Takeaway from the halls of power

We were very grateful to be invited to a fundraising event celebrating a local institution and honoring an acclaimed author.

There was a reception that took place in the pleasant outdoor garden area surrounding the institution's building, and then the party moved next door for dinner and presentations in the dining room of a powerful and venerable Los Angeles private social club.

We walked from the green, leafy park down the sidewalk, across the street, and up the steps into the hushed entry corridor of the club. Our wristbands were checked at the doors - the honoree was a controversial figure requiring stepped up security. We filed through pale green corridors lined on either side with framed California Impressionist paintings and old-fashioned upholstered divans and chairs. To one side, a door opened onto a dark and dignified bar-room.

Ahead of us, a vast, wood-paneled dining room buzzed with voices. Beneath an ornate coffered ceiling, some 30 or more tables of 10 guests each dressed in "cocktail attire" assembled.

The purpose of this gathering was to celebrate two important concepts - One, the work of dedicated citizens who strive to keep Los Angeles' public library accessible to all its citizens, and Two, the creativity of an author who - like all important artists - write from the heart, no matter who takes offense, even when that puts the author in danger.

Even so, it was odd to me to be celebrating these two important concepts - providing universal access to knowledge, and defying censorship - in a setting that symbolizes the power of oligarchy. This vast dining room, this graceful, Italian Renaissance revival building, had barred minorities and women from membership for over 60 years. Yet here we were, honoring a man of letters who was also a man of color, and a woman who had lead the Foundation's efforts.

The food was good - surprising for an event this size. The speeches were brief and even - in some cases - inspiring.

At the end of the evening, a young staffer asked me if I'd like to take home the centerpiece - a wide bowl of bright roses, dahlias and orchids. I usually think it's tacky to take centerpieces home - but, hey they offered it to me! So I said Yes, obligating poor [The Man I Love] to the task of lugging the giant, cannonball sized thing out to the valet stand.

And then we experienced a typical LA happening - waiting for the car. The guests, powerful and mighty or insignificant hangers-on all, clustered on the dark sidewalk, waiting for the valet team to bring their cars. I set my bowl of flowers down on the concrete stairs and sat down beside it to wait. Around me, other women in their teetering stiletto heels lowered their bright, weighty bowls to the ground and watched the BMWs, the Priuses, the Lexus sedans glide up to the curb. We talked again, with a sense of bonhomie warmer than the polite stiltedness of the cocktail reception, hours past. The crowd of glittery and suited guests was randomly bisected by passersby, more casually dressed. Even a panhandler wandered briefly, greeting us "How ya doin'?" until he was shooed away by security. 

Eventually our little Honda slid up to the curb. I lowered the sloshing bowl into the passenger side footwell for the freeway ride home. Its bright flowers will grace the kitchen for a brief time before fading.