At least that's what I expected when I agreed to bring Big Chris to a cocktail party at Gump's, the very cocktail parties Brock and I attend to feel special and fancy for 20 minutes a week.
"How come you never take me to your high class parties anymore?" Chris asked over a PBR at Dirty Thieves.
"Because you're socially awkward and refuse to pose for pictures."
"I'm incredibly debonair." He replied. "And I will pose for fo-toes."
"Well, you could come with me to a party at Gump's." I offered.
"Wonderful. Please email me the information and I will be there."
We discussed what Chris might wear to this soiree and agreed on "big boy shoes" and something Jude Law-esque. As we walked home, Chris announced. "I don't see what the big deal is about some touristy seafood place at the Wharf."
No Chris. Not Bubba Gump's.
I informed Brock that Big Chris would be joining us last night. "No!" Brock gasped, thrilled. "Really? Oh, this is going to be wonderful."
We thought that our including goofy and blunt Big Chris in a high-end gay decorator event would be wonderful because Chris would entertain us with the perspective of someone who spends thousands of dollars annually on Nike Air Jordans. We were practically philanthropists, reaching out into the community, plucking a little inner city child from his crime-ridden basketball court and showing him a Renoir.
And really, some of those cocktail party attendees need a little Big Chris in their life.
We met at Otis first, enjoying cocktails and admiring Chris "fitted" jeans which were apparently killing his sperm as we spoke. I told Chris he should tuck in his shirt, Brock just about had a heart attack at the notion and we were off.
Chris does not really chat with strangers. Standing near a $24,000 coffee table, we struck up a conversation with a woman who seemed to be friends with incredibly important people, or so she claimed. Chris smiled and nodded along until I asked the woman where she lived.
"Here. In San Francisco. I have a Loftiminium."
From under his breath, I heard, "You've got to be fucking shitting me."
Brock and I headed towards the fancy lotion section and systematically covered ourselves in something called, "Opulence."
"WHAT IS THAT SMELL?" Chris arrived to find us smelling our hands. "You smell like a rich old lady."
"We do?!?!?!" I mean, honestly. That's the whole point of Gump's!
I confessed that my hands were starting to burn from too much opulence. Chris couldn't drink any more white wine and Brock can only stand still for 15 minutes at a time.
It turns out, Chris spent far more time making fun of us than the homosexual, overpriced splendor we'd provided. People carried actual dogs, candles cost $80 and like, seven men wore ascots, but Brock and I were the butt of every joke, the origin of every eyeroll.
It drove me fucking nuts until I realized that my creepy, sad, psychotic dream had come true. Chris was making fun of us like we make fun of socialites.
Brock baby, we've made it!
This photo was taken by Stacy Alo Cahill, of Drew Altizer who went to high school with my brother. As happens at these high society functions, after your photo is taken, the camera is then held to your face so you can scream your name into a little recorder for the editors of 7x7, San Francisco Magazine, etc. Stacy held her camera to Chris first, who stared at it, then at her. Confused, Chris thought Stacy was showing him the digital image. He kept saying, "Yeah. That's great. Uh-huh. Real cute..."