Hello,
Happy Kwanzaa, and a Happy New Year to all. The following is a reply to a dear friend in Cupertino who was severely razzing me over Christmas for not wanting to pay to attend a New Year's Eve party in SF.
Moron,
As a service to a friend I will describe how the night will be for you and your kind. So there you stand in your rented tuxedo, sipping an overly sweet white wine, perhaps Sutter Home, perhaps Gallo. The more discriminating connoisseur among you will demand an early glass of champagne, perhaps Korbel, perhaps Andre. Either way, it will be a sweet, mass-bottled liquor since none among you can neither stomach a true drink nor know how to order one.
You will congregate in groups of three or four. One or two of you will bring a date, but most likely you will stand alone, one hand awkwardly in your trousers pocket and one hand clutching your cheap supermarket wine the same way you clutch your cheap supermarket beer on an NFL Sunday. You will crane your necks looking about, bowties crooked for those who have finally graduated beyond clip-on. Your eyes will settle on a platinum-maned 40 year-old whose cocktail dress strains like sausage casing, and whose eyes are still slightly puffy from the latest lift. You will smile and raise your glass, but lacking social skills and nerve, you go no further.
The clock strikes midnight, and like the starting bell at the dog track, it is your signal. You all now do as you've done in years past and begin your ritual, that fluttering of lonely moths seeking the dimmest glimmer of a social flame. You will dance with the plump 40 year-old, and fueled by drink you will attempt an embarrassing, too-soon grab for her breast. She will not notice since all feelings have long ago disappeared because of repeated operations, and you will imagine that she has given approval.
And so it goes. At evening's end, you will pocket her pager number, rejoin your friends and exchange inflated tales of conquests. You will again congregate in your group of three or four, trading high-fives and congratulate each other on another magical Eve. You will consider yourselves sophisticated men, men of society and bearing. You're not. You're 40 year-old freshmen during fraternity rush week, wishing "Please, Dear God, please, let me pledge Sigma Chi." But there will be no Sigma Chi, nor Kappa Delt, nor Phi Epsilon. There is only Acacia, the non-Greek, off-off-campus "friendship house" as the only consolation for the unwanted.
I understand what drives you, since the only alternative is penning a sad, pathetic final note and succumbing to the cold, beckoning maw of your father's service pistol. With all compassion, I beseech you to consider these words: Fuck you. Eat shit. Grow up. And have a prosperous New Year.
I remain your faithful friend.