Parties are expensive. They take time. They take extensive preparation. They take going to Sam’s Wholesale Club and buying those little quiches. But New Yorkers have found a way to circumvent all that: have someone throw a party for you. Really, it’s much more civilized.
Just last month I was invited to a party for Walter Cronkite. Now he and I go way back. Mr. Cronkite doesn’t know that, of course, but I remember him from when I was just a mere tot staring gap-mouthed at the evening news.
Mr. Cronkite is old. He was old when I was a tot. He’s even older now. Which brings me to the easiest way to have someone throw a party for you: get older. Another way is to die, but that is somewhat less pleasant. Now, this Cronkite party wasn’t just some sort of cheese and cracker event. No, no. It was in the Grand Ballroom of the Waldorf-Astoria, which is the legendary New York hotel that all the presidents use, though Lord only knows the horrors that the Presidential suite has gone through lately.
The Waldorf’s ballroom was lit by dozens of candelabrum. Huge tables of appetizers were served. They had peeled shrimp, vegetables, fruit, cookies, and an open bar. They even had little quiches, but they weren’t as good as the ones from Sam’s.
About 300 people were there, and some looked like they may have been life-long friends of the guest of honor because they were about 150 years older than everybody else in the room. I felt mighty privileged to be there because 1.) famous people are fun to look at, and 2.) I didn’t have to pay $500 to get in.
Did I mention that these parties aren’t free? Oh sure, the guest of honor probably gets by for nothing, but the rest of his poor friends have to shell out lots of money. Actually, that’s not true. I forgot to mention the easiest way to have a party thrown for you: be famous.
Being famous, you behave in ways that normal people would find ghastly and rude. For example, you can invite lots of people you don’t know to a party and then ask them to pay for it. Genius, no? Even better, if you’re famous, chances are your friends are famous and they get to come for free, too. That way, nobody but the poor unknown schlubs have to pay out $500. And they’re happy to do it because they get to be around famous people!
It should come as no surprise that Andy Rooney, Connie Chung and her Maury, Dan Rather, Skitch Henderson, and Mary Tyler Moore were there. And although I didn’t go right up and ask them, I’ve no doubt they, too, had an express ticket on the gravy train. But that didn’t stop the old celebrities from having a good time. Andy Rooney wedged himself between two fat ladies and the crudités. He was wearing his tuxedo and black tennis shoes and, no doubt, whining, which is standard Rooney behavior.
About the time dinner was to start, I figured I should go talk to Mr. Cronkite. I’ll admit it, I was a little nervous. After all, Walter Cronkite was the voice of the nation and said “and that’s the way it is” in the same tone my father used to say “because I said so.”
“Mr. Cronkite, I’m Morgan Murphy” I said, reaching to shake his hand.
“Well, my goodness, it’s nice to meet you,” he said, “call me Walt.”
“Thank you,” I beamed, and subsequently told him that I was myself, in fact, a journalist. We spent the next five minutes discussing modern journalism, politics, economics, et cetera. The whole time he kept looking me right in the eye while shaking my hand.
Walter and I had a bonding moment! “Wait until I tell my family,” I said to another guest at the event, “that I talked to Walter Cronkite!” Empowered, I swaggered over to Andy Rooney and grabbed a celery stick, “How you doin’ Rooney?” I said. “Beat it,” he said. But was I upset? No way. I had just gotten to be on a first name basis with Walter that’s-the-way-it-is Cronkite. Rooney was just a fat-lady magnet.
We sat down for the dinner and listened to a lot of speakers. (When you’re a celebrity and you want to have a party for yourself, you simply think up some charity to endorse and then it doesn’t look so bad when you ask for money to pay for those little quiches).
Then Andy Rooney stood up.
He did a “roast” of my friend Walter, “You know what really irritates me about Walter Cronkite?” he started. “He’s deaf as a post. Can’t hear a thing. Isn’t that right Walter!”
To my horror, Walter nodded.
Andy went on, “But the really funny thing to watch is seeing Walter meet someone new.” I sunk further down into my seat, “When he can’t hear he just smiles a lot, shakes your hand and tells you to call him Walt.”
I was going to be depressed about it. After all, if everybody Walter can’t hear calls him Walt, well, that’s a lot of people. But then it occurred to me, I did shake his hand and eat a free meal at his party. And I’m not the kind of guy to let a little deafness come between friends.
So on the way out, I said: “BYE, BYE WALT! GREAT PARTY!”