Party Hardly Cock*tail Par*ty: n. 1. A form of friendship without the warmth. 2. A
device for paying off obligations to people you don’t want to invite to dinner.
3. Amidst meatless platters of little treats, the pitiless patter of little
feats. 4. A gathering held to enable 40 people to talk about themselves at the
same time. 5. Whoever is left after the liquor is gone is the host.
How did parties come to such a poor state of definition? When I was a
kid, a party was something you looked forward to all month; an invitation was
coveted. Especially invitations to our Halloween parties, where my mom cooked
up gruesome treats like eyeball punch and my dad pulled us around our lot in
the trailer of his Cub Cadet along a haunted trail where stuffed ghouls dropped
from trees on cue. It was so scary I’m sure it shaved about 10 years off the
life of every kid subjected to it.
And my folks were no slouches when it came to grown-up parties, either. Their
guests feasted on cocktail wieners on skewers which they could heat to bursting
point over a flaming can of Sterno embedded in a head of cabbage. They washed
down the hot meat with Harvey Wallbangers. And something always happened: Ruby,
the maid, showed up once drunk after she had shot her boyfriend; frozen crabs
thawing on the counter would come to life and clatter around the kitchen; or a
poker game might break out and go all night.
My sister and I carried the family party torch to Austin with us. One of our
most memorable college f�tes got a little out of hand (I knew we were in
trouble when I walked into my geology lecture and someone I didn’t know stood
at the door passing out party flyers to the hundreds of students in the class
— to our party) when we had people tangled up naked on the dog bed in the
laundry room and moaning souls wandering around our front yard the next morning
looking for their watches and car keys. It was fun.
I blame the party-pooping trend on slick home magazines, to which I have an
unnerving addiction. I study these shallow publications like some inherent
truth is buried in an article about “brilliant, idea-filled bathrooms” or a
photo study of Madonna’s Manhattan bedroom, “a fairy-tale confection.” As if
these gushing pieces weren’t bad enough, the magazines invariably finish up
with a staged party complete with inedible but gorgeous dishes like “eggplant
jam” or “lettuce soup with rice and lemon.” (I say, pass me the cocktail
wieners.) They advise you to “set the table with local pottery” or
“cream-colored votive candles flickering in glass cups.” (Could their flicker
compete with the glow of Sterno?) Martha Stewart will even tell you how to
behave: “You can dress as formally as you please, then kick off your shoes,” or
“An embrace is the best appetizer for a romantic dinner.” The partygoers in the
photos are impossibly beautiful, impossibly joyful, and impossibly sober.
Everything around them is unattainably perfect. Why bother?
It just makes me want to ask a bunch of friends over to hammer down a big
pitcher of Harvey Wallbangers, after which we’ll wallow around on the Herculon
sofa in our dirty housecoats and tell nasty jokes. And did you know, an empty
Galliano bottle makes a lovely bud vase?
This article appears in May 23 • 1997 and May 23 • 1997 (Cover).