I recently had the good luck of being assigned to attend a very fancy event a friend of mine threw. This event, eventually dubbed “Host,” was a five course meal of seasonal delicacies with wine pairings, to be held in the backyard of somebody with a nicer house than me, which is everybody. My husband couldn’t go, so I brought my drummer, Greg, and informed him that he had to be on his best behavior or he’d be out of the band. This is a tactic Katy and I have employed to great effect more than one time, as we continue successfully handling the bevy of handsome young fellows who periodically agree to be our rhythm section because they don’t know any better yet. Greg would tragically betray my trust near the end of the evening, but up until that point he was an exemplary date.

I would be remiss in reviewing this experience if I did not comment somewhat extensively on the weather situation that provided its backdrop. As the time of the event drew nigh, the rain fell harder and ever harder. In fact, it began raining so hard that many were heard to remark that they had literally never seen it rain this hard in Portland in their entire lives. It was like a tropical monsoon, except freezing cold. Greg had to DJ later, and so we made the very poor decision to park at the DJing location and walk the six blocks to the fancy dinner location. Ironically I had just finished teaching the aesthetic theory of the Sublime to my class of freshmen, and you can imagine how I pondered this on our brutal walk, as the rain gusted in horizontal sheets upon and betwixt us, seeming to divide our very cells within our blood, and as massive tree branches crashed down all around. It was the kind of moment in which you would expect Frankenstein’s Creature to show up, all macho and leaping about the rocky crags with nary a stumble, demanding a mate to join him in his misery. By the time we reached the backyard in question, I would describe myself as “shaken” and “humbled.” However, like the Romantic Hero must always do, I rallied, using my intellect and my finely-honed poetic sensibilities, which I possess in spite of also possessing female genitalia (that’s what she said).

Jac Delorey and Katie Hardin, the talented and affable throwers of this fine dining event, had warned us to wear sweaters, but they had also promised that there would be a tent. I was picturing basically a canopy, like what they’d put up at a wedding, and was understandably experiencing a bit of trepidation as darkness fell and the rain not only didn’t let up but intensified. However, upon finally leaping across various lakes and gullies that had opened up in the previously smooth surface of the earth, and arriving at last in the backyard in question, I was much comforted to see that the “tent” was indeed a tent in the truest sense of the word—namely, a fully-enclosed structure with walls, alight with a warm orange glow, and abuzz with pleasant conversation. In fact, it was so warm that we all took off our drenched pea coats and wrung our various accoutrements out on the ground before accepting our gin cocktails. Success! Nature was thwarted yet again, huzzah to all.

There is something so pleasant about a highly-structured fancy dinner party. We each had an assigned seat, which I approve of in circumstances where strangers are meant to mingle. Everyone—not just Greg—was on their best behavior, introducing themselves and making conversation just like our mothers had trained us to do. We ate great yet polite handfuls of toasted hazelnuts mired in some sort of crunchy, smoky, carmelized sugar situation, and sipped our cocktails (adorned with sprigs of rosemary, that most autumnal of herbs, second perhaps only to sage), and talked about the literal insanity of the rain situation, which was truly almost drowning out our words with its ceaseless buffeting.

The first course was a charcuterie board, appealingly laid out on an actual enormous board like what a Viking would eat off of. There were a couple meat things that I did not partake of, although Greg raved about the salami. What excited me about this first course was not the cheeses, which were delightful, but the pickles. Katie and Jac made them themselves, and they were easily the best pickles I’ve ever eaten. Carrots, green beans, beets, and onions, all pickled and laid out in great glistening piles. It was a sight to warm the most stoic sea captain’s heart, I warrant. I told Greg that I think the greatest pleasure in my life—the pleasure I would pick, if I had to pick only one out of the myriad I am lucky enough to experience—would be “people bringing me good things to eat.” Greg responded by saying that his number one pleasure would be to get a 90 minute massage while watching a movie.

The second course was a simple vegetable consommé with dumplings afloat in it. It was such a good thing to eat on a stormy night. Warm and subtle, and you could wrap your hands around the bowl and take great sniffs while finishing your pickles. People came around with wines; the atmosphere grew convivial; we pretended we were aboard a ship on a stormy sea. The somewhat alarming slant of the table contributed to this fantasy, as did the necessity of someone periodically holding up the roof of the tent with my umbrella so that the collected water could pour off the side in huge sheaves.

The third course was a bruschetta made of a round of delicata squash with sautéed things in it. It was just a few bites, a salty little palate cleanser. Then came huge mounds of fall veggies: greens with gigantic black beans I forget the name of, and shining beets in piles. Meanwhile, more wines circulated. Greg, thus far an optimal dinner date, was making friends right and left using his skills as a psychologist. I spoke for perhaps a bit too long about the phenomenon of pubic waxing. How the worm turns! Now ‘twas Greg exhorting me to take it easy! But he had his comeuppance, as we shall see.

After a simple yet elegantly bitter and vinegary salad came the main course, which was beef for some and latkes for others, accompanied by a wide variety of exciting home-made sauces, such as apple. Delightful! After a fairly long conversation with the two men sitting to my right concerning whether or not Marilyn Manson was in his fifties, Greg revealed his belief that The Doors were a better band than Led Zeppelin. The terrible sound of a needle scraping off a record could be heard all across the land. His earlier assertion that he “loved” Counting Crows had been politely contended with but truly this was too much. With heavy heart I texted Katy and told her Greg was out of the band. She texted me back a picture of herself and Steve DJing at a lesbian dance night in front of a video of a spinning pepperoni pizza. So we were both on the same page. Greg’s spirits were dampened but he is a young man and will recover.

The final course was a tremendous almond cake thing and a wild scoop of sorbet that tasted like you were literally eating the autumn itself. We were each handed a glass of champagne, and several toasts were made. Jac and Katie, and their entire waitstaff, had truly triumphed not only over the difficulties inherent in planning and executing a fancy dinner party, but indeed over God Himself, for not even a 90 year storm such as this could vanquish them, and they handled the entire evening with a grace and aplomb I have scarcely seen in two so young. The superiority of our secular humanism reinforced, and our spirits bolstered by wine and cake, we said our goodbyes and embarked upon our various treacherous journeys back home. I got a Car2Go and said goodbye forever to Greg, who headed off to his DJ gig, presumably there to spin nothing but “People are Strange” and “Peace Frog.”

Play enjoyed by ALL

We open on a clear blue sky. A Peter Gabriel-inspired world beat softly begins to swell as we pan down to reveal our location is the Serengeti. A man draws his bow and arrow. We fix on his hand on the bow which fades into another bow, that of a Native North American man. This image begets a regionally diverse montage of early man using bows and arrows across the globe – Mediterranean, Scandinavian, Aboriginal, Mongolian, Pacific Islander, Middle Eastern, Arctic, European etc. Like a flipbook the images of myriad cultures go by, raising the bow and finally shooting the arrow which we follow to a contemporary scene of a little boy shooting a suction arrow into a plastic target. The Little Boy runs to His Grandfather who was watching. His Grandfather commends him and they join the rest of the family at a backyard picnic.

Later we see The Little Boy in His Grandfather’s room, looking at his wardrobe and accessories. His Grandfather comes into the room. The Little Boy is startled and might get in trouble but instead His Grandfather shows The Little Boy his garments, his collection of ties, clips, kerchiefs and pocket squares. He takes out a bow tie and teaches his grandson how to tie it. The Little Boy runs out of the room to show his family, who all delight in his new look and praise this new skill.

Flash forward. The Little Boy has become A Young Man. He is with His Grandfather, being measured for his first tailored suit. We hear The Astroids Galaxy Tour’s “Golden Age” in the background as we close up on images on the wall of well dressed men in tailored suits and bow ties; The Rat Pack, James Bond, Fred Astaire, etc. Cut back, slight passage of time. Now Our Young Man wears the finished tailored suit. He looks at himself in the mirror. His Tailor presents a tie to him. Our young man indicates he prefers a bow tie. His Grandfather and The Tailor look at one another, knowingly.

In half speed, Our Young Man exits The Tailor’s storefront. Estelle’s “American Boy” plays as he steps onto the street. We hear Kanye West’s lyric “before he speaks his suit bespoke”. Our Young Man seems to glow as he walks, heads turn, women giggle and swoon. Old men stop playing chess to look, babies sit up in their carriers and take notice. One baby gives a ‘thumbs up’.
We focus in on a Woman. Her gaze is commanding. Our Young Man pauses, they exchange glances.

All of a sudden and in full speed, Our Young Man is surrounded by a Gang of Disheveled Adult Men with no fashion sense looking for a fight. Our Young Man immediately begins fighting them off underscored by ZZ Top’s “Sharp Dressed Man”. Shortly after the fight begins, the women who had been giggling and swooning are up in arms helping Our Young Man fight off his attackers in a marvelously choreographed and epic battle, reminiscent of Bruce Lee in Fist of Fury if the fight had escalated and Bruce Lee had been assisted in battle by fit women with good taste.

After making quick work of said battle Our Young Man remains unscathed and steps into a sky scraper where he is immediately noticed by WASPy men and ushered into a boardroom. The upper echelon is so impressed they climb over one another to try and get him to work for them. As they scramble and scrape he politely bids them adieu and steps into a classroom of children where he smiles and turns to write on the chalkboard. The children all raise their hands. The bell rings and Our Young Man steps into an arena where he puts on a rock show for thousands of adoring fans. Afterward, he heads out a back way and zip-lines down to the street where he is met again by the Gang of Disheveled Adult Men he handled earlier. He looks them in the eyes. One man steps forward. The message is clear; they do not want to fight. They want a respite from living as Disheveled Adult Men. Softly we hear Weezer’s “Undone” in the background.

His Grandfather and The Tailor run up to Our Young Man, ready to help. Behind them stands the Woman with the commanding gaze. She holds up her sewing supplies. Our Young Man has His Team.

Cut to: Our Young Man and His Team are in The Fashion Lair. On the walls of The Fashion Lair are clippings from favorite design houses and craftspeople, inspiring looks and images of well dressed men from history. Underscored by Stephen Sondheim’s “Putting It Together,” we see a montage of The Team and Our Young Man discussing design concepts, expressing creative ideas through paint, drawing, collage, power point and sewing.

There is a knock at the door. Our Young Man opens it. On the other side of the door is Arthur Slugworth. We hear Pink Floyd’s “Money”. Slugworth opens his trench coat to reveal a sweatshop of children. The message is clear: these slaves can make it for you cheap. Our Young Man thinks of the children in his classroom as he looks upon the children in the sweatshop. He shakes his head no. Slugworth opens the other side of his trench coat to reveal a warehouse containing bolts of sweatshop-produced low quality synthetic fabric.
Offended, Our Young Man indicates it’s time for Slugworth to get out of here and slams the door.

Our Young Man’s Team supports his decision. Admiring the fabric they’ve collected from regional fabric designers, they hunker down with their local hires and continue working.

Cut to: Our Young Man and His Team present new looks to the Gang of Disheveled Adult Men. As the men look upon themselves in tailored suits, it is as if they’re seeing themselves for the first time. They smile, some cry. We hear “Brand New Day” from The Wiz as the Gang of Formerly Disheveled Adult Men pour onto the street in celebration. They walk and dance with their heads held high. “Help Wanted” signs on office buildings, sky scrapers and government buildings are turned around to read “Help Found!” as the Gang of Formerly Disheveled Adult Men pass by in their fantastic attire. Women wolf whistle and rejoice as this parade of handsome and well kempt men strut by.

Cut to: Our Young Man puts a sign up in a storefront window which reads “Bowyer & Fletcher”. We zoom out to reveal it is a virtual store. We see a finger on a screen click “buy”.

The End.