I recently started driving for a certain ride share company, and while Friday nights are prime moneymaking opportunities, so deep is my dedication to my readers, I just can’t ignore a party. So when a certain social network notified me, I abandoned my quest for the wealth promised by every lying Republican candidate and embraced my inner lazy liberal. It’s probably irresponsible to neglect my own financial needs for the sake of spending an evening with strangers possessed of surplus, but such is the life of a devoted writer.
Upon my arrival, I knew this wasn’t my usual crowd when I found the front door locked. When comics, artists, and other derelicts throw parties, we cast home security to the wind and leave every entry open to every intruder. Security just isn’t a high priority for us, as we don’t own our homes (or anything else for that matter). Besides, how else can we guarantee finding a lice-ridden vagabond passed out in a bathtub the next morning—our only proof of having been social? One must consider such things in order to maintain our preferred aesthetic.
This home, however, was meticulously arranged with a generous array of eye-level liquors and authentic glassware. Not only was there a hand-woven Jain tapestry on the wall, but all partygoers were either so cultured or so secretly anti-Semitic that not one questioned its ample use of swastikas. As for food, we were presented with a stunning spread of vegan cuisine. Every dish was a masterpiece: vegan truffles made of avocado and dark chocolate, cashew brie, a bean dip shrouded in just enough cilantro to be nearly too much, and some sort of green hummus.
Being a professional socialite in training, I attempted small talk, quickly realizing I had nothing to discuss with world travelers pontificating on the utilitarianism of post-World War II Icelandic architecture. So being a comic, I did what came naturally, and slipped past the wall of pretense into the most isolated corner.
I must say, even the lonesome corners of this home were impeccable. I wrote the rough draft of this column sitting on a Corvette-red, naugahyde chaise next to an acoustic guitar I impotently attempted to play—and quickly remembered I hadn’t played guitar in years. Likely, neither had our hosts. Some storyboards and a desk for two revealed this hollow to be the home office. But for what? Were they playwrights? Musicians? Novelists? Or, in proper PNW fashion, vaguely employed by a nonprofit devoted to an even more vague mission in Southeast Asia? Someone with social graces may have found a non-intrusive way to ask, but I’ve already stated I’m a comic. So I simply accepted the mystery, rather than attempt a conversation about anything other than pubes, intoxicants, or accidental sex. It’s important to know one’s expertise and limitations.
But alas, the time had come to get back on the road and make an amount of money likely lost between the cushions of this lush, red couch. Score: 9/10.