The Garden Party

Note to our readers: There's plenty of story here, but we need you to help with its continuation. If  you can make it to the cutoff point then you are invited to go to the comments section and add some plot point or narrative thread of your own. Promise we will pick it up and add it to the story. Or, you can just go to the comments and put something in there now. If, that is, you want to be that way!

Muffy and Biff nearly missed it. You know how they like to make such a big — literally — splashy entrance. Their shiny plane with the water pontoons skimming the mirror surface of the lake out back of the house and the roar of the engines as they slowly taxied to the dock.

This year's, as they call it, "shine up" of their trusty vintage air/sea ship threatened to be delayed, putting them past the scheduled party at our weekend place. Said "shine-up" involves stripping last year's clear lacquer finish, buffing the aluminum fuselage to a mirror finish, then reapplying a fresh coat of lacquer. More than once it was mistaken for an alien spaceship when it would catch the sunlight just so and appear like a blazing ball in the blue yonder.

Instead they came in on jet skis. What a game coupla people! Never disappoint. Always a surprise. The real kicker was they came in on those jet skis looking as fresh and turned out as if they just rolled off an ironing board.

We hear tell of their plans for next year's grand entrance. Hope they don't feel we've taken away some of their thunder. But, this is too good to not share:

Well, enough about them. But, they do have a knack for grabbing all the attention.

Daddy was there. Of course. Predictably drinking too much. Saying too much. [He would say the most outrageous things then make you feel bad when you took offense begging off that he was only joking.] Then snoozing off in the library tucked nice and cozy by whichever "lady friend" he brought along to give Mummy yet another little zinger. Daddy always had the eye for the ladies. Mummy is a beauty. They separated rather not amicably when his eye led him astray. More than once. Lots of suspicions. Then, finally found out; enough, she said. They never divorced. Catholic, you know. But, that hasn't stopped the Old Man from playing the field. He's an Ad Biggie on Mad Ave; the selection is ripe.

Mum is not quite the saint either. Just doesn't flaunt it. Well she in fact must've. Given that her current beau is her latest Gynecologist. He had the kind of boyish good looks that guaranteed his waiting room was always standing room only. They make a lovely couple. Saves on doctor bills she would amusingly quip.

Oh, who else?

Uncle Reggie. Rich Reggie we call him. Well, not to his face. It's "Dearest Uncle" in person. He is rich after all. Doesn't hurt to play your cards right. You know?

Rich Uncle Reggie. Might as well be the model for the coinage "Made of Money". Rich rather poorly describes his financial status. Let's just put it this way, he was the 1% of the 1%. And, truth be told, 1% of that!

He wore bling before there was "bling". He was the original Shiznit, before . . . He had his exclusive aftershave custom ordered from Penhaligon's London. He would never say whether in fact it was so, but it is said his aphrodisiacal scent was composed of the essence expressed from crisp new $1,000 USA gold standard notes. Got that? Gold standard! If it is true, then you know the secret of how money attracts money. 

And, the ladies. On the town most evenings Uncle could reliably be seen with at least two top show girls in tow. Or, some newly arrived starlet, or two. Once, again unconfirmed as to its veracity, the story is he escorted the entire cast of the Rockettes to a lavish champagne drenched feast. Breakfast the next morning on his private yacht, circling Manhattan at daybreak. Whether anyone got any sleep; well, that's something we can only wonder about. Reggie was The Man, you know. It wasn't just the moolah, hoolah. He had the kavorka, for sure. All the girls went home with diamonds and minks. It sounds like rather tall a tale; but if you knew Reggie, it wasn't at all something far from the usual.

In the day he was backgammon buddies with Nubar Sarkis Gulbenkian and Prince Ali Solomone Aga Khan. As he said, "Hobnobbing with the Euro Trash keeps me humble." It was quite the scandal when he tried to steal Rita Hayworth away from the Prince. That's just one of many stories; and maybe not even the best one.

We could go on and on about the who's who at our little gatherings.

We won't reveal it, just that his name rhymes with Ralph Low Wren; he can be counted on to show up in his growling vintage Gar Wood speedboat wearing that typical rumpled captain's hat showing all those years of wear, and accompanied by a troupe of young, really good looking Waspy types dressed to the hilt to uber preppiness.

Yo, Ralph! What brings you here? Slumming? We like to kid him. Really razz the guy about how he started low on the fashion totem pole, and all.

Maybe to bring a little leavening to such over the top descriptions, let us mention our Polish friend “Speedy”.  Shown here “at speed” lazily drifting into a hazardous hairpin mountainside turn during the demanding Grand Prix de Monaco of 1956. He drove for the Cyclops factory racing team as their top driver, campaigning for many successful seasons on the glamorous European Circuit.

Off track he was a gambling man. Baccarat was his game, but he was quick (“Speedy”) to place a bet whenever, and wherever, there was some action. He once bet Donald Trump, daring The Donald to go out in public with a squirrel pelt on his head. Speedy lost that bet, but Mr. Trump liked the results so much he made it a trademark look.

He is alive today and living his golden years in the ancestral villa on Lake Como during the winter months, enjoying watching the lovelies cavorting at George Clooney’s place down the hill a bit. Spending his days at backgammon with his entourage of gorgeous live-in “nannies”. Life for our Speedy is an unending flow of champagne, spicy Cuban cheroots, and foot massages. At least that’s what we’ve heard.

But, enough of all that. Yes, the annual summer soiree always is guaranteed to be a big draw. Plenty of celebs and their ahem "indispensable" staffers, posse, and hangers on. Political potentates, icons, and wannabe's. Wall street types with their brightly colored shirts and overly large custom white collars and suspenders sporting outrageous bold graphics. Movers and shakers from all corners of society; well, certainly from the most interesting corners. Even some what most would call unsavory types. But, mind you, big league unsavory types. Well, maybe a few street level operators too.

They don't call us the Nick and Nora Charles of the 21st Century for nothing. [And, yes, that's Ivanka.]

So one might ask, who the heck ARE you people, anyway? Well let's just say in a nutshell the only thing we really have to worry about is the sun bleaching our wicker garden furniture. Money. Oh, that old thing. We never handle it. Or, talk about it. Subject closed. Heck, we have our summer weekend digs on a private lake with a long, long drive to get there from the road. [Maybe that's why Muffy and Biff prefer a water entrance. Cars can be such a bore. And, besides, getting good help these days is a challenge.]

Speaking of cars, we just adore them. Rare vintage types mostly. Take the Jaguar XK120 Fixed Head Coupe with disk wheels and "spats" [rear fender skirts].

Such fun to drive. But, alas, one has to drive that two seater oneself. Can become rather tedious when running errands in town. For such like that we mostly send a car in and staff does the shopping. Here's the go to market car.

My husband could go on forever showing off his stable of shiny collector cars. But, hey, this is about the party after all ...

Just a little addendum. The party — as usual — had been a perfect success. Not much drama or fuss. Unless you want to hear about the caterer — her name rhymes with Martha Stubert — and how she drank a little too much and pretended she was a guest. Help today! 

So here we are, at the previously mentioned cutoff point. Inviting you dear reader to add something to the comments section so we can get a little creative in the process. 

So, now, go and add something of your own. Let's have a laff, ducky. Shall we?

Here's an example of how some very unexpected things can happen at our annual event. What with so many attendees, and from so many backgrounds [and so many egos] once we had someone throw down an outrageous challenge. A Rolfer friend of ours went on enthusiastically about his skill at balancing the body with the gravitational field of the earth.

Something about how since the body is plastic it can change, and it's makeup is a continuous matrix of interrelationships mitigated by the connective tissue known as fascia. This fascial organ is adaptive and over time according to how we use — and misuse — our bodies, we show up eventually with a unique pattern of imbalances firmly anchored in our very flesh. Since said fascia is adaptive, it can change. Remember, the body is plastic. With skilled touch and informed guided movements the Rolfer takes an individual from living with a random set of imbalances [think restrictions, holding patterns, hang ups] to a stance which is more in keeping with inherent Anatomical design and the realities of Physics on that arrangement; specifically, how the whole of it needs to operate under the constant pull of Gravity.

Just to put that in a nutshell, that means everything stacked up nicely, all even and level. You probably will remember this important life fact from when you were a toddler stacking blocks. Or, as architects and those in the building trades know it: plumb and square.

Okay. We could go on all day about all this body balance business. 

Back to the party.

So naturally with such an intelligent crowd that led to a heated debate on the question of "Nature versus Nurture". It's a tough nut to crack. Especially these days with everything seemingly chalked up to that guaranteed conversation stopper, "I was born that way". 

In any event our wise friend Scott [his last name rhymes with "Go Hither"] suggested we get all scientific with this topic of discussion. As he reliably can be expected to have, his van was fully equipped with only the very latest technological wizardry. Long story short, in no time at all he managed to swab each and every partygoer for his state of the art genetic DNA analyzer cum balance assessor. Instantaneous results. Talk about party favors. Thank you, Scott!

Some pretty interesting results. A few surprises. Big ones.

You know how in society at any given time some are up and some are down. But, in terms of background the underpinning of things can be quite the contrary. Who said it, there's no fortune without some criminality. Well that's more of an historical issue, which isn't what all that testing was about anyway. But, it is relevant in terms of how the supposedly best among us may have some dark matter hidden in all our professed superlative illuminated wonderfulness.

The biggest revelation was how one of our illustrious guests [whose name rhymes with Ronald Stromp] turns out he has a good dose of Neanderthal genetics coursing through his veins. Who'd've thought. No wonder he's such an A-type ape. Yet, as it turns out, that's just enough of what a lot of people think is needed. Less talk, and more action, as they say. But with that guy, not only is there action, but a lot of talk as well. As they also say, if you teach a cave man to fish, you never know what he's got up his sleeve. Or, what he'll say. All the more surprising since his dainty hands give no indication of his knuckle dragger underpinnings.

And, there's more doings and goings-on to tell ...