Wordsmoker

Like the splendid colors of the rainbow, there are many types of gays. Some convince themselves they like women, others own the entire contents of the Bluefly accessory wall. I am one of the many gays that was blessed (and cursed) with impeccable taste. Childhood was especially trying; during our annual summer holiday, we would head “up north” to a variety of – charming – cabins, bed & breakfasts, and resorts. I would wait as my father opened the door to our temporary residence, fearing whatever fresh hell awaited us on the other side. An orange macramé bedspread? Rustic pine paneling? The dreaded canoe-cum-bookshelf filled with old issues of Reader’s Digest?

I digress. Some weeks ago, my friends and I decided to organize a “small group.” For those of you not religious, or not from the South, a small group is a weekly Bible study group that meets to discuss the greatness and glory of the Lord. Ours was to be different. Rather than read passages out of an old book, a select and fabulous group of gays would meet to celebrate the greatest high school show choir television show ever created – by man.

I, of course, volunteered to host the first small group and preparations began post haste. Of course, as a tasteful gay there is a certain level of decorum to be upheld. I detest paper plates, and their red-headed stepchild – the plastic fork, and couldn’t bear the idea of having guests over to eat off of Chinet. Any sort of pre-packaged food was to be avoided. Things were especially important for this event, because it was the first time I had hosted at my new home and I wanted everything to be perfect. Several trips to Room & Board, Crate & Barrel, and other ampersand-oriented purveyors of home décor later – things began to come together.

I spent the day of the party “working from home” and preparing the food. We were having sandwiches, but not just any sandwiches, tasteful sandwiches. Beef tenderloin with bitter greens and caper-onion mayonnaise; confit of broccoli with egg and feta; candied fennel with Pernod and goat cheese; baguettes with prosciutto de parma, scallion oil, and normandie butter. All for an hour long television show.

Two hours before the premier, a friend showed up with an extra platter and some ice. I was beside myself because coolers are tacky and I couldn’t think of another way to keep the beer cold – but he suggested filling one side of the kitchen sink with ice and putting the beer in it. One crisis solved, one to go; in the aforementioned trip to Room & Board I had purchased some new bedding, but was unhappy it didn’t look like I had hoped. Fortunately my friend had taken a course in bedscaping (you heard that correctly) and was able to zhuzh up the bedroom before the rest of the guests arrived.

The soiree began at 8:00; we all enjoyed our food while watching the President get heckled by a South Carolinian hick. Then, the magic hour arrived. By its very definition, Glee is about opening yourself up to joy – and the evening’s episode delivered on that promise. Kanye, Salt ‘N Peppa, crazy bitch wife, crazy bitch cheerleader, crazy bitch coach – I think Ryan Murphy may be a misogynist. In any case, it makes for good television; I don’t think I’ve laughed that hard since Arrested Development went off the air.

An hour later, we wrapped up small group and I was left with a kitchen full of dirty dishes, a pain in my side from laughing hysterically, a smaller bank account, a full stomach, and the desire to do it all over again – but not for a few more weeks.