by El Topo

In 1938 Noël Coward wrote "I've Been to a Marvellous Party," a song about all the witty, charming people he met one night in London. It evoked the sophisticated decadence, subtle glamour and waggish conversation one revels in at soirées popular with cafe society. We've all been to marvellous parties, whether in pre-war London or Reagan-era Burbank, so it shouldn't be too difficult to imagine what it may have been like.

I mention all this only because once you've taken a moment and thought about that last marvellous party you've been to, you must then imagine the exact opposite of that. The horror show that now comes to mind is the exact party I went to on Saturday.

I was surrounded by the type of people who think vulgarity equates to wit: Charmless lunkheads who prattled on endlessly with lurid entendres and less-than-subtle tales of puking. They spent most of the evening watching television and smoking pot. Though, maybe the latter was to take the edge of the paint thinner-cum-alcohol that masqueraded as refreshment. I'm always suspicious of liquor that boasts a "New Unbreakable Plastic Bottle!" I'm sure such things are important to vagrants and the fall-down-drunk set, but for me it may as well say "Danger! Rat Poison!" Fortunately there was Pepsi, and I stuck to that most of the night.

"Why aren't you drinking?" someone would occasionally ask. Of course, I had to bite my tongue, I couldn't reply "because I find you all repellent and if I get drunk I might change my mind." Though, my obvious disdain for other partygoers didn't dissuade an ageing and rather obnoxious queen from pawing me all night. His continued invitations to join him in the restroom were returned with half a dozen "my, your mother must be proud of you" looks.

I finally managed to extract myself from the fiasco, and as I drove home, I thought, "I guess I shouldn't be surprised. What does one expect when going to a party in Santa Ana."