Yes. How many times do I have to tell you people that we are destined to meet and become instantaneous friends and collaborators? It’s going to happen. If only in my imaginary dinner party, it’s going to happen. Ok. I'll cease the Dave talk. For a while. Until my next blog. Because I love him. So awesome. How have you not read his collected works yet? Come on friends, hop on the train; it's a fun ride.
Ah, my musical love. No osso bucco for you, Mandy. Your job here is to sing and sing good! “In Lily’s Eyes” one more time please. Dave will fill in for Robert Westenberg on the harmonies. Just ignore him if he slips into his Billie Holliday impression. It’s part of his charm; go with it. I guess I can be nice and let him eat while I’m making Sedaris read my manuscript (which I would have written by the time this imaginary party rolls around), but I’ll be expecting appearances from both Inigo Montoya and that delusional kid he played in Yentl who actually believed Barbra Streisand was a dude. I lurv Yiddish. And mustaches. And Broadway. So there’s no way he can fail me.
Presley, not Costello. Hunka-hunka-burnin-love-me-tender Elvis. Ahhh. But I’m not saying just any Elvis. This is a special occasion, damn it and I’m getting my favorite: the ’68 Special Leather Clad Edition. [insert swoon] He’s just too handsome. Too too handsome. And sultry. And nummy. And wonderful. And suave. [insert swoon again] All throughout my trek of Graceland, I just kept muttering, “It’s not fair. It’s not fair.” Adrienne would ask what wasn’t fair, and the answer of course was that I didn’t get to live in a world with a leather-clad Elvis. Well screw you, space and time restrictions. Elvis is coming to my house.
Ann Coulter. Just imagine what I could slip into her drink. Oh the damage that could be done. I could feed her hallucinogen after hallucinogen until she believes she’s a staunch liberal with no desire to ever write an effing book or go on Larry King ever again. It’d be amazing.
Katherine Hepburn. I pride myself on my Katharine Hepburn impression and I think with her in the room I could really perfect that twanged warble she’s got goin on (or more appropriately, *had* going on). Oh, and I love her. Move aside Winona Ryder, KH is the real Jo March. And she never got arrested for shoplifting. Booyah.