Having attended the exclusive “George” Party–which was widely described as the hottest invitation in town–I feel obligated to share some observations on life as part of the hip in-crowd, the beautiful people, the glitterati, as we were called by the more disrespectful gossip columnists.
When I walked in, many of the beautiful people, as well as some of the more unsightly ones, stood near the bandstand listening to a rock group.
The singer was a slinky young woman who wiggled, stomped her feet and strutted, while singing a song that had these lyrics:
“You look like s—!
“What are you on, bitch?”
Which made me wonder: What if, at that exact moment, some young man and woman in the crowd decided that they had fallen in love.
And what if they were married. And many years hence, they were celebrating their silver or golden anniversary.
Would they have the band play a special request, so he could say: “Honey, they are playing our song. Let’s dance.”
And as they took a turn around the floor, would he romantically sing into her ear: “You look like s—! What are you on, bitch?”
I mentioned it to another guest, a corporate executive, who seemed to be a bit uncomfortable in the midst of so many fashionable Democrats.
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He said: “Well, it isn’t exactly Cole Porter.”
“True. If Cole Porter were writing lyrics for today’s musical tastes, he might have to change the words to: `Night and Day, you are the one. Only you, with baggy eyes, and nostrils that run. . . .’ “
Then he took out a pen and a note pad and said: “How did that song go? You look like s—! What are you on, bitch?”
“Why are you writing it down?”
His lips quivered and he said: “I have a son who aspires to be a rock star, and I want to ask him if he is familiar with this song. That shows how hard it is to be a parent today. You raise your kids, hoping to give them the best.
“But you walk in the house one day and he is banging on an electric guitar and scaring the heck out of the cat.”
Then the executive said: “You know, I saw the most terrifying thing on C-Span while watching the convention coverage.”
“What, was Aretha Franklin wearing another strapless gown? A fearsome sight. I wouldn’t want any part of her falling on me. It would be worse than 1968 on Michigan Avenue.”
“No,” he said, “it was a sign being waved by a delegate. It said: `2000–Jesse Jackson and Tom Hayden.’ “
“It must have been a California delegate. No other state could produce such a bizarre futuristic thought.”
“Not unless there are delegates from Russia or Cuba. But the idea of those two running as a presidential ticket curdled my blood. I’d have to sell my house just to cover their new income tax rates. Assuming I still had my house and they hadn’t seized it and turned it into a homeless shelter. And put me up against a wall.”
“Don’t fret. They’ve both become very mainstream politically.”
“Do you think so?”
“You might ask Hayden when he arrives. He’ll surely be here.”
“How do you know?”
“Having once been married to Jane Fonda, he has a lifetime exemption into the ranks of the beautiful people, even though he still looks like the campus dork.”
Suddenly the executive began sniffing the air and said: “Do you smell marijuana?”
“I don’t know. Maybe we should try not to inhale when we breathe.”
“You don’t think anyone would dare smoke marijuana at this kind of highly visible political gathering?”
“Why not? It isn’t sold by Phillip Morris. Besides, liberals don’t object that much to smoking grass. It is the pariah-Pall Mall-smoker standing outside of office buildings or sitting at a corner table in a restaurant who offends their social conscience.”
“Why can’t they mind their own business?”
“Because they would not be Democrats. It is part of their nature to believe that if everyone would just listen to them and do as they are told, we would have a utopian society. They have the solution to every problem. And if they don’t, their wives do.”
His eyes darted around the room and he said: “My goodness, look at that beautiful tall drink of water.”
“Do you mean the one with the long hair who appears to be a high-fashion model, sort of swaying like a palm tree across the room?”
“Ah, you too have a fine eye for beauty. Yes, she appears to be alone. Why do you think that would be?”
“Because she, like many other lean and lanky lovelies, is here to hit on John-John, our host, who has been anointed by People mag and the gossip journalists as the Nation’s Hunk. It isn’t enough that he is rich and born to hold high office, but he has more hair than any two men deserve and doesn’t appear to have ever been popped in the nose.”
Just then the bouncy, foxy singer in the rock band was lovingly introducing the band’s cello player, who was nude from the waist up. She obviously wanted us to give him a round of applause.
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So being the polite sort, I clapped. Even with my limited knowledge of the arts, I know that the cello, like the violin, is a serious instrument, the kind that you study and practice, so you might one day play with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra.
I wonder what the bare-chested lad’s mom would think if she knew he was pouring all that talent into: “You look like s—-! What are you on, bitch?”
I would hope that his mom would appreciate that he has a regular job, and that he gets to mingle with the beautiful people. Even those of us, who, in the words of some modern-day poet, “look like s—.”
I can only wonder, when the beautiful crowd has led us into the 21st Century, what kind of lyrics will we be humming?
I’m in no hurry to get there.