On
Friday evening,
there were two parties. One, the Chronicle‘s annual Christmas gala;
later, a Clarksville-wine-sipping-sort-of-affair. The Clarksville invitation
mentioned something about formal attire and bringing wine.
At the Chronicle, anything snappier than cut-offs, shoes with laces and
the
T-shirt you worked in all day sets you apart as a Manhattan Socialite.
My hair was moussed, black sweater clean, slacks not made of denim, and my
shoes were constructed of something other than cloth. Colleagues, who have
never seen me out of de rigueur Chronicle attire, touched my greasy hair
and pawed the silky sweater with the same wonderment a boy from deepest Africa
might express if Michael Jordan strolled into his village.
I was dressed, remember, for the “formal” party. It was time to go. My
girlfriend and I piled into the truck for the short trip to the next party.
I’ve known the host for years; been to the house many times. This knowledge
caused great consternation when I couldn’t find the damn house. “I swear to
god,” I said to my friend. “This is where it is.” I said this repeatedly. We
drove up and down, down and up. Like Beirut, half of the street signs were not
there. It was a very dark night.
Finally, after 40 minutes, my buzz all gone, I gave up. Miles from the party
we can’t find, it came to me. I was looking for the house where the party was
last year. But now she had a new boyfriend and the party moved to his
house. I wish my friends would stop changing partners. Anyway, back we tarried,
deep into the Clarksville maze we’d so recently left.
Finding Dick’s house was no problem. The lack of any sign of a party was, however, a source of some
concern. Well, I figured, a few people will still be there. Let’s make an
appearance. We walk up to the door and look into a clearly empty, dark house.
“They’re in the back,” I say to my justifiably skeptical date. “Let’s just go
in.” I yank on the locked door as my companion scurries back to the car,
concerned I’m at the wrong house entirely — not an unreasonable supposition
considering the rest of the evening — and we were about to get shot or at the
very least, considering the neighborhood, forced by a sleepy environmentalist
to sign a petition to save a bee or something.
Undesired of a late night confrontation with an angry hippie, I beat a
retreat. It was then my friend Dick (dressed for bed) appears with a most
curious look at his front door. Dick’s a Southern man and thus a polite one.
“Come on in,” he generously offers. “We were just about to watch a movie.” My
confusion at this point was indescribable. Is this a bizarre, eggnog-addled
dream? “Where’s the party?” I ask, “Are we that late?” Dick put his arm around
me gently, the way you would to tell a small child some terribly disappointing
news. “The party’s tomorrow night, dipshit. And don’t forget to bring the
wine.”
Odds and ends: The past week has seen the Toronto Blue Jays and the Green Bay
Packers clearly deep into the spirit of Christmas-giving. If you take one
thing from reading this column, let it be this: Sports owners and many highly
paid professional sports executives have less sense than a box of Frosted
Flakes. The Red Sox were absolutely correct in letting Roger
Clemens go. His record over the past four years (40-39) and his age (34)
don’t promise much for the future. The Blue Jays, once an American League power
but now a sorry team, have hired Clemens for a guaranteed $24 million
over four years. Explain that one to me. At least Clemens was a free
agent. How about Reggie White? Green Bay just re-signed him — he
wasn’t going anywhere — to a monster five-year deal which will put The
Reverend at defensive tackle until he’s 40! Most of us understand there’s not a
plethora of 40-year-old defensive tackles in the NFL. After you figure out the
Clemens deal, tell me what the Packers are thinking… Dennis Rodman is
a fool if he believes his “fame” is lasting. He should count himself the
luckiest man alive for parlaying a lousy attitude, a one-dimensional game, and
green hair into fame and fortune. He should, above all, realize his fame, as it
were, is totally dependent on his having a daily platform to perform in. Once
that’s gone, Rodman will be forgotten faster than you can say Bo
Jackson… Does it really have to take two and a half hours to play 40
minutes of college basketball? All the TV time-outs, plus the coach’s time-outs
and the endless succession of whistles completely destroys the rhythm of the
game… When’s the last time you saw a reverse work?… If you’re two-time
defending Midwest division champs and you begin the new season 3-13 and you’re
the coach, you’re gonna get canned. Unfair? Certainly. Not deserved? Well,
maybe. Key player out? Yes, but the same team minus Robinson won 60 games last
year. Bob Hill‘s mishandling of Rodman and the Spur play-off collapse
last year didn’t help.
This article appears in December 20 • 1996 and December 20 • 1996 (Cover).