.

Start in the kitchen. Embed the M-80s in the red and brown shit, light, duck, and cover. Repeat as necessary until your stemware is broken, your walls are permanently stained, and you are seriously considering just holding a lit M-80 in your mouth (or another even-less-pleasant cavity).

Head into the living room and open a bottle of red wine you "liberated" from one of your best friend's wedding beautifully executed at a Japanese tea garden in the Silicon Valley. Now, pirouette at increasing speeds, eventually holding the bottle out at arm's length. If you somehow miss the newish furniture you bought at Ikea, just let your dogs take a dump on it. And then: pee on the dog.

For good measure, let someone walk off with your copy of Rock Band 2.

By the end of the evening when your last two guests leave, turn on the TV to watch your former coworker and his wife be the special of an HGTV television show whereby he gets a house with an entire pond in his backyard. At least it wasn't one of those 'flip your home' things; "As a Cray employee, I need a lot of beer to keep sane. We bought a 700 sq. ft. one-bedroom shack, and thanks to the good folks at HGTV, we now have a 5550 sq. foot Neo-Classical with an entire brewery in the basement. I have two kilns. Oh, and check out how well-behaved our dogs are!"

At this point, you are likely so weary as you look over the death (14 showed, only 13 left) and destruction, you decide to give up. So, we're in the market for a new house and new furniture and new belongings and a new fucking copy of Rock Band 2.

For what it's worth, the highlight of the evening came playing Rock Band 2. Jenny told me that we could play, but we had to keep the sound down, and under no circumstances was I to sing. So, I sang. Everyone crowded into the room, and we cranked up Hungry Like The Wolf. I had them all in the palm of my hand. For 4 minutes and 11 seconds, I was a rock star as hip as Simon Le Bon. Jenny's sister said she liked my butt. Numerous photographs were taken. (Jenny's cousin's husband played bass, Jenny's sister's husband played guitar, and Jenny's sister's son played drums. If you haven't played Rock Band with four people, you don't know what you're missing.)

Besides Tofurkey, here was my contribution:

Wild Rice Pilaf

Serves 8

1 1/2 cups basmati rice
2 teaspoons salt
6 tablespoons olive oil
3 1/2 cups vegetable broth
1 yellow onion, chopped
3 teaspoons pine nuts
1/2 cup wild rice
1/2 cup vermicelli, broken into pieces
1/2 teaspoon allspice
black pepper
3 tablespoons fresh Italian parsley

Place the basmati rice in a stockpot and cover with hot water. Add salt and allow to sit until the water cools; drain.

Heat the oil in a skillet, add the onions and saute 3 minutes. Add the pine nuts, wild rice, and vermicelli. Allow the mixture to brown, then set aside.

Pour the vegetable broth over the basmati rice and add the onions, wild rice, vermicelli, and pine nuts. Add the allspice and pepper to taste. Bring to a boil, reduce the heat to a simmer and cook for about 15 minutes until broth is absorbed. Mix in the parsley. Cover and allow to set for 15 minutes before serving.