Blogger Dinner Party-

Blogger Dinner Party-

I had just gotten the veal in the oven and the potatoes mashed when I heard the doorbell ring.  I looked at the clock.  It was just past 4:30pm, surely it couldn’t be someone for the dinner party, I thought to myself.  I opened the door to find the Genius and Rock n Roll standing there. 

I had French lounge music playing, which tends to calm me down, but when the Genius arrived, he requested Bach, which tends to rile me up, but no worries, I was largely done with the prepping and needed to take a quick shower anyway.  I got them drinks, put on the Bach and went to shower. 

I returned fifteen minutes later to find that the Genius had carefully inspected the house and had meticulously evaluated the wall space I provided to his art.

“I see some Elliotts around the premises are in proper positions, but there seems to be one in the guest room that is discarded on the floor?”  There was no mistaking the hurt in his eyes.

“Oh, that one needs a new frame.  And, in all honesty, it’s hard to find a proper spot for a painting where a woman is spreading her clit like that.”

“Nonsense.  If you don’t want it, I’ll graciously take it back and give it to someone who will appreciate it.  Revere it.”

“No, I want it.  I just need to find its proper place…On another note, any chance BuzzKill will show up?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“I made extra food if he does.  Something tells me he is going to make it at the last minute.”

“Don’t get your hopes up.”

“Are you sure?”

“Mike, please let the man be.  I’m certain that we will somehow overcome the deficiency of his absence.”

Shortly thereafter, the Clowns rang the bell.  I was hoping Clown would arrive in a clown suit or makeup or, at the very least, clown shoes, but he came with a clean face, normal clothes and sneakers.  I did sense a hunger within him though.  Hunger for life, experience, happiness or maybe just the veal- it was hard to discern, but I’m certain I felt something. 

As the Clowns were saying their hellos, I had to jump into the kitchen to check something.

“Would you like some wine or something to drink?”  I heard the Genius offering in my stead from the kitchen.

“I don’t want wine.  Vodka on the rocks please.”  Mrs. Clown responded.

 

“Aren’t we on the “no shot” list?”  Clown asked.  Hearty laughter followed.  That’s funny, I thought to myself.  I then brought Mrs. Clown a vodka rocks.

I don’t know if it was the full moon or mercury going into retrograde or just having Mrs. Clown around to play his foil, but the Genius was firing on all cylinders from the get-go.  Intriguing and strange stories were being thrown out one after the other.  When Pub Crawl and Goat Girl buzzed the door a short time later, it allowed for a needed break in the conversational jousting that was building between Mrs. Clown and the Genius.

When I let the ladies in, I gave the street a cursory glance for BuzzKill.  I didn’t see him, but I think I might have spied Cougar across the street behind some bushes.  I didn’t investigate and returned to the table.  

Pub Crawl came bearing gifts- a bottle of wine and a monster pack of Ball Park Franks for each dinner guest.  I thanked her kindly for the packaged wieners.  When I went to put them away, I heard a kerfuffle and returned to find that Goat Girl had spilled a full glass of red wine smack in the middle of some vintage, pre-revolution, Ukrainian tablecloths I had brought out for the occasion.  No worries, these things happen.

Pub Crawl informed us that her hot dog beer event was a huge success and that the brewers loved the challenge of making beers based on Chicago style hot dogs’ toppings.  “The mustard and celery salt brews were head and shoulders above the rest.  I think they were really on to something there” Liz informed us, “the relish beer was slightly lacking.  A little too sweet for a pilsner, I would’ve went darker, maybe with an amber or red ale to offset that.”  She continued, like a true connoisseur.  

Mrs. Clown then looked at me and said, “Tell me about yourself.  Who are you?”

I gave an extremely brief history of my life over the last twenty-five years.  I tried to make it interesting, but it didn’t seem to resonate with Mrs. Clown.  Her only follow-up was, “Are you gay?”

“No, Mrs. Clown, I’m not gay.”

“With all this art at your home, I don’t know.”

“Well, there is some great art around you, but in spite of this fact, I’m not gay.”  

I decided it was time to start the meal.

The salad was served.  It was a spinach and spring greens salad with cherry tomatoes, mushrooms, carrots, onions and hazelnuts tossed in an olive oil and pineapple vinaigrette with blue cheese.  It went down well.  As the table was cleared, the Genius was filling us in on how Street Jimmy, Mrs. Clown and him once went to the Carling to recover Clown’s dead body.  It was a funny story that ended with Clown telling us that when Street Jimmy entered the Carling, he said, “Wow, this place is a real dump.”  Hilarious stuff.  We were all having a good time now.

A short time later, I said something about growing up in Chicago and Pub Crawl lost it. 

“You didn’t grow up in Chicago, you grew up in the burbs.  You’re not from Chicago!”

“Well, I was born in Chicago and then we moved to Wilmette when I was young but, I was in the city every weekend at my father’s and-”

“That doesn’t count.  Wilmette is not Chicago.  It’s outside the city limits!”  Liz was adamant.  I really don’t know why this is such a hot cord with some Chicagoans, but I hear this all the time.

“Well, I go by the CTA – if the Chicago Transit Authority has an El stop where you live, that’s Chicago in my book.”  That shut everyone up for a minute.

“What stop did you have?”  Liz asked to break the silence.

“Linden.”

“Linden?”  I could see the wheels turning in her mind, “Oh, is that the Purple Line??? Come on! The Purple Line doesn’t count!”  

This wasn’t going anywhere, so I decided to see if the group was ready for the main course, “How are we feeling?  Should I start getting the veal ready?  It will take around-.”

“Yes, I’m hungry!”  Mrs. Clown answered.

“Ok, give me a few minutes.  Carry-on.”

I went into the kitchen.  The main course was Osso Buco.  I had slowed cooked the veal in a tomato, garlic and onion stew and the meat was literally falling off the bone.  I served it with mashed potatoes and green beans.  By the time everyone had their plate and I took my seat, the Genius was already deep into the meal.  He had gravy running down from a corner of his mouth. 

“A short toast,” I stood up, “I want to thank everyone for coming.  It’s great to finally break bread with this amazing group of unique blogging talent.  I’d also like to thank the Genius for so generously providing us with such a worthy platform to espouse our thoughts and stories.  Thanks and cheers everyone!”

Everyone raised their glass except the Genius, who toasted with a fork that still had food in its tines. 

“Bruce, you should always toast with alcohol.  It’s bad luck to the toast if you don’t.”  I said after his fork clinked my wine glass.”

“Fuck you” is all he said before turning his focus back to the plate before him.

I had to admit, at this stage, the dinner party was going better than I ever could’ve imagined.   

As we ate the Buco, the Genius kept us on the edge of our seats with a story about how he dealt with sodomy when he was incarcerated in California.  It was quite an intriguing tale that was, surprisingly, full of humor.  As he was getting to the climax, Mrs. Clown had a different idea, “Let’s play my game” she interrupted. 

The table went silent.  The Genius was aghast that his story was stopped at such a critical point in the tale.  I took the lead to defuse, “Mrs. Clown, let’s hold off on the game until we’re all done eating.  It doesn’t seem right to start while the meal is still before us and, personally, right now, I’d love to hear how this one ends.  Genius, please continue.”

“Yes, let’s wait on the game,” the Genius concurred, “Where was I?”

“I think you were at the part where you had given your ass to one group for protection from the serial gang-bangs.”

“Oh yeah, so, there was I was, sitting in jail, getting my ass stuffed every day by three big black cocks….”

I’m glad the Genius finished; it was indeed a tale to be told.

After the story I went back to the window, just to make sure BuzzKill wasn’t out there.  He wasn’t, but I think I saw Cougar behind a tree halfway down the block.  I closed the drapes, set the security alarm, and went back to the party.

When I got back to the table, they were about to start Mrs. Clown’s game.  Goat Girl and I decided to have a quick smoke.  When we got back, only a few minutes later, the game was already over.  Then, there was a lively discussion explaining to Goat Girl and me why they stopped playing.  It seems that they didn’t like it.   

A short time later when a momentary silence emerged from the table, Mrs. Clown looked at me and said, “This party wasn’t good.”  The table remained silent, “I’m sorry, but you could’ve done better.”

I wasn’t expecting this at all, so I kind of froze while going through all my mental notes about what she could be referring to- it couldn’t be the food, could it?…did I behave poorly after one of the anecdotes were told?  Was she looking at it from a bigger angle- more Zen like?  I had no idea, so I replied, “I’m sorry to hear that.  Really I am.  You’re right, of course, I could do better. But we can all do better.  Who around this table cannot improve themselves?  I am sorry if I offended you or let you down though, I didn’t mean to.”  I then added sincerely, “If I may ask, what is it that I did exactly?”

“I’m just saying it isn’t good.  You could’ve done better.”

The Clowns left shortly thereafter.  It was good to meet Clown.  I enjoy his blogs and wish I’d spoken to him more.  In this regard, Mrs. Clown was right, I could’ve done better in engaging Clown throughout the dinner. 

I then remembered dessert and brought it out.  Was Mrs. Clown referring to the delayed dessert serving?  If so, again, she was right and I could’ve done better and served it sooner.   

We ate the dessert, drank more wine and reflected on the merits of self-improvement for the next forty minutes or so.  Then, it was time to call it a night.    

Overall, despite the shortcomings, Operation: Blogger Dinner Party was a success in my book.  

###