I’m up to my ass in finger sandwiches and up to my elbows in egg yokes and mayonnaise, ready to spoon the age old mixture back in to hard boiled egg white halves. Yes, what better item to serve at the party to end all parties—the Rapture—than ‘deviled eggs’? For it will be a party and according to those in the know, quite literally the party to end all parties. And it couldn’t come at a better time of the day, 6:00 p.m.! Although I am still vexed as to that east coast, west coast or even Greenwich Mean Time. Screw it! I have f**ked with time zones ever since I adopted the ‘permission to drink’ adage: “at four we pour”. Well, let’s face it, it is four o’clock some where in world and so I say f**k it and hoist one to parts unknown. And I will do that again on May 21st at 6:00 p.m. according to the precise timings of my soon to be inconsequential Cartier wrist watch. (I love that watch…but let’s face it, with imminent demise on the schedule, I have to think that is 5g’s worth of watch I could have better spent on pure debauchery.)
So what are your party plans? I, for one, would like to fill the backyard pool with Vodka, toss in a fist full of cocktail olives, arm myself with a straw and guzzle through the world’s biggest Martini. After all, if all goes according to plan…there will be no hangovers. There will be no anything! And I say, “Here’s to that!” For, I am starting to think of the Rapture as the ultimate spring cleaning, minus the work, with the vacation of a lifetime to follow. Where’s the downside? That is, unless you have something to hide. A dark side? Some skeleton in the closet? A dirty little secret? Your no-no’s won’t be a no-show on the big day, so start you atonement early.
I will admit, I’m just a tad nervous. No, not for the obvious reasons of have I been more naughty than nice. For a plentifully stuffed stocking on Christmas day always seems to clear the slate on that account. But rather, what do I wear for such an auspicious occasion. Presumably the Rapture is a once in the end-of-your-lifetime moment and damn it I want to look good. I don’t ascribe to the notion that you can ever overdress but I have already ruled out the tuxedo mainly because I am still not sure if what I choose is what I am stuck wearing for all eternity. And I certainly don’t want to walk around heaven looking like the majordomo when I could just as easily opt to look like a major homo and live forever fashionable and chic. I will admit, I am torn when I think of that couture Armani suit I bought in London on sale—the last one and in my size…SCORE—or buying something new from British designer Sir Paul Smith…not that there is time to opt for bespoke. So I am thinking jeans with that trendy blazer and those Calvin Klein suede boots I love so much—a sort of casual chic, day wear to evening wear. Thinking of going commando though…thoughts?
So, I have prepared some nibbles. (Nothing big. No one wants to travel with a heavy stomach.) I have created a cocktail the size of Rhode Island. I know what I am wearing. That only leaves a little matter of the guest list—cause, God knows, I am not going through this one alone! I am thinking of a small gathering, intimate, full of witty repartee and sardonic musings. No atheists, as they have a full schedule of looting on Sunday after I have boarded the short bus to the pearly gates and they are left to pick up the pieces of what’s left behind. Also, I only want clever people. This is our last chance to dish the dirt and I don’t want anyone thinking this is a time to have to be politically correct. And finally, those who make the cut should be those afraid they are not going to make the ultimate cut. I want some guilt in the room…some nervous jitters that indicate we have been, for the most part, good but there has been room for improvement. So when the moment comes and someone greets us with the ‘forever’ clipboard, I want eyes darting around the room wondering if, just maybe, not all of us have made the cut. It harkens back to the heady days of Studio 54 and whether you would be chosen to enter or be relegated to the loser’s pen in your disco finery.
So tick-tock, it’s almost 6 o’clock. I am probably as ready as I am going to be. Are you?
So what are your party plans? I, for one, would like to fill the backyard pool with Vodka, toss in a fist full of cocktail olives, arm myself with a straw and guzzle through the world’s biggest Martini. After all, if all goes according to plan…there will be no hangovers. There will be no anything! And I say, “Here’s to that!” For, I am starting to think of the Rapture as the ultimate spring cleaning, minus the work, with the vacation of a lifetime to follow. Where’s the downside? That is, unless you have something to hide. A dark side? Some skeleton in the closet? A dirty little secret? Your no-no’s won’t be a no-show on the big day, so start you atonement early.
I will admit, I’m just a tad nervous. No, not for the obvious reasons of have I been more naughty than nice. For a plentifully stuffed stocking on Christmas day always seems to clear the slate on that account. But rather, what do I wear for such an auspicious occasion. Presumably the Rapture is a once in the end-of-your-lifetime moment and damn it I want to look good. I don’t ascribe to the notion that you can ever overdress but I have already ruled out the tuxedo mainly because I am still not sure if what I choose is what I am stuck wearing for all eternity. And I certainly don’t want to walk around heaven looking like the majordomo when I could just as easily opt to look like a major homo and live forever fashionable and chic. I will admit, I am torn when I think of that couture Armani suit I bought in London on sale—the last one and in my size…SCORE—or buying something new from British designer Sir Paul Smith…not that there is time to opt for bespoke. So I am thinking jeans with that trendy blazer and those Calvin Klein suede boots I love so much—a sort of casual chic, day wear to evening wear. Thinking of going commando though…thoughts?
So, I have prepared some nibbles. (Nothing big. No one wants to travel with a heavy stomach.) I have created a cocktail the size of Rhode Island. I know what I am wearing. That only leaves a little matter of the guest list—cause, God knows, I am not going through this one alone! I am thinking of a small gathering, intimate, full of witty repartee and sardonic musings. No atheists, as they have a full schedule of looting on Sunday after I have boarded the short bus to the pearly gates and they are left to pick up the pieces of what’s left behind. Also, I only want clever people. This is our last chance to dish the dirt and I don’t want anyone thinking this is a time to have to be politically correct. And finally, those who make the cut should be those afraid they are not going to make the ultimate cut. I want some guilt in the room…some nervous jitters that indicate we have been, for the most part, good but there has been room for improvement. So when the moment comes and someone greets us with the ‘forever’ clipboard, I want eyes darting around the room wondering if, just maybe, not all of us have made the cut. It harkens back to the heady days of Studio 54 and whether you would be chosen to enter or be relegated to the loser’s pen in your disco finery.
So tick-tock, it’s almost 6 o’clock. I am probably as ready as I am going to be. Are you?
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