Sorry I haven’t posted for awhile. I’ve been mulling over a 50th birthday party I attended recently. Originally the party was planned as a surprise, but when the guest of honor, who is a friend of my husband, got wind of the “surprise”, he started planning himself. He’s that kind of guy: detail-oriented, hardworking, a perfectionist.
Now, I don’t know this man well, but I like a good party, so I was curious to find out what exactly his pseudo-surprise would turn out like. And boy, the surprise was all mine.
My husband’s friend lives in a wealthy Bay Area community of large houses on large lots. We pulled up, dodged the valet parking, and parked ourselves along the leafy, tasteful street. Over the hedge row floated the tinkle of music and the rumble of party talk, and I cannot lie: I felt the pleasured anticipation of chit chat, food and wine.
What I didn’t expect was to be bombarded by paparazzi. Light bulbs went off in my face, questions were screamed at me, a video camera with its laser beam light recorded my shock.
“Hey, it’s David Scwimmer and Jennifer Aniston!” the crazily dressed press people shouted. “Jen, are you really pregnant?”
My eyes took a moment to adjust between the camera lights of the “news people” and the darkness around. The press corps, dressed in zany Forties outfits, kept up the verbal assault. “Who’s the father?”
Gamely, I pointed at my husband, to which the paparazzo wearing leopard-print pants shouted, “No, who’s the father of the baby?”
I laughed uncomfortably and stumbled into the house. I was way too sober for a prank like that.
The party was set up to resemble Broadway, with placards touting the Birthday Man’s Big Show, complete with a faux souvenir boutique, where an elegantly-clad woman offered free Broadway-themed hats, shirts, and bags. Not understanding completely that I had entered Broadway on the West Coast, I made my way for the bar, where friendly wait staff poured Veuve Cliqout champagne, Rombauer chardonnay, and an assortment of top drawer cocktails in stylishly cut crystal.
An interesting mix of young women in cocktail dresses and older people like me, clad in practical party black, stood around nibbling passed hors d’oeuvres and an eclectic mix of party foods: All-American sliders and ribs for the birthday man and Asian-inspired fare favored by the hostess.
After an hour or so of high priced food and drink, we were ushered into the large circus tent in the backyard, in which a stage had been set up. An authentic-looking Playbill was thrust in my hand, the guest of honor on the cover. We took our seats, and the musical tribute began, the EMCEE and hostess singing about the birthday man, their words projected onto large flat-screen monitors on either side of the stage.
It was a helluva production, with singing group after singing group taking gentle, funny musical swipes at the guest of honor. The band played a mix of modern and vintage rock and roll, the lyrics rearranged for maximum humor. As a culmination, an Elvis-impersonator took the stage, accompanied by two Vegas showgirls (one of which was the hostess herself!) in over-the-top silver high heals and elaborate feathered headdresses.
I left the party marveling at the sheer amount of work it had taken to turn that mansion into Broadway in the Backyard and also with a slightly guilty feeling that parties like that still occur when a tenth of our workforce is out of work and foreclosures are still mounting.
But I guess that’s Recession, American style. The rich are still rich, and champagne corks still pop.
Secured by 
I thought the Great Recession might be an equalizer. Boy, was I wrong.
It seems to have further accentuated the disparities between the rich and every one else.
Great post Rachel…. and better yet, the comment by your mom.