The Gala - A Fancy-Pants Tale of Why

Friday saw me in clothes that I owned, but were alien to me. The ones waaaaaaay in the back of the closet with the permanent cloth hanger crease in them.

Some sort of high starch, obligatorily cornflower blue, button up job with a crispy collar and nary a sign of Life. Slick, loose Khaki pants that, upon the slightest hint of movement, would build up a static charge that could power the Greater metropolitan area of a large city. There was also the sport coat that I didn't mind, because of it being a Coat by definition and thereby, Functional. It was going to be cold and I planned on being outside the event. A lot.

I had done serious Calculation before this event and came to the conclusion that if an Escape was required - and, Brothers and Sisters, an Escape at an event like this is not very fucking far out of question - then sensible shoes would be required. So at the very Bottom of my Space Suit sat a very worn, very comfortable pair of blue and white checkered Vans. I know. You're out there Swooning. Hands off, ladies. I'm a married man.

And speaking of married. She was stunning. A work of art- art by some long dead Master - in black and pearls and for a minute I feel like a terrific under dressed Douche until she smiles and says, "You look very handsome," and means it. My turn to swoon.

The bidding starts and food is served and cattle graze at grass I will never taste. No worries. That type of "food" fucks up my digestive track anyhow. The drone of the Auctioneers voice sends the ice-pick deep into my brain and the Dueling Piano Brothers, complete with flaming candelabras, drive said ice-pick home with a 9 pound hammer. There are many furs, real or a clever Charlatan ruse, I'll never know but wonder why(?) anyway. Some that I ask say that it's fun for folks to "pretend" on occasion. I get that. I pretend all the time. Pretend I'm not a deadbeat. That I'll find some way to be a supportive and financially capable unit of Home, Inc. I pretend that there is a Door with my name on it somewhere. I pretend that my writing will blossom into something worth anything. I get it. I pretend all the time.

Drinks flow and me Ms. is socially lubricated and loosening up and talking to folks in that high-pitched voice and when a "hello" is required she squeals, "oh, Haaaaaaiiiiii!!", and I laugh as my head does that thing like when a dog catches a glimpse of the ceiling fan. We talk and mingle and check our respective timepieces and talk some more. I have sworn off the hooch this evening because of a tactical miscalculation a few weeks back involving Scotch and Jager Bombs. Yea. I know.

But, as I reach into the pocket of my functional yet alien sport coat, I feel something not so unfamiliar. Like someone has packed me a sandwich and left it in my pocket for me to find later. That unmistakable flimsy, plastic feel. And I go supernova. After the Cheshire Cat smile has faded, I grab a couple of like-minded folk and we head for the cover of that tall-ass Blue Spruce tree that stands out front and just to the side of everything.

Everything is much, much clearer now and it doesn't matter that just an hour or so before there was some Uncomfortable business with a group of Senior Citizens. And it doesn't matter that when I ask one of the Dueling Piano Brothers to play Ben Fold's "Rock This Bitch", he laughs like I'm not serious. I up the ante and tell him I'll sing if he plays. He laughs again and I resist the urge to punch him in his genitals and play Chariots of Fire or Hot Cross Buns on his pretty black Baby Grand and I'm thinking that all my latent hostility is somehow related to the missing Chocolate Fountain this year and although the sting of loosing streaming, cascading chocolate is lessened by the Smores Bread Pudding offering, I will not be bought. But I eat my weight in the gooey, chocolate-y richness anyway.

And there is to be no dancing this year. And no music to even begin to facilitate an uprising. A full-on Footloose type repression. Our group is unruly and getting socially aggressive, and I'm thinking, "why not." Why not burn this motherfucker down?

Because.

Because this isn't for us. To get your head around that requires introspection. This evening, this fancy-pants Gala's target demographic is - druuuuuuuuuum-roll - Money. And it would be easy to go off on a tangent about the evils of Money and how no good can come of it and blah, blah, blah, blah. But this evening is not about us as bad as We want it to be. This evening is for our Children and our grandchildren. This evening is business as usual. Get the Fat Cats in the door. Get them bidding on shit they didn't know they wanted, or needed. Get those checks and cash flowing like the Salmon of Capistrano. Let loose those shiny credit and debit cards, motherfuckers.

We have a new school to build.

We can dance later. I'll dance with that beauty, that masterpiece on my arm in pearls and Black, and music will wash over us and drive us into a frenzy and I'll do my best ReRun and no one will put Baby in a corner. But not this evening. This evening is for the ones that aren't even invited. The ones at home. At home and by now in perfect sleep. Sleep where I long to be but can't because I've a responsibility. I'm taking One for my team. My future.

I'll dance with them as well. A lot.

Later.

-word.