The Mad Hatter

A friend of ours, Bob, is a pristine snob. He has lived by himself, happily, all his adult life. Rich, and came from money so he is extra rich. Bob, the Mad Hatter, is eccentric to the ump-teenth degree.

We went to dinner at the, Off Vine Restaurant. Nice place and on Mondays it's half off. Bob said to meet him at seven, he was going to park earlier, go over to the Spot Light, the last gay hustler bar in Hollywood proper and chat up the bartenders. Bob, you see has never worked a day in his life. However inconvenient it is for you is of no consequence. He said he would make reservations and was thinking of asking someone else. He feels it is necessary to take us to dinner after so many home cook meals at our house. I don't have a tally but whatever.

"Please don't wear your hats," was the rich boy's wail.

"Okay,' I said and completely ignored what it was he said. You see, he always tells me that. One time I said I had company, he calls the day of for these events and he said, "Bring them along, but please don't wear your hat."

I had everyone in the group with a hat on and told them if they wanted a ride back to the valley, thirty miles away, they damn well better have the hat on throughout the evening. They did. I thought it would solve the problem with the hat thing, with the fucking Mad Hatter. But it didn't.

No, at today's invitation to dinner, I was to not wear my hat. Ignored but the Mad Hatter didn't make reservations. I went there, they had no reservation under his name and the poor host was doing his best for us. We live over thirty miles away and have to drive into the city at rush hour. We left early and it was freaky, there was no traffic in either direction. We got there super early. And no reservation under the Mad Hatter's name.

Wally and I are a table for four in the center of the room sipping wine and ice tea, looking forlorn and bored. At seven the Mad Hatter appears.

"Bob, you said you were going to make reservations."

"Oh yeah but you don't really need them here," he said staring at my hat, a lovely cap made in Ireland and not cheap.

"Okay, well it all worked out. How have you been?"

"Jus' a sec. I gotta talk to this guy over here, he has a fabulous body and I've seen him at Gold's gym."

The Mad Hatter leaves and Chuck is there to entertain us after the Mad Hatter jumped on the table and walked over to Mr. Buff for a chat.

The wine was good, a Merlot from Rutherford Ranch. The duck sausage--dry. Other than that, the food wasn't bad, slow in arriving but not bad. Valet parking by a Pakistani Muslim that if you don't want him to throw a Pakistani curse on you is ten dollars.