The annual block party is coming soon, usually a week after Labor Day weekend, and I alternately embrace it — deviled eggs, beer keg, a fiery grill — and dread it — all those people. Yeah, they’re my neighbors, but I’m a confirmed introvert, socially awkward and not very, well, peoplely. So it’s all a little trying, despite the spread of killer homemade guacamole and fried dumplings, and a pretty decent jazz band that plays right on the street. 

It’s like the 58th year for the big outdoor bash, which tends to run from 5 to about 10 p.m. on a Saturday. The weather is typically clement, not too warm, with cool nights enveloping a thinning crowd bloated on burgers and beer. The music goes on and on, complementing all the chirping and chattering. You can hardly sleep.

It’s an end-of-summer scene, ripe for people-watching and, in my case, dog-watching — the street is speckled with dogs of all shapes and breeds. Cubby the marvelous mutt joins the parade briefly, just long enough to get his bunghole sniffed. Then he goes inside so I can hit the keg, hands free. Oh, and I’ll take that piece of curry chicken, too, please.

Children run and scream and catch air in the bouncy house. Teens strut, flirt and steal hard seltzers from the icy tub. And parents drone on about sports, home improvements and their lousy kids. 

The guy who (reluctantly) volunteers to man the grill is very cool and very tolerant, and also very sweaty. He sets up the grill in front of his driveway and cooks burgers and dogs that taste like cardboard. It’s not his fault. It’s frozen meat probably bought at Target. He just cooks the stuff. I had a burger last year. I threw half of it away. 

In shorts and tees, hoodies and flip-flops, the assembled are mostly sane, reasonable folks with progressive signs on their lawns and a few who are clearly in thrall of the inarticulate ignoramus leading his party (cult) to the inferno pied piper-like. It’s a good mix of sanctimony and jackassery. 

Frankly, I don’t expose myself too much. I offer a few “Hey, how’s it goings,” careful to avoid small talk, move on to the food, hang for ten minutes, then hole up inside. I do this about every hour. I like to chat with the grill man. It separates me from the bustle. Then I go get some dumplings.

I’m not a complete hermit or monk. I do socialize, a bit. Yet despite my occasional bursts of sociability and philanthropy in everyday life, I’m an uncomfortable human being with a penchant for solitude and self-criticism. A misanthrope? Probably. Shy? Pretty much.

I hit the web for a definition of that big word, misanthrope. I got this: “Lack of desire to participate in social activities”; “tendency to be more sensible and practical than most people”; “lack of effort and bluntness in conversation.”

Oops. Nailed it. 

Maybe this year at the big block party I’ll try to break the ice with my fellow humans. Maybe I’ll let my hair down and be all chummy and extroverted. Maybe I’ll do a high-five with the fellow next door and fist bump his son. Maybe I’ll jig to the music, carefree-like.

Doubt it. Most likely I’ll make an appearance, pile up my paper plate, show off the dog, and get the hell out of there. It’s a party and I do parties as well as I do karaoke or rollerskating. Sometimes at parties in high school, instead of leaving through the front door, I’d hop the backyard fence, jog to the street, and drive off, fast, into the night.

I’m wily like that.