My recent book party, as I’ve written 100 times, was a lively swirl of reality-show people, Broadway stars, comics, and old Italians.
I was very happy to have gotten an RSVP from two of the luminaries I’d invited — Tony Sheldon and Nick Adams, from Broadway’s Priscilla, who had a performance that night and generously said they’d come afterward.
I warned them that it might be a tad dregsy at that point, but was thrilled they’d actually make the effort.
Well, my party started at 8 and was filled with photographers and food and excitement for two and a half hours, which culminated with a stage revue of outrageous and delectable acts that had the audience cheering.
And then the Priscilla guys walked in.
The place suddenly had an apocalyptic pallor about it, with a handful of drunks littered around and not an attractive tableau to be found for miles.
It was as over as Rick Santorum’s chances for Grand Marshal of the next Gay Pride parade.
The event had the feeling of something that might have been semi-serviceable at one point, but was now just a shell of a shell of a carcass of a deceased dog, with a couple of flies feasting on the remains.
Things were so dire I expected to see a tumbleweed blowing by — and was actually hoping for it because it would liven things up a little.
The guys nicely stood there as my mother was lifted down a few stairs from the VIP area en route to being shipped home.
“I invited them for this?” I thought, appalled that a potential celebratory moment for them had turned into an experiment in horror.
We had to make an announcement to find a photographer just so I could record the fact that these two guys had really shown up.
But still, they were lovely and understanding, like stars ought to be.
Alas, that wasn’t the end of the humiliation. The next day I emailed Sheldon and thanked him for bringing his mother.
In my post-bash daze, I’d confused his email address with that of someone else with the same first name!
I could just die! What should I do? Hide?