We had that party I wrote about last week -- the one in prep for which I ate a mound of goldfish crackers, that mound somewhat bigger than my head -- and the evening was one of those sociological moments that validate the sporadic hardheadness of the soft sciences.
Think sociogram.
That is, of those invited, everyone higher in the department hierarchy than me found pressing reason not to show their hard New England faces -- think dream date with Ethan Frome -- and everyone with less status, or at least less time on the books, showed up. What this meant was that everyone who showed up was delightful, so you had indignation and compensation for that indignation in tandem. Also, at the last minute we called several friends to pop over and stick their heads in the dike -- didn't I say the theme of the event was mixed metaphor? -- so a good time was had.
But the crowd *was* small.
Which meant.
Leftover.
GOLDFISH CRACKERS.
This morning after my third fistful I put the remaining goldfish crackers in the metal bowl with the coffee grounds and the eggshells, a fruitful glop intended for the compost. And then, seeing I could still possibly grab some goldfish from the top of the pile, I poured water over the lot.
Didn't William Burroughs do something like this with his heroin? Well, *something* like this.
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1 comment:
You sound like a charming host. I'm sure you are taking the absence of your friends much too seriously. If you wished to have more people in attendance, you should have used your blog to throw the party open to your readers! Linda and I are nearby in Milpitas and would have loved to come. I'll email you privately to see if we can't get on the guest list for your poetry salon.
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