A Place at the Table

"Cup of chowder, corn, cake, or creamed cauliflower cause I'm waiting for the dinner bell to do the bell thing " They Might Be Giants from "Dinner Bell"

The pills have taken effect easing my mind through a colorful dreamscape of random images. Sounds are muffled as if my ear canal has been packed with cotton candy. I can barely make out the sound of the nurse talking to someone in the sanitary hallway. She's yammering on about a dinner party or an orgy, I can't make a distinction. But it gets me thinking about who I would like to share a meal with and what they would bring to the table.

First off, someone would have to brings meds. An assortment of uppers and downer, lefters and righters. Hallucinogens and Zombie Makers. Peyote, Mescaline, and Absinthe. Wacky Tobaccy, Peruvian Marching Pouwder, and The Dragon. Opium, Lithium, and other joys that end with um. Beer, booze, Moonshine, and the finest mixers that money could buy. Just as important as the substances would be the persons ability to entertain and wax poetic while in a murky state. Only one man capable of this Herculean feat. Hunter S. Thompson. Dead or alive, he's the right man for the job.

We would need someone capable of telling sordid tales like Dr. Suess with tourettes. Someone with a rich and tumultuous life from which to draw the proverbial bong water. At first I imagined this guest to be a wonderfully corrupt politico like Huey Long, but as I continued to channel surf through my cranial matter it occurred to me that a Star Bellied Sneech was needed. Someone everyman enough to fit in, but a star brighter than Alpha Centauri. A few names swirl over my head like neon signs in a bad film noir. Nicholson, Fonda, Hopper, Pacino, DeNiro, but none of them would bring as much class as Francis Albert Sinatra. Two seats were now filled.
With meds and chit chat covered my brain drifted to the music. Though Sinatra would be there and at the ready, he would have enough on his plate. Can't invite Keith Richards, cause the meds would have to feed the whole group. Lennon would be hip, but Yoko would bring the room down. McCartney couldn't afford the air fare after giving up an arm and a leg to Heather, I heard that her media whore lawyer, Gloria Allred, got the arm, but I bet Heather keeps the leg. Brian Wilson wouldn't leave his house, so the spot goes to Bobby Dylan. It'll be fun to watch him try and eat around that harmonica holder anyway.

Lastly, me and guys need some cavity causing eye candy. In order to make Frank comfortable we opt to deny anyone he ever had the pleasure of. This leaves us with a incredibly shallow jury pool. Charlie Sheen calls with a few options, but nobdy wants to pay that much for ass, we thank him and pass the numbers on to Eliot Spitzer. Keira is too skinny. Even Hunter thinks Anna Nicole is too crazy. Jolie would try to adopt Dylan cause he talks like he's from a third world country. Then the bell rings, debate over. Scarlett is on the guest list.

The table is set. Bring on the meds.

Who would you have at your dinner party? Why? Dead or alive, doesn't matter.

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