AND THE POINT WOULD BE…?
(Or Is It Just Me?)

Did a charter for a party the other night that left me quite sad about the state of human relations. Now I gotta do the public service announcement: rich people, in my experience are inconsiderate and a pain in the ass—most of the time, but not all of the time. If my opinion equates to “hate,” jealousy, etc., so be it.

So some rich cat paid about 4 large to have some five buses take his party guests from a rally point to his “mcmansion” and then back again at the end of the party (I know this dude don’t have no roaches; even the help went to Harvard, okay?). He also had an Escalade for good measure, which a few guests thought was their own personal free taxi at the end of the night.

The guests did not seem all that enthused with this dude, but seemed somehow obligated to attend this shing-dig. I got the impression they were either co-workers, fellow parents whose children attend an elite area school, members of a board, etc.—never seen so many sour pusses going to a party. They even had the gall to bitch about the “free ride” the host was giving them—“Do we have to go this way?” “It’s too hot on this bus.” “How long before we are leaving? (even there were only two people on the bus!)” “You all will be back to get us at the end of the night, right?” (really wanted to respond to the latter, “Hell no. Walk your happy ass back here…”)

But all of this (plus the lack of tip) was not what disgusted me the most: it was the host’s attitude towards his guests. Not only was it disheartening, it was by definition both disgusting and downright ugly. The party started at 7. At 10:40, he is pushing his guests towards the door. “You don’t have to go home, but you got to the hell out of here,” was his attitude. Damn. Let me say that again: Damn. I mean is it really a party when you watching the clock and telling folk to “get the fuck out?” four hours later?

Here’s how I picture a party—at least 60 or 70 of my friends and family coming over to the crib, getting their grub on, drinking as much as they can without becoming ignorant, playing games, dancing, watching television and of course, serving up the Spades ass whippings (bring your A game or go the hell home. Next!). Arrive as early as you want to the day of the party, but please understand that I won’t be dressed til ‘round 8pm. Bring a bottle or a dish; if opt for the latter, your ass better be able to cook, dammit, or we will talk about you.

Stay as long as you want. Really, I mean it. Crash on the couch, fix a pallet on the floor, put two folding chairs together—shit, I don’t care. No one leaves Casa de Clark too drunk or sleepy (just as bad) to drive. Period. Not on my watch. Besides, its kinda cool watching folks leave after a night of straight up house party boogying. Plus the look on my neighbors’ face the next morning is usually priceless (yes, I’m a good neighbor, but hate Homeowners Associations—they are the devil!).

Sure one has to have some limits during a party and guest should not be allowed to trounce through every corner of your house. But a gathering that is soooo binding—like the one I drove for the other night is better suited for a clubhouse, restaurant or banquet hall. To me, an invitation into your home should be just that, an invitation. Not a directorate with a litany of do’s, don’ts and “you better nots.” That’s not showing hospitality—that’s just bullshit.

Axe.