Keep the mushrooms from Cheney

Darlings!

So sorry I haven’t written, but I’ve been away. Galahad, my webmaster (who loves to be called “master” and you know I don’t mind calling him that) is quite upset with me about it, and wants you all to know about something called an RSS feed. I’ve no idea what it is-- Galahad was holding a ball gag at the time, so I was sure an “RSS feed” was something very different-- but he insists it’s a thing you can all use to keep updated with the Maven in case I’m away for longer than expected.

I was at a party, if you must know, and things got complicated enough that I had to go through something perfectly dreadful called a “debriefing”. If you are imagining Galahad’s ball gag right now when you see the word “debriefing” I don’t blame you, but it is not nearly that much fun.

Michael and Catherine-- who are friends but not dear friends-- threw this little shindig to celebrate Michael’s latest face lift. (His last job left him looking perpetually horrified, which I’m afraid limited his cinematic roles. Now he looks both rumpled and stuck in a wind tunnel, which you’d think would be incompatible until you see it.) It was at this little place Michael owns beside a ski resort out in Colorado, and it would be simply divine if all the walls weren’t made of glass, which is just a touch too exhibitionistic for me, darlings. Not to mention dangerous; Catherine cannot stand a window that is anything less than perfectly transparent, and keeps a full-time staff of window cleaners armed with tubs of windex and cloth baby diapers. Most of us spent the week caroming off the walls like sparrows with inner ear problems.

Despite that, it was a grand time. Michael, as I’m sure you must know, is heavily into exotic hallucinogens, and he had a magical variety. There was a species of Scandinavian mushroom that you simply have to try someday. They produced a thoroughly out-of-body psychosis that lasted for several days. I apparently decided I was a Polish dentist named Urgle, and I distinctly recall discussing molars for over an hour with someone who was either Linda Hamilton or Christian Slater. The mushrooms were very good is my point, darlings.

So when I ran into Dick Cheney up there, I wasn’t entirely sure it was him until much later, when several severe-looking gentlemen sat me down and told me that it absolutely positively was not.

If that makes no sense, darlings, I apologize, but I’m still a touch addled by the entire experience. I had to sign a lot of documents testifying to the non-presence of the Vice President, which really wasn’t necessary. I thought for most of the week that it was Mary Cheney, who looks just like her father in drag. And he didn’t exactly produce any state secrets, so far as I could recall. All he did was mutter “I like Dick” over and over, and truth be told, we all thought he was referring to himself in a sort of narcissistic, vaguely masturbatory fashion. In one brief period of lucidity he did declare, somewhat loudly, that traditional family values were “for pussies”, but most of us just ignored him.

I think Michael and Catherine were embarrassed by the whole thing, especially when all of us had to sign those disclaimers. (Barbra refused, so don’t be surprised if you don’t see her around for a bit. They seemed quite unhappy with her.) Catherine confided in me that the Vice President keeps a private Undisclosed Location nearby, and frequently pops in unannounced. “Sometimes, he’s not even dressed,” she said, blushing violently. I wanted to tell her that this is what happens when you have windows for walls, but it just didn’t seem like the time.

Anyhoo, darlings, it’s impossible to say what the Vice President was really like (or as my lawyer Estragon keeps reminding me to say, what the Vice President might have been like had he actually been there) because he was out of his mind for most of the party. As was I. And on that, I really must rest. I have a peeling in an hour, and I need my rest.

Until next time, darlings.