Party pooper

A spy in the house of glitz

by Kris Frieswick

One of my guilty pleasures is reading the party and gossip columns in all the local mags and rags. Oh, the chiseled chins, the hyphenated last names, the multiply domiciled couples. Oh, the subtle yet palpable fabulousness of it all.

Mr. and Mrs. Reginald Persis-Newton, of Marblehead and Milan, enjoy some champagne at this year's gala benefit for the Children Born with Nowhere Near as Much Money as Us Fund. The event was capped off by an awe-inspiring stir-fry exhibition by Raimonda, chef of Diogenes, the restaurant bravely pushing the gentrification envelope at its insouciant new venue on the first floor of the Old Colony housing project in South Boston.

Okay, I confess, I really read these columns searching for some clue as to why I haven't been invited to these galas. What do these people have that I don't have? Nothing . . . it seems they just have more of it than I do.

Don't get me wrong, I do go to parties. But my crowd of friends tends toward pick-up bands, flat but ice-cold keg beer, junk food, and venues where everyone I know is crammed into a room that seats four comfortably. I love 'em, but the Cinderella in me always wondered how the other half parties.

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Eventually, after a mere four months of incessant begging and finagling, I scored a complimentary invitation to one of these gala balls -- a swanky benefit at the swankiest of Boston ballrooms (which, like many other things in this story, shall remain nameless). Alas, I would be attending alone, since I could get only one ticket. But even alone I was thrilled to finally get a chance to see whether these people deserved the envy I had been lavishing on them all these years.

The magical night arrived, and I set out for the big event in my finery, ready to mingle with the rich and the famous. I pulled up in front of the hotel to valet-park my Ford, but just as I was getting out of the car, I heard a tremendous rrrip. The modest slit at the front of my skirt had, in an instant, achieved nearly pornographic dimensions. I gasped. The valet laughed. After making a mental note not to tip him, I determined that by holding my purse in my left hand and casually draping my left arm slightly across my left hip in a devil-may-care posture, I could conceal the top of the mammoth rip. (I've never encountered this type of problem at a keg party, where ripped clothing is expected, even encouraged.)

Undaunted, and anticipating a fabulous evening, I entered the cocktail party in the anteroom and was immediately blinded by the jewels, taffeta, and tuxedos. In terms of looks, these people had it all over the keg-party crowd. But that was no great surprise. What was surprising was how they all seemed completely unaware of each other's presence and refused to get out of one another's way, which made moving through the crowd extremely difficult (especially while maintaining a devil-may-care, rip-concealing posture). In an attempt to wiggle through, I accidentally snagged my brooch on the sequined sleeve of a woman whose feet seemed glued to the rug beneath her. She turned and glared. I apologized profusely. Only then did she move.

I was handed a glass of excellent champagne. Spread out before me was the crème de la crème of Boston society, some people queuing up at the bar, some reviewing the silent-auction items displayed around the anteroom. The prizes included autographed baseballs, vacations, signed copies of famous books, and a lunch date with a certain former Massachusetts governor/presidential candidate. I bent over to read the highest bid on the governor -- $80.

Suddenly a woman pushed past me and squealed with delight, "Look! A lunch with [a certain former governor]! Oh, John, we must bid on this." I looked up to catch a glimpse of the man called John, and found myself looking at a gentleman in full Scottish regalia, including kilt and plaid socks, shaking his head in an emphatic "no." Chalk a point up for galas -- I've never seen a man in a skirt at a keg party (well, not one that belonged to him, anyway). This was the type of party at which a man could wear a kilt without shame, fear of derision, or unwanted sexual advances from other male partygoers. I respect that.

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I puttered around the crowd for a while and attempted to strike up conversations with my fellow socialites. I thought they'd be willing to talk to me, considering we were all holding the same $150 tickets. (They had no way of knowing that I hadn't paid for mine.) But each time I began a conversation, the socialite would meet my eyes for only a moment; then his or her gaze would wander over my shoulder, apparently seeking out someone more entertaining/famous/rich than a lowly columnist. (Or maybe I'm just dreadfully boring.) After an hour of this, we all took our seats beneath the gilt ceiling and chandeliers of the vast, mirrored ballroom, serenaded by the smooth swing stylings of the White Heat Orchestra. Venue and music -- two more giant points in favor of galas.

But I still hadn't had a nice conversation with anyone. (I didn't count the profuse apology.) Fortunately, during dinner I was seated between two lovely couples. I quickly struck up a conversation with the woman to my right, who became a fast friend when we both began laughing at the same woman, who was wearing an ungodly ugly hat. Then the live auction began. The sums whizzing past my head sent my bank account into paroxysms, and within 10 minutes the bidders had spent twice my annual salary on such memorable items as a day of golf with a has-been former Patriots player, a day as ball boy/girl for the Celtics, and a chair. By far my favorite bidding war was for four tickets to a taping of The Rosie O'Donnell Show. The winning bid? $1700. I leaned over to my newfound friend and asked, "Aren't those tickets free at the studio?" She nodded. Oh well, we reasoned, it's for a good cause.

Dinner was good, but I've had better. Idle party chatter commenced. And despite my new acquaintance, I realized at about 11 p.m. that no matter how many points this gala benefit could rack up, there was one crucial element that it would never possess: my friends. Without them, my evening of glamour, glitz, music, fine wine, and gourmet food was really just another chicken dinner. Granted, it was a lovely chicken dinner, but at that moment I knew that my envious pursuit of the other half's life was over. Even with bad beer and cramped quarters, a good keg party, or any gathering of friends, is a far better way to spend an evening.

So at 11:15 p.m. I retrieved my Ford, headed home, and changed into something a lot less constrictive (and less ripped). I then drove to Somerville, where I entered a friend's apartment, climbed through the bedroom window, and hopped out onto a jam-packed roof deck with a view of the lights of downtown Boston. There I sipped cold, flat beer, surrounded by my friends, who are neither glamorous nor rich, but who look you in the eye when you talk to them, and who get the hell out of your way when you say "Excuse me."

Kris Frieswick is a magazine writer living in Newton. She can be reached at krisf1@gte.net.