Back when I played in a band, we invested in a small fog machine for our shows. I played bass and rarely had to futz with effects pedals, so I got charged with fog responsibilities. I would set the thing on top of my amp, put the controller on the floor and operate it with my foot at the times I felt appropriate.

The fog machine was in the trunk of my car one weekend when I went down to DC for my buddy’s house party. The guy was about to leave the country for a couple years so he had in his mind this one last huge raging party he’d throw before he took off. Only once it got started, it wasn’t raging all that hard.

I knew what to do: I brought the fog machine in and just fogged the hell out of the place. You couldn’t see three feet in front of you, the fog was so dense. Walking around, occasionally someone would come within your tiny field of vision and you’d chat about how hilarious it was that there were a bunch of other people in the house and you couldn’t see any of them. The stakes in the darts game became much higher. At some point I stumbled past a couple making out in the privacy of the cloud.

Massive fire hazard, the whole thing. I probably would have had a huge lawsuit on my hands if anyone got hurt.

No one did, and — if I do say so myself — the party pretty much ruled. People needed to coordinate to find drinks and everything, and I like to think the fog sort of brought them together, forced people to communicate that otherwise wouldn’t. Good times, and I’m hardly a party guy.

I’ve been reminded of that party a few times in the last day. A dense fog settled on Citi Field last night, so thick that it was difficult to see the ball from the press box on long flies to center field. My mind feels foggy today, a byproduct of the short sleep and the medication I take Wednesday nights. And early-season baseball creates a sort of haze too.

The Mets lost the first game of their doubleheader today, their fourth loss in a row and seventh in eight games. R.A. Dickey was OK but not great. Bobby Parnell got hit hard again. The Rockies seemed to have no trouble with Citi Field’s dimensions. The Mets’ offense mounted a too-little too-late rally, leaving David Wright looking a little like Mighty Casey again, disappointing the crowd with a long fly ball with the bases loaded and two out in the ninth.

I started writing this with some point in mind, but it has since slipped away from me. I guess it’s a long-winded way to say it’s early — the same thing I keep writing over and over again. It’s masochistic fun to load up on self-loathing, to band together with fellow Mets fans on Twitter and shout about how the team sucks again and about how it sucks to be a Mets fan, even though the party’s all fogged up and we have no idea where we’re going.

Something like that, I think. It’s a bad metaphor because that party was sweet and this is not that.

But point is what it always is. Twelve games are only one more than eleven. The Mets keep falling by one-run margins and blowing leads, the type of losses that feel like they should even out over the course of the season. Eventually there’ll come a time when we do know something meaningful about the team, when we can declare its suckitude and even determine precisely why it sucks, should it suck. But that’s still far off. For now we only enjoy the ups and lament the downs, conscious of our limited vision and the way it impacts our emotions.

By we I mean me I guess. Whatever. Maybe you know for sure that the Mets are great or terrible and you don’t have anything else to see. I don’t know.

Man, that was a kick-ass party. The end.