The band had planned to meet on the twenty-eighth, a Saturday rather than a Sunday, so that they might get drunk afterwards without keenly regretting it the next morning. However, the automagical hand of fate had other plans. Nature and the God of nature had decreed that the band would practice on Sundays, and the band could not err from the path of destiny.
     Barry was ill on Saturday, and though it stopped them from practicing, it did not stop them from partying all night long. While Nat was scampering about with her girlfriend, ghost stories were read in candlelight, and shitty animated movies from the 20th century were watched, drunkenly, and with great rejoicing.
     In the morning, a sumptuous family breakfast was served, which all the revelers took part in preparing. The table of the Great Hall-kitchenette-combo was laid end-to-end with cinnamon french toast, cinnamon eggs that were left over after the making of the cinnamon french toast, and some goopy hashbrowns (“mashbrowns”) which were surprisingly delicious. After a great deal of procrastination, the band got to work. For the first time they played through their upcoming set-list without faltering. But despite their arduous work, they were not nearly prepared enough for the variety show at which they would play on the following Thursday. They elected to have an EMERGENCY JAM SESSION on Wednesday night.
     Their obligations satisfied, they continued in their efforts to party. Beers were evenly distributed like so many Soviet provisions. Awkward personal questions were asked. Friendships were deepened. The night raged on, and by Monday morning, neither Hoss nor Barry had set foot outside the house of Nat. For this was the way that they partied: hard.