- GUEST OPINION: The Will for Moose-Wilson
- FEATURE: Letters to the Future
- THE BUZZ: Moose-Wilson Road Hogs
- THEM ON US
- GET OUT: Silencing the Storm
- MUSIC BOX: Resorts Represent, Afroman Returns
- CREATIVE PEAKS: The War on Wild
- WELL, THAT HAPPENED: Murders Up North, There
- WELL, THAT HAPPENED: Six Shooters and Ten Pins
- THE FOODIE FILES: The Bad News About Bacon
REDNECK PERSPECTIVE: Oysters on the great room
JACKSON HOLE, WYO – Blythe Winters-Paulson, vice president of ethics with Goldman Sachs, for whom I serve as a bit of a plaything, “Pepe le pew with a view” as she lovingly calls me, invited me to a dinner party at her Teton Pines house.
It was a gala affair. The Cheneys were there along with a sundry selection of dignitaries, politicians, financers and elite members of high social circles. As the only Hog Islander in attendance I felt called upon to uphold the reputation and honor of all who reside beyond the South Park Bridge.
I was on my fifth Jack Daniels with beer chaser when Susie, my Republican lover who works at the Juicery, walked in with her husband, Jameson Manchester III, on her arm.
“Clyde!” Susie exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
I started, but Susie answered her own question. “Oh you’re with Blythe I assume.”
Susie has never gotten used to Blythe’s obsession with me.
Manchester looked down his nose at me the way New Englanders do so well. I think he is aware of the lusty adventures Susie and I occasionally share and he is humiliated because his wife chose not a hedge fund manager, software billionaire, or even a yoga instructor, but a Hog Islander as her lover. The shame of it all.
“Good to see you Manchester,” I said loudly. “Let’s go to the living room. There’s a whole table filled with food!” I thought nourishment would activate his somewhat too refined (at least according to Susie) sex drive and thereby get Susie off my back so I could enjoy the free booze, food and later, a quiet moment (well actually not so quiet) with Blythe.
“Clyde!” Susie whispered. “In the Pines we don’t have living rooms. We have great rooms.” She sounded embarrassed and Manchester visibly sneered.
“A 10,000-square-foot house and no living room?” I was shocked.
“Not so loud,” Susie said uncomfortably. “Living rooms are passé in the Pines. We call them great rooms now,” she whispered.
“So I have to call the living room in my single-wide trailer a great room now?” I asked. What a pain.
“It’s only a great room if the house is worth over $3 million, has an arched ceiling, wet bar, Persian rugs and custom cabinetry,” Susie explained. “Otherwise it is merely, as you say, a living room, or at best a family room.”
Blythe walked up to us. “Is everyone having a good time?” she asked. “I’m sorry we have to jam all the hors d’oeuvres in the parlor, but we are in a real rustic Wyoming cabin, not my estate in the Caymans,” she smiled.
“You must be Susie’s husband Jameson,” she said to Manchester. “Please try these fresh oysters on the half shell.”
Susie looked thankfully at Blythe, her offering of aphrodisiac sustenance to her amorously challenged husband melting the chill between them.
I reached for an oyster but Blythe pulled them back. “Have some shrimp Clyde,” she said. She and Susie exchanged a glance and knowing smile. “I don’t think Hog Islanders need oysters.”