The Billionaire's Ball

I mentioned back in November that I'd been invited to a swank Beverly Hills party for the turning of the year. The event was held at the (twenty acres, 30,000 square feet, 16-car garage) palatial estate of a sweatshop plutocrat in that municipality's tony Benedict Canyon neighborhood. The event was less formal, more sybaritic than I was expecting. The house itself, or those precincts in which we were permitted to wander, struck me as actually pretty tastefulÂvast sums of architect and decorator money deployed with more restraint than I'd have expected, with the glaring exception of the "library," which was about one part "Franklin Library Classics" in garish tooled leather bindings to ten parts eighteenth- and nineteenth-century volumes of the sort that decorators purchase by the linear foot for such clients and such rooms.

Younger by a few years than my host, I was nevertheless older by at least a couple of decades than most of the guests, and also a bit more stodgily dressed. There were a lot of comely young women in state-of-the-art battle attire (really, there was something here akin to the terrible beauty, the sleek and costly singleness of purpose, the sense of awe that might be evoked at the sight of a squadron of our newest combat aircraft streaking overhead). There were scantily-clad go-go dancers. There were scantily-clad go-go dancing dwarves. There were human table ornaments at the lavish buffets: svelte, glossy Sweet Young Things clad in body paint only. I said to one of them "I wouldn't want to be caught here when the Revolution arrives." She laughed. "I'm with the Revolution" she replied, "and I'll vouch for you." Only slightly reassured, I continued to have uneasy visions of heavily-armed bearded men in fatigues coming down from the Sierra Maestra at midnight and putting the lot of us up against the wall.

Guests were invited to relinquish their cameras and cellphones at the door, so with the exception of one officially-sanctioned photo taken in the library (a group picture including one of the human table ornaments) I cannot document the bacchanalia. On the way out at about 2:00 (the party still going strong behind us), my camera freshly retrieved, I had my picture taken with the security goon-ette, who was fetchingly turned out in fishnet stockings, "hot pants"-style shorts and a police tunic. When I reviewed that picture a few mornings later I was mildly astonished to see that my left hand had wandered around to cradle her left breast, the first time to my knowledge that I have ever fondled a woman with whom I was not at least on a first-name basis.* Since this little packet of sense data apparently never made it beyond the short-term memory registers, I conclude that I may have had more to drink than I realized. A new year's resolution suggests itself. I'm happy to have had the experience, and am duly grateful to my host, but I came away more convinced than ever that the country is overdue for a bloody revolution.

cordially,

*At group photo with one of the human table ornaments (alluded to above), my right hand crept round to cradle her bare bum, but since she had by that time told me her name, or at least her nom de guerre, I assign to the security goonette the distinction of first purely anonymous fondling.

[Edit: redundancy ameliorated]

Our mothers told us not to judge a book by its cover*. But when they're wearing what RC described, it's not because they wanted us to engage in discussion of the nature of good and evil.

* Did you know that phrase is actually 100% wrong? Once upon a time it was common to print books with plain card stock covers. Unscrupulous dealers would take remaindered works and re-cover them with the titles of more successful offerings. So you literally couldn't judge a book by its cover, because that might not have been what was inside.

In today's market, they spend significant time and expense producing covers explicitly so that you can judge the book. And remaindered books have the covers ripped off to prevent fraud. And modern bookbinding would make a re-cover job very obvious anyway.

Post #352,926 by rcareaga 1/9/12 11:06:55 PM 1/9/12 11:10:06 PM Reply	The Billionaire's Ball I mentioned back in November that I'd been invited to a swank Beverly Hills party for the turning of the year. The event was held at the (twenty acres, 30,000 square feet, 16-car garage) palatial estate of a sweatshop plutocrat in that municipality's tony Benedict Canyon neighborhood. The event was less formal, more sybaritic than I was expecting. The house itself, or those precincts in which we were permitted to wander, struck me as actually pretty tastefulÂvast sums of architect and decorator money deployed with more restraint than I'd have expected, with the glaring exception of the "library," which was about one part "Franklin Library Classics" in garish tooled leather bindings to ten parts eighteenth- and nineteenth-century volumes of the sort that decorators purchase by the linear foot for such clients and such rooms. Younger by a few years than my host, I was nevertheless older by at least a couple of decades than most of the guests, and also a bit more stodgily dressed. There were a lot of comely young women in state-of-the-art battle attire (really, there was something here akin to the terrible beauty, the sleek and costly singleness of purpose, the sense of awe that might be evoked at the sight of a squadron of our newest combat aircraft streaking overhead). There were scantily-clad go-go dancers. There were scantily-clad go-go dancing dwarves. There were human table ornaments at the lavish buffets: svelte, glossy Sweet Young Things clad in body paint only. I said to one of them "I wouldn't want to be caught here when the Revolution arrives." She laughed. "I'm with the Revolution" she replied, "and I'll vouch for you." Only slightly reassured, I continued to have uneasy visions of heavily-armed bearded men in fatigues coming down from the Sierra Maestra at midnight and putting the lot of us up against the wall. Guests were invited to relinquish their cameras and cellphones at the door, so with the exception of one officially-sanctioned photo taken in the library (a group picture including one of the human table ornaments) I cannot document the bacchanalia. On the way out at about 2:00 (the party still going strong behind us), my camera freshly retrieved, I had my picture taken with the security goon-ette, who was fetchingly turned out in fishnet stockings, "hot pants"-style shorts and a police tunic. When I reviewed that picture a few mornings later I was mildly astonished to see that my left hand had wandered around to cradle her left breast, the first time to my knowledge that I have ever fondled a woman with whom I was not at least on a first-name basis.* Since this little packet of sense data apparently never made it beyond the short-term memory registers, I conclude that I may have had more to drink than I realized. A new year's resolution suggests itself. I'm happy to have had the experience, and am duly grateful to my host, but I came away more convinced than ever that the country is overdue for a bloody revolution. cordially, At group photo with one of the human table ornaments (alluded to above), my right hand crept round to cradle her bare bum, but since she had by that time told me her name, or at least her nom de guerre*, I assign to the security goonette the distinction of first purely anonymous fondling. [Edit: redundancy ameliorated] Edited by rcareaga Jan. 9, 2012, 11:10:06 PM EST Expand All History
Post #352,928 by Another Scott 1/9/12 11:32:42 PM Reply	Wow. That's one to remember. It sounds like the only thing missing was all the guests driving around in Bugatti Veyron Super Sports and hunting Giant Pandas out the window. ;-) Thanks. Cheers, Scott.
Post #352,929 by dmcarls 1/10/12 12:09:16 AM Reply	...hunting Giant Pandas out the window.... Hey! That's leased equipment! Leave it alone! "Giant pandas are native to China, and the Chinese own and lease all giant pandas held at U.S. zoos." http://www.washingto...7gDr3O_story.html
Post #352,934 by crazy 1/10/12 7:29:20 AM Reply	Rollerball style Go blow up some trees in the distance with handheld cannons.
Post #352,945 by boxley 1/10/12 12:54:56 PM Reply	scantily clad or painted femmes are always welcome to the revolution. I suppose that you must have been glad that the host hadnt watched Al Pacino's scarface one too many times but still nuevo rich is as nuevo rich does. As for the mea culpa on the breast massage be absolved by the story the young lass was telling her peers the next morning about creeps mauling her upon exit. Any opinions expressed by me are mine alone, posted from my home computer, on my own time as a free American and do not reflect the opinions of any person or company that I have had professional relations with in the past 55 years. meep
Post #352,952 by drook 1/10/12 1:25:57 PM Reply	Well ... Our mothers told us not to judge a book by its cover. But when they're wearing what RC described, it's not because they wanted us to engage in discussion of the nature of good and evil. Did you know that phrase is actually 100% wrong? Once upon a time it was common to print books with plain card stock covers. Unscrupulous dealers would take remaindered works and re-cover them with the titles of more successful offerings. So you literally couldn't judge a book by its cover, because that might not have been what was inside. In today's market, they spend significant time and expense producing covers explicitly so that you can judge the book. And remaindered books have the covers ripped off to prevent fraud. And modern bookbinding would make a re-cover job very obvious anyway. -- Drew

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