As it turns out, I failed to have the courage (or the decollete) required for the tiara the other night, which is just as well, as the band that the munificent donors arranged was. . . wait for it. . . . a three piece tuba/trombone/banjo gang. Who could be pompous with a tuba boombling beside the seafood salad? Who could be haughty with a tuba plokking away merilly behind the fajitas station? I tried to get them to play "Smoke on the Water," but none of the old boys knew what that was, so they stuck with the tried and true: "I Shot the Sheriff," "Buffalo Gals," and "Take Me Out to the Ball Game." I propped myself in the corner with a large bottle of champagne and flirted with the bald trombone player, who was 99 if he was a day. "Sexy tunes," as Eddie Izzard would say, are in the ear of the behearer.
The only thing that could make it better: set it all on fire.
Some people are simply better than other people.
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