Lion and Lamb 2020

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 Pre-covd Time:

Ode on Words for Parties (American Edition)

Why do we have so many words for parties, a slew
 of them once you start looking: shindig, bash,
meet-and-greets, raves, blowouts, barbecues,
 and more tepid functions, receptions, luncheons, and do’s
of all kinds, though, let’s face it, most people have no clue
 about how to throw a party, like the friend who was complaining
because her husband wanted to have lots of food at the brunch
 they were planning, but she knew people didn’t go
to parties to eat, and Marsha and I had to break it to her
 that brunch was the combination of two meals,
so her guests were expecting to eat double, and you can’t believe
 the shock on her face, but her husband put out a great spread
and everyone ate and talked, though we’ve all been to those parties
 with the bowl of dead chips and the onion dip
that looks like cat vomit on the driveway, actually not that good,
 but my sister throws a fabulous party, because she’s a great cook
and has an army of wine bottles that never stops marching,
 and her garden is verdant, and she has a pool,
which some people end up in at the end of the night. What
 would be the word for that kind of party—Vinocoolpool
Party? And the other one might be a Kittydip Party. And guests!
 They can ruin a party, too. Think of the Music Nazis
who make their way through the world with their one-upmanship,
 and your collection of Van Morrison and Jimi Hendrix
is so uncool compared with the Mud Stumps and Echo Park,
 but only before they caved and became famous
and were no longer cool. Then there are the couples
 who are glued at the hip, twins conjoined
by church and state, or the bloviators, or the drunks who can turn
 a party into a Godzilla-stomps-Tokyo apocalypse,
like the time the guy with the Ponderosa belt buckle slid chest first
 in a dance move and put a gouge three feet long
in my hardwood floor, and I hadn’t even invited him; he was
 my hairdresser’s friend. That party was over. I wanted
everyone out of my house. Or what about the people who live

 

Covd time: Lion & Lamb “We know The Grim Reaper’s new little buddy, covd, is looking for us. He calls his parties Super Spreaders. We chill now & dream of good times ahead. We like this side of the grass.

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 in the middle of nowhere, and you know
that on the way home you’ll end up in Hades or a ditch,
 if you’re lucky, what would you call those?
Suburban-Hell Parties? Hansel-and-Gretel-Lost-Weekend Parties?
 I often try to talk my husband into pulling over
so we don’t crash, but he reminds me that we’re just setting
 ourselves up for the serial killers who roam lonesome
highways looking for poets, and what would you call
 that concatenation of events? Zodiac-After-Party-Stab-Fest?
Post-Bash-Head-Bash? You can see that when I’m not
 going to parties I’m watching too many true-crime shows,
which make you mistrust your fellow human beings
 in the most basic way, and yet we continue to throw parties,
which is an interesting choice of verbs, and English
 is full of them—throw a party, pitch a fit, pitch a tent, pitch
a no-hitter, pitch in, pitch-black, and that’s what the road
 is like now, and I’d give anything to be at that Kittydip Party
two blocks from my house, with the Einstein Brains
 blaring on the sound system so I can’t hear the guy talking
about how he prepares petri dishes for his research
 or the woman who is describing an airline-ticket fiasco
that wouldn’t even be interesting if it had happened
 to me, but I guess that’s life—a continuum between darkness
and mala folla, a Spanish phrase that describes an indifference
 so profound it can’t be bothered with scorn,
but I remember one of the best parties ever was a wine tasting
 put together by an Australian father and son
and by the end everyone was dancing to “Tutti Frutti”
 and screaming drunk and in love with the world and I danced
with a roly-poly lawyer named Booter, whom I never saw
 again, and the hangover the next day was a small price to pay
for that crazy mix of Little Richard and Cabernet,
 and there was food, yeah, but who remembers what.

Barbara Hamby

New Yorker, October 7, 2019

Happy Holidays Loves!

Be smart, stay safe, you matter!

Peace & Love, karen

Karen-chadwick.blogspot.com

 

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