In between making blended fruit cocktails (with drink-responsibly portions of alcohol) for his friends, Gato was busy researching his final column on sexy jobs and moving up and out after graduation. April’s balmy breezes carried the joy and melancholy that is the breath of closure creeping up, about to open another uncertain but exciting door.

Lillian and Abel had come to Madison to plan Gato’s graduation party. Magda was not around to directly manage her client Jenna Bush. She felt confident that the media would ignore Jenna because in Madison she blended in with all the other beautiful, born-blondes — and people who entertained themselves yelling things off porches.

The evening started with Purple Pineapple Passion — one can of Dole pineapple rings (because Dole has a consistent balance between tang and sweetness), one sliced Kiwi fruit, one-half to three-fourths a cup of fresh purple grapes, one-fourth blender-full of crushed ice, one-eighth to one-fourth a cup of sugar and three to four ounces (three to four shot glasses) of Sailor Jerry rum.

“Why Sailor Jerry?” Lillian asked, a sugar drop of sarcasm about to leave her lips. “Wouldn’t the infrastructure of Spanish speaking communities fall into disrepair if it wasn’t for Bacardi?”

Gato related that while Hispanics, especially Puerto Ricans, are greatly indebted to Barcardi for — he can’t remember exactly what but something — Sailor Jerry has a nice spiced finish that takes away the jellyfish sting that usually comes through when rum is added to blended drinks.

On the other hand, if one prefers the wise-old-man-smoking-cigar kind of rum kick, mix cocktails with a real boriqua original, Palo Viejo.

Because a theme party was being planned everyone brought a memory stick with their most nostalgic MP3’s. The conversation quickly turned to the subject of guilty pleasures (As scotch men, blended drinks were definitely in that category for Abel and Gato). For Gato’s graduation, everyone was asked to bring music they were embarrassed to say they liked but brought back the fondest recollections. Gracias a Dios that not even Jenna had Britney on their good memory soundtrack.

From the silly stories arising from tracks by mostly New Wave gone-and-forgottens like A-ha, Real Life and Spanish schmaltz like Garibaldi, Jenna remarked, “If 98.6 is body temperature, then 74 degrees is the temperature that makes memories of good times and good friends set in our hearts.”

In that spirit, Gato decided to name the rest of his concoctions after the heroes of mindless pop music. All recipes are a full blender, filling four 16-oz. glasses.

Ninety-nine Red Balloons is a watermelon and kiwi mix with vodka. To make this particular potion, you’ll need to fill your blender one-fourth full with ice, two kiwi with skin removed, three to four ounces of vodka, one-fourth cup of sugar and 2 1/2 cups of watermelon, cut in nice-sized chunks.

While sandia, the melon’s name in Spanish, has magical powers in many cultures, it doesn’t when it comes to mixing. Kiwi not only adds tang, it slows the fruit from floating to the top.

As Nina finished singing her one-hit German wonder, and Gato served watermelon magic to everyone, the first twin changed the mix from new wave to classic rock then leaped up from Gato’s new Le Corbusier lounge chair — dragged to the porch without permission — and started scream-singing along to the Rush and Aimee Mann duet “Time Stand Still,” at passer-bys as if they were her arena audience. Lillian, a die-hard Howard Dean freak, even leaped up to join her.

“Not looking back/but I wanna look around me … ME,” they melodically yelped at some nervous alumni passing by. It was at that moment homeland security decided in time of national crisis Jenna would be flown to safety at State Street Brats.

As Jenna continued singing the Rush songbook, Lillian snuck back to the kitchen, where Gato was making the next drink, to catch a long-distance, no-free-minutes call from a friend.

“Starting your first job out of college in June? It’s gonna be a cruel summer — at least financially!” she said. “Other areas, I have no jurisdiction over.”

In toast to a cruel summer’s penniless freedom, Gato made every one a Bananarama.

Use three to four sliced, soft-but-not-too-brown bananas, one-half pineapple juice, Gato’s favorite reoccurring fruit, the kiwi, one-fourth cup of sugar, three to four ounces rum, and one-fourth blender-full of ice. Blend until smooth.

Gato adores guilty music pleasures because like gold lockets of guitar and profoundly simple thoughts, it monumentalizes small moments we come to treasure. You can make a mixed drinks gathering a full-on guilty pleasures theme party. If hombres feel creativity like this challenges their manhood, in using pop ephemera of your biggest-best meaningless moments as a theme, remember there’s also old-school hip-hop and heavy metal.

Use cheap cotton cloth from a fabric store, your bubble jet printer, iron-on transfers and pictures of album covers, shameful fan club scraps and anything else that can be scanned into a computer or downloaded from a Google image search. Simply make a collage of the pictures in a photo-editing program, print them on iron-on paper and adhere them to a table cloth-size piece of fabric along with ad-hoc placemats.

To cap out the night and keep it lively, Gato started mixing coffee cocktails. For these blended drinks your brew has to be made twice-as strong with robust beans. Grinds from Fair Trade, Intelligensia, Ancora or Starbucks work best. Use the same formula as the fruit drinks and add créme de cassis or Frango Mint Liquor.

By night’s end, Gato had recruited the entire staff of Starbucks into making frozen drinks for an afterbar gathering of strangers made friends. First singing Sinatra, then calling out Kanye’s “Through the Wire,” everyone finally moved back to the chorus of Lillian and Jenna’s favorite Rush sing along: “Freeze this moment a little bit longer. Make each sensation a little bit stronger,”

Detached irony is so last decade (most of the time). If you can’t give in to air-brushed sentimentality, then papi, mami, you’re six-figure American life is worth six pesos.