One of the local mega law firms whose name shall not be disclosed herein, threw their annual bash the other night and pretty much went to the bottom of their client barrel by inviting S. and moi. Our legal budget isn’t really that large any more. I guess their theory is that their clients will continue to happily pay their annual retainers and stratospheric hourly rates by feeding us some mediocre food, free booze and exposing us to a well-past-its -prime musical act. Indeed, it seems to work pretty well because we and many others continue to show up year after year.
S. and I go every year because….well, I really don’t know why we go. But we consistently say we’ll never go again. And this time I mean it. The bash was held at one of those hangar sized honky tonk places with a gift shop by the door, bars ringing the oversized dance floor, and toilets that smell like…well, you know what the toilets smell like. We were greeted by one of the worlds tallest really good looking women with the deepest cleavage I’ve seen west of LA. She must have been a much in demand paralegal. As she greeted us, my nose was situated dangerously close to the point of departure for her cleavage. I thought, of course, that this year might be better. We were immediately offered a choice of a Sea Breeze (I don’t know what it is either) with a blinking red light in the bottom of it, a glass of pinot grigio, or designer water (con gaz). I politely but quickly refused and headed for the nearest bar with S. and her Sea Breeze in tow in search of some real whiskey.
I fought my way to the bar and shouted for the attention of the nearest barkeep and pleaded for my usual gin on ice with a splash (please don’t drown the gin) and noted that the string tied barmaid was pouring my gin into a one ounce jigger then pouring it into a very small glass. I knew it was going to be a long evening. Young people in black and white were passing around mystery canapes and munchies indescribable, none of which appealed to me, but thankfully I spied a sushi bar in the far corner. I grabbed S. and headed there at double time hoping to beat the crush. There were a few slivers of suspicious looking tuna sushimi and assorted seaweed rolls of unknown contents. The waitstaff manning the booth were attentive but knew absolutely nada. I asked for wasabi and got a blank stare in return, I asked for soy and was handed a small jug, and asked for chopsticks and was handed a fork. Hmmm. give me the name of that caterer.
To be fair, it’s hard to feed and succor eleven hundred or so guests bent on consuming as much free chow and booze as possible in a couple of hours. To give them credit, they had lots of food, some of which I could even identify on sight, but little I could relate to by taste. Scallops sauteed in some sort of juice, lamb ribs with some white stuff squeezed out of a plastic bottle, soft tacos with bits of this and that, and some mushy noodles with a brown viscous sauce. I know all of this because I tried it all….while washing it down with successive one ounce g and t’s. I cleverly maneuvered S. to a well positioned table while balancing three small plates of goodies and two tumblers of booze, and in the process met up with a couple with whom we were well enough acquainted to spend the next hour or so. They happily joined us at the table I had targeted. We had a clear view of the stage where the entertainment for the evening would appear, but also of the go-go dancer shadow boxes on either side of the stage. For the sake of propriety I won’t say much about the dancers except to say that I now understand why go-go dancing, especially in shadow boxes, has long since been out of style.
All of this in anticipation of the main event, other than people ogling other people and puzzling, “wonder why they’re here”. The main event of course was the big name entertainment for the evening, Dooey, Looten, and the Hoos or something that sounded like that. I never did quite get it. At one time I thought someone said Huey Newton, but I know that wasn’t right because Huey was a Black Panther from the 60’s, and the main dude clearly wasn’t black or a panther. Actually I was in great anticipation of the act because the grey slacked and blazered guy who evidently was the head of the megafirm, introduced the group as the “greatest rock and roll band ever”. I should have known, this from a guy who clearly wouldn’t know rock and roll from roller derby. Okay, then they started to sing….not bad actually, but then people started streaming by our table and grouping themselves in front of the smallish stage and waving their arms. I thought this odd, but not overly so since I’d often seen large masses of people waving lit cigarette lighters in the air in front of other acts. The first song was not bad. It had a little pep and and good beat, but when the second and third songs had the same pep and beat I started to think of the radio Disney channel where every song is exactly the same.
The band had nine guys in it, all in some type of distinctive costume that was not supposed to look like a costume. My favorite was the little dude with the giant bass guitar, black horn rimmed glasses and a small black pork pie hat. My thinking was that you’ve gotta either have no self esteem at all or a really huge ego to wear a pork pie hat and play a bass guitar. I’m thinking his ego was all under his hat. The leader, the one named Huey, I didn’t like at all. Well, I kinda liked him at first because he looked almost normal….probably early fifties…..getting on toward my time in life. I thought to give him the benefit of the doubt, but then he did the unpardonable. He made a move toward and then actually grasped the microphone stand and began to use it as a prop in his song. My rule is…shoot on sight any singer who picks up the microphone stand and uses in it any way for which it is not intended, unless of course, you are Frank Sinatra. And this guy was certainly no Sinatra.
I’d had enough liquid relaxer that I could have tolerated some more of the 80’s style music. I had even identified and liked their anthem song, Power of Love…..although I thought they were saying “tower of love” until S. corrected me, but my mind started heading toward the door when the group that had been harmlessly waving their arms started to dance. No human social activity is more foolish looking and grotesque than a mass of overweight, out of shape humanoids, gasping for breath and “shaking their booty” two counts off the beat and thinking they look really good.
I only considered whether we should leave during the confusion of a number in process, or to wait politely for the end of the song or even the set. I chose the cowards out, and left while no one was looking. But I did give the valet parker a really big tip.
We’ll probably be back next year.
