Hobnobbing II: Return of the Knobs

Arriving back in Canada from a little New York shindig, I found an enticing and at the same time repellent email awaiting me on my computer. It read as follows.

From: klinton42@4merprez.com
To: junker@bloggermail.com
Subject: PARTY!!!!!!!!!

Hey Junker. Hill is outta town 4 the weekend. You know what that means… :)

Party starts @ 10. Everyone is coming. Bring dip. ;)

I had a sneaking suspicion that Bill’s get-together would have all of the dips I could handle, and I didn’t want to touch that little bash with a ten foot pole. Still, it seemed like Bill called me every weekend asking me to come down. After all, he did owe me for taking off the heat in that whole Lewinsky concern, even if it was entirely unintentional. Not to mention the strings I pulled during the big Kosovo affair. Ultimately, though, my blogging responsibilities put me on a plane to Chappaqua. There was a good post to be had, and I owed my readers that.

My plane arrived at six, and I pulled up to Bill’s around eight. Before I even put my foot in the door, I could see the party was in full swing. On the front patio, Johnny Depp, Sean Penn, and Keanu Reeves were just lighting up. Keanu spotted me first.

“Whoa. Hey, if it isn’t ‘The Junkster’.”

“Hey lads. You know those things could land you guys in prison, wouldn’t want that, would we, Sean.”

“Whoa. Alright J, nice one!” Keanu mused.

“Oh you little fucking prick,” spewed Sean, his eyes bulging and face redder than a pomegranate, “I should rip your fucking neck off for that!”

“Easy pal, assault is illegal too, or so I’m told.”

“Whoa. Zing!” offered Keanu as Sean stormed off sending patio furniture flying in all directions. I was glad to see he was feeling his old self.

“So how’s France John? I heard you’re short a few beemers nowadays. I wouldn’t worry about it too much though. France is such a civil place, I’m sure things will come around.”

Johnny nodded in solemn agreement, and Keanu “whoa-ed”.

Offering further vague support for Johnny’s transatlantic endeavors, I slipped away towards the party.

At the main entrance, I graciously offered to help David Gest drag an unconscious Liza Minnelli onto a garden bench. That accomplished, I carefully sidestepped the flailing fists of an all out Sean Penn/Gary Busey brawl and slipped into the house.

Immediately I was accosted by an excited Noam Chomsky and a dopey Michael Moore who seemed thoroughly occupied by the crab dip.

“Hmmm, nice to see you in town again J,” greeted Noam, “you’re arrival could not have been more timely. If you would be so kind as to offer your assistance, Michael and I are in the throws of a most perplexing and impenetrable deliberation. We have hypothesized and concluded it utterly true that the Iraq invasion was evil. Yet in the same general vicinity of reflection, we have determined multiple answers to a particularly perplexing vexation and we cannot seem to narrow it down conclusively to a single answer.”

“Our brooding regards the generally reported ‘upbeat’ manner of Iraqis inspired by their new ‘freedom’. Is this utter untruth being propagated by the blatantly biased mainstream media, as my good fellow Michael here believes, or is it the work of the evil neo-con agenda, as I myself have conjectured?”

“Well its hard to say, have you asked any Iraqis?” I replied.

Noam burst into laughter, “Oh J, you slay me, you utterly slay me. My how one titters when J is around. ‘I like thy wit well’ J, you are truly a master of sarcasm. Isn’t he Michael?”

Michael muffled what sounded like agreement through a mouthful of prawns and I graciously excused myself.

Making my way towards the pool, the usual chat and chortle of a party surrounded me. At the bar, I heard Dan Rather and Eason Jordan discussing media integrity. Bill’s house keepers floated around the crowds offering martini’s, cocktails, and earplugs(Howard Dean was to arrive later that night). Near the main staircase, Maurice Strong, George Galloway, and Kofi Annan shared a few quiet words, about what I could only guess. On the veranda, I spotted Bill sidling up to an obviously inebriated Kirstie Alley, and decided not to approach him, mostly on account of the flu that had left me with a weak stomach. I simply hadn’t the physical constitution to tackle mental images of that magnitude.

Quite against my will, I found myself being introduced to Alec Baldwin by Bill Maher. Admittedly, the thought of faking some immense medical crisis popped into my mind, but I doubted it would work the second time around.

“Well, nice to meet you Alec. I’m always humbled in the presence of Oscar winning actors.”

“Actually, I’ve never won an Oscar…”

“Really? Well those damn things are rigged anyways, they’re a total farce. An absolute disgrace to the profession. What you should be proud of is that prestigious and dignified Screen Actors Guild Award you picked up.”

“I don’t have one of those either.”

“Is that so? Well the guild is filled with wanks anyway. Bunch of bloody gits the lot of 'em. I’ve always said the best acting is on television. Surely your many Emmy awards rank you one of the premier actors of our time.”

At this point Alec looked a tad steamed. “Actually Junker, I’ve never actually won an Emmy either.”

“Well,” I continued unabated, assured that my delicate and decisive social skills would carry me through, “that is a shame. But really, what is an Emmy next to a Grammy? Nothing but utter tripe, that’s what.”

“The Grammy’s are music awards J.” interjected Bill.

“My point precisely. Weren’t you in the original rat pack Alec? No? I could swear I saw you do a duo with Sammy Davis Jr. once. Well, anyway, I’ve gotta run, congratulations on all of your success.”

At this point I found myself inexorably meandering towards the exit. Already I’d been at the party for 20 minutes, a new record no doubt, but my strength was waning. Before I reached an exit the host intercepted me.

“Glad you could make it J.” Bill opened. “Listen, I can’t stay and chat.”

There was some good news.

“I’ve got a bit of a titillating affair that I just have to take care of. I made a promise that I would stay abreast of the situation and act immediately if anything came up. You understand these things.”

“Sure Bill. Business over pleasure, isn’t that always the way. Great party by the way. Listen, if I don’t catch you again, here’s my new email address. If it doesn’t seem to go through, just give it a month or ten to get set up, these things are unreliable as hell.”

With that I made a quick exit and found myself northward bound. Sure, this whole messed up blogging gig isn't easy, but nothing worth doing ever is.