Vampire PartyPosted: March 26, 2008
Last weekend Rick and went to a party. I’m not a big party girl. To me, Saturday night is all about Netflix and the couch and hopefully some cake. But we hadn’t been out in a while and we thought it might be fun, so we went to a party.
The best party I ever went to was in college, New Year’s eve. I was in a four year drama program and we were all very dramatic and there was a lot of very creative dancing happening at the party. It was the first time I ever got drunk and I woke up the next morning on my best friend Cas’ couch and we ate cold Spaghetti-O’s for breakfast and then I took the bus home wearing my London Constable’s cape. (It was DRAMA school!) Great party.
The worst party was New Year’s again, many many years later. Actually, I never made it in to the party. I arrived at the door and looked in through a large front window to see a small group of people sitting in a circle and silently eating chips and dip. It was like that scene in the Woody Allen movie where he looks into the one train and everything is somber and gray, while across the track the other train is all lively and colorful. I knew I was heading onto the wrong train, so I crouched down hoping that no one had spotted me at the window and I crawled to my car and drove away from the somber gray party.
The party we went to this weekend was called a “Spring Soirée.” We received the invitation from a music industry associate, so we were excited to maybe meet some interesting music people. We arrived at the location, which turned out to be a big, new McMansion, gave our names to the keeper of the list (Rick was “Rick” and I was “plus one”) and walked up the big, new driveway. We were greeted by someone who immediately told us “The house is for sale! And it comes with the Maserati.” We glanced at the gleaming red sports car and nodded approvingly. We certainly would enjoy driving that Maserati if we bought that mansion.
We entered the house and walked through the huge dining room out to the back yard, past the pool in which, I’m certain, no one has ever swum. The water was illuminated with lights from below and slowly changed colors from light blue to deep sapphire to amethyst. A pretty young woman dressed in black floated by and offered us cold bottles of a name brand water. We walked a few more steps to the pool house where a hip young bartender offered us a choice of several drinks, all made with a name brand vodka. (We chose the pear and rosemary martini, which was delicious.) Then we walked over to a young man in a pure white chef’s outfit who was grilling skewers of porcini mushrooms and beef and as we ate a few skewers, the man standing next to us told us all the food at the party had been prepared by the executive chef of a fabulous new restaurant that was opening soon on Hollywood Boulevard, after a fabulous renovation of the fabulous old building, where the decor was to be “Chinoiserie with deco elements.” He handed us his card – turns out he was the general manager – and said we should stop by sometime for a tour. Fabulous!
As we walked back to the house, we began to notice brochures everywhere. Literature about the house. Literature about the car. Literature about the restaurant, the liquor, the water. We saw several real estate agents guiding clients through the mansion, pointing out the Brazilian mahogany floors, and the huge woman’s walk-in closet, which was filled with clothing from a big name designer, available for purchase, we knew, because the literature told us so. The posters that hung in the den, featuring exclusive images of famous musicians, were also for sale. We knew because the literature told us so. And more pretty girls in black dresses floated through the party, scanning the crowd for empty hands, hands waiting for name brand cocktails. They moved silently, stealthily, vacant smiles and vacant eyes, offering their goods, silently sending their hidden telepathic signals of name brand and delicious cocktail and go home and tell your friends.
We began to wonder if we were the only actual guests at the party. Everyone else seemed to be selling something, offering something, marketing something. We started to feel a little guilty because we were not going to buy the mansion ($8.5 million) and don’t really drink vodka, and rarely go out to eat at fabulous trendy restaurants. The pretty girls in the black dresses didn’t seem to know this, or didn’t care. They kept offering us drinks and food as we wandered through the huge mansion where everything was available for a price, even us, maybe. As the vampire girls circulated with their free drinks and silent telepathy, we decided it was not a really fun party and it was time to go home.
We did not make an offer on the mansion, but if you’re interested, I can send you some literature.