Partying to Death

A night of revelry with the golden generation

Photo by author.

Last night I partied with my mother and her friends in the mountains. If it sounds lame, that’s because it is. And I don’t mean that in a bad way. My mother’s a great lady; huge heart, quick as a whip and funny too, but she’s not my best friend.

However I knew seeing my mother drink and sing happily would make me laugh and give me a reason to drink too, and forget about the world for a second. Now and then we all need that; letting loose is important. So when my mother asked me to come to a singing party with her, I said yes.

The singing night had honorable intentions; it was to give a dying man some life before his last breath. Death’s not merry, it’s not like singing. But at the end of the day, we’re all dying. “Some sooner than others”, is what I shouldn’t say.

When we arrived at the party that evening, we were given a glass of champagne and handed lyrics to sing along to printed words of good times, popsicles, and dreams with an Italian band of two men performing for us.

They were young, dressed in black, with too much hair coming out of their open shirts. The older women enjoyed watching them- their men less. Most gentlemen had checkered shirts tucked in large cashmere sweaters, the women were elegantly pieced together and carried…