I Went to a Fancy Party in the Big Apple

A friend of a friend got me invited to this upscale party in NYC, and it was quite an interesting experience. It was at some huge banquet hall, with lots of expensive food and liquor. There were famous faces there, although none of them were actors. They were politicians and big-money people. I found out how candid some of these people could be with scotch in their glasses. I myself stuck to champagne, because if I drink too much scotch I find myself acting like a fool in front of the ladies. (I would wind up looking like a fool later on anyway.)

The first one I ran into was Tony Hayward, the former CEO of British Petroleum (BP). I remembered his face from the news, during the events of the oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico. He had been trying to kick it to a pretty blonde who was about half his age, and after getting a drink thrown in his face, he needed a few minutes to collect himself. I guess the scotch and (I suspect) a few lines of cocaine made him willing to open up to a complete stranger who wasn’t a supermodel. I’ve never been a big fan of the oil companies; the irony of this is that I’m a big fan of muscle cars. Paying over three dollars for a gallon of gas so that guys like Hayward make huge paychecks is beyond unconscionable. Hayward cared more about his yachting trip than the ruined lives in the wake of the Gulf of Mexico disaster.

When Hayward got the drink thrown in his face, I offered him a napkin that I had used to wipe the last of the caviar I had spit up off of my lips. I had already had my fair share of champagne to wash down the goose liver pate and that disgusting caviar and I was feeling somewhat congenial. He promptly thanked me and dropped the napkin on a drink tray a server was carrying by. He thanked me again. “Tony Hayward, right?” I asked him.

“Yes. And you are?”

“Inigo Montoya.” I held out my hand and he grasped it.

“Pleased to meet you,” he replied. Apparently, he had up to that point never seen The Princess Bride.

“What are you doing these days?” I asked.

“I’m not a cement engineer, I’m afraid.”

That was a strange answer. But I knew he wasn’t of soundest mind, so I played along. “Okay, so you’re not a cement engineer. What are you doing, then?”

“I haven’t drawn a conclusion… it’s too early to reach conclusions.”

I think he must have been at least partially brain-dead. I decided to go in a different direction.

“So,” I said, “there are numerous lovely ladies here, don’t you think?”

“The Gulf of Mexico is a very big ocean,” he said.

“Indeed it is,” I said. That wasn’t going anywhere either.

Mr. Hayward scratched his crotch and farted. I pretended not to notice. But this guy was standing there next to me like I was about to give him a Cuban cigar, and I hate being made to feel like I owe someone something. It got me somewhat perturbed.

“So, Mr. Hayward,” I said, and he interrupted me.

“I’m Tony Hayward,” he said abruptly.

“Yes, Mr. Hayward,” I continued.

Again, he said “I’m Tony Hayward.”

“Fine, Tony Hayward,” I said. “What do you think about fuel prices?”

“Dreadful,” he said.

I was puzzled. Here, this guy’s livelihood came on the backs of struggling people, and he was admitting it was wrong. So I asked him, “Do you really think so?”

“There is not a lot more I can say,” he replied, rather nonchalant about it.

“Why not?” I asked.

“Leaders must make the safety of all who work for them their top priority,” he said. I found that to be a cryptic statement.

“But Mr. Hayward…”

“I’m Tony Hayward.”

“Tony Hayward, you’re not leading BP anymore, are you?”

Hayward gave me a look as if his buzz were becoming a hangover. “I want my life back,” he said, and strolled off.

I thought of trying to make small talk with a cute redhead going to a food table, then I remembered the embarrassing scene I witnessed involving Tony Hayward. I thought maybe I would rub elbows elsewhere.

I saw Newt Gingrich was suddenly standing by himself. He looked like the guy who either took his sister to the prom or went there alone, on the dance floor waiting for a chance to at least cop a feel somewhere. I walked on over to him.

“Hi,” I said. I extended my hand. “Jim Kirk.”

He nodded his head and shook my hand. “Gingrich - primary mission, advocate of civilization, definer of civilization, teacher of the rules of civilization, leader of the civilizing forces,” he said. I got the impression that this man was always trying to sell himself, which was probably why he was standing there alone when I saw him. He didn’t comment on my name. I guess he’s never watched Star Trek.

“So, congratulations on your poll results. You must be excited.”

“The most serious, systematic revolutionary of modern times,” he said, seriously. I realized he was still grasping my hand, and it was starting to hurt.

I thought I would get some digs in, in the form of questions. “How about that National Defense Authorization Act?”

“We must expect the Soviet system to survive for a very long time.”

At that point he let go of my hand. “That’s a rather bold statement,” I said. “Is this a good thing or a bad thing?”

“Do things that may be wrong, but do something.” He stressed the word something.

I didn’t like that answer. My buzz was no longer keeping me in check. I came back strong. “Mr. Gingrich, do you understand the implications of the bill? You know the public knows it as Battlefield America?”

He looked at me in such a way that made me think he was looking through me.

“Seriously,” I continued, “can you really justify creating, in effect, a military state? American citizens can have their rights stripped away and be held for the rest of their lives, with no idea why. Isn’t that un-American?”

“When you talk about the radical Islamists, we have got to get straight and get serious and talk about it in the right way.”

“Are you suggesting that every American is potentially a radical Islamist?” I asked.

“I know it's bold,” he answered. “It's out on the edge.”

I was outraged. Here was a guy who claimed to have his finger on the American pulse, yet he had the most un-American ideals. I had to say something about it. I thought quickly then asked, “What if they came and got YOU? Or one of your loved ones? I mean, don’t you understand, the government is waging war on its own people?”

“Politics and war are remarkably similar situations,” he said, and I obviously hadn’t ruffled his feathers in the least.

I became even more heated and asked, “Sir, what exactly do you intend to do as President, if elected?”

“I would like to be the most successful paycheck president in American history.” He said it with a straight face, and then he walked off.

The bummer was that I also wanted to call him out on his position on child labor laws. You may or may not know this, but he has referred to them as "stupid." As a so-called historian he should know what went on in factories and mines before the passage of such laws. He has suggested that poor children are simply lazy and should take up jobs as school janitors. I guess he believed that it was the children's fault they were poor. Perhaps we could send them back to the factories?

So there I was by myself. My friend of a friend, the one who invited me, was nowhere to be seen. I began to wonder if I was the victim of a prank. My adrenaline was at full blast and I felt the need to tear into someone else.

And then, I saw her. The most beautiful face in the whole room.

Sarah Palin.

I have to give it to her—she is one good-looking woman. She was standing by herself. My guess was that her husband or whoever she was there with went off to get some caviar or some booze or maybe to score an eight-ball. My adrenaline level backed off. I came up and introduced myself, nearly giving my real name and then thinking better of it. I extended my hand and said, “Hi, I’m Maxwell Smart.”

She smiled and shook my hand. “You know what they say the difference between a hockey mom and a pit bull is?”

I began to wonder just how drunk everyone here was. But I took the bait. “What?” I asked.

“Lipstick,” she said, and began to laugh. I wished it had tickled my funny bone in the same way.

I put a smile on my face and pretended to find it humorous, and then said, “How’s life after politics?”

“I can do whatever I want until the courts tell me I can't.”

“Really?”

“Perhaps so,” she said.

“Okay, great. Say, what do you think about the Occupy movement?”

"In what respect, Charlie?"

“My name’s Maxwell, ma’am. Remember, I introduced myself?”

“Perhaps so.”

I felt like taking her glass away from her, but someone once told me she killed a bear with her bare hands.

“So what do you think about the Occupy movement?”

“America's finest - our men and women in uniform, are a force for good throughout the world, and that is nothing to apologize for.”

Did she know something I didn’t? “They have uniforms?” I asked.

“Perhaps so,” she said.

“I’m talking about the people who camped out in different areas throughout the country, starting with Wall Street.”

"It's great to see another part of the country,” she said.

I grew frustrated. The adrenaline started to come back. I thought she was messing with me, but I was at the point where I needed to hear her real thoughts. “That’s all fine and good,” I said, “But what do you think about the occupiers?”

"We grow good people in our small towns, with honesty and sincerity and dignity."

It was an endearing statement. Maybe I had her all wrong. “Oh, so you support the movement?”

"In what respect, Charlie?"

I kept my cool. “Do you really believe they are good people?”

“To see this struggle in action, look no further than the Occupy Wall Street movement that is going on.”

Yet again I was puzzled. “What struggle?”

“Barack Obama is owned by Wall Street,” she said.

“Ms. Palin, what about the protesters?”

“I suggest if they want to vent and want to change the situation, then they vent in the right direction.”

“What direction is that?”

“Directly to the people of Alaska.”

At that point I knew she was messing with me. Before I could say anything else, a man came up to us—and it wasn’t Todd Palin. He whispered something in her ear. Then he walked away and she followed, bidding me her farewell with a wave.

Apparently I had gotten the wrong kind of attention. Two large men in suits came my way. I looked around for my friend of a friend, who was nowhere to be found. Once they were in my face and towering over me, one of them took out a list from his inner breast pocket and looked at it. “What’s your name, sir?” he asked.

I thought for a moment and said “Steven Seagal.”

I found myself booted out on my ass.

I started going on foot, in an effort to walk off my buzz, then realizing maybe I should hang on to my buzz. Then I realized I was in New York City at night, and I didn’t have a lot of money on me. I hailed a cab and challenged the driver to a game of Rock, Paper, Scissors, and apparently the stars were in the right alignment because I won myself a free ride to Grand Central Station.

Once at Grand Central Station, I found I was about $30 short of a one-way trip home. Fortunately a couple of Wall Street protesters were there planning an event in Atlantic City. They offered me a lift. I hopped into their 1969 VW Bus, painted in a tie-dye pattern and the VW emblem replaced with a peace sign, and off we went.