We don't get to what used to be called cocktail parties much anymore. The nearest equivalent is some themed get together, like Super Bowl, birthday, etc. Well last night we showed up at the host of the first hot shit party we've been invited to in years, a valet parked the car, there was a trio playing jazz standards in the corner of the great room and there were maybe 20 to 30 adults mingling around with a drink in hand. My sweetie excused herself to greet the friend who invited us and I wandered among the crowd nodding a Hi when eye contacts were made and this guy walks right up to me and says "Is that redhead wearing a bra?" I shot back "Probably, unless it has a built-in breastplate". I reverted to cocktail party mode from the 70s, knowing to be quick with the small talk and to let no subject flummox you. "Bill Stephens . . " he intr'd. "Flash Gordon" I replied with a smile, "Dave , " and no last name to quell any wiseass possibility. I should have seen that Bill Stephens was going to be like a guy who farts alot and always right near you. In less than a minute, he asked me what I knew about creosote. Fucking creosote. The guy sold creosote and lectured on it like I was even remotely interested "Ever try chaparral?" Bill yammered on. "It's from the creosote bush and . . ." Mercifully, my sweetie rescued me by interrupting Mr. Chimney Fire and I pledged to myself right there to 1) never complain about no one ever throwing a good old fashioned party anymore and 2) if invited to one, send regrets.