The world has a handful of truly great cities - Riyadh, Monaco, Dallas - and this weekend highlights why Dallas is so often called the crown brooch in Lady Liberty's blouse.
I can't stop thinking about Saturday. I can't focus on my 20 hour work week, my short game, anything. Since Monday, I've barely created any synergy at work and I usually create SHITLOADS. I don't have to tell you why. It's on everyone's lips. No, not Carmex. Ha ha ha ha! Ha ha ha ha!
It's about pageantry. Energy. Rivalry. History. Tradition. Tension. The roar of the crowd. A clash of Great Powers before a sea of adoring fans. The potential for violence. Women in Jimmy Choos scratching out each others eyes to be appointed Golf Tournament social chair...
Yes, it's time for the Dallas Cotillion Charity Auction & Raffle!
Last year, we raised money for some of the most upper middle class areas of the Metroplex - Plano, Frisco, Coppell. With our help, several families held on to their 4500 square foot Mediterranean Southern Art Deco Revival home after going underwater on zero down all interest loans. Skanks, some of these families makes less than 160K a year! How are you supposed to buy a surrogate to bear your children, keep your kids out of public schools, pay for cryogenic freezing after your death, secure a Honduran domestic? Aren't these basic human rights?
My exploits at the Cotillion are legendary. I don't have to tell you. You probaly knew that. The things I do are classic. CLASSIC!
Two years ago, they have a raffle for a Lexus GS350. Loaded. Ha ha ha ha! Ha ha ha ha! Whatever. What does that even mean? Big deal, right? Who wants to drive that piece of shit? Anyhoo, Brooke hands me her ticket while she goes to the bathroom to purge (I'd caught her eating some garnish and had fixed her with a withering stare) and I'm left standing there holding a ticket like I'm some senior quality manager at a telecom. Like someone who vacations in Cancun. Well, wouldn't you know? They call out the numbers 5-8-3-2-7. Unbelievable! Now, my ticket actually says 5-3-3-2-1, but I make the first 3 a 8 and then I make the 1 into a 7. Just like I used to do with Dad's Isle of Man credit authorization codes.
Why would a Cooper commit fraud? First, because he can. Father alway said, "Clipper, RULERS don't follow RULES or else they'd be RULED." I don't think Aristotle could refute that logic. Second, I had thrown back 14 G&Ts in the space of one hour. Third, I wanted to teach society an important lesson. So I run up on the stage while some happy fat lady with the winning ticket dressed like a Homecoming Float is trying to stand up without triggering her diabetes. I'm handed the keys.
I take the keys and walk around the car, admiring it, while the crowd cheers wildly. I look over and see that some of my friends are gasping in disbelief. Did I actually enter the raffle? How common. I smile and place the ignition key against the car and slowly walk around, etching a deep scratch the whole way. The crowd goes quiet but I can hear my friends cheering wildly. "Oh my God, you've outdone yourself this time, Cooper!" and "This is better than the time we blackballed that Jew!" and "Let's go clamming in the Hamptons!"
Last year, they had a Bachelor Auction. Brooke freaks out when I enter. Winner gets to spend a night out on the town with the Clipper. Brooke vows that no other women will have me. Whatever. Anyhoo, I walk out - a sweater tied around my shoulders wearing white gabardine pants and holding a sifter of brandy - and the Cotillion goes wild. Skanks are shouting out bids left and right because I'm a Cooper, I'm almost impossibly handsome (seriously - there is a PHD candidate at M.I.T trying to prove that I cannot exist), and my buttocks are supple from sculling and diuretics. Finally, when the bidding reaches some enormous sum, I see Brooke standing there near triumphant. She has done it! She is so happy. So full of life. Glowing. Going once...going twice...I raise my hand upwards, my index finger extended, and the auctioneer stops as any man would do when confronted with my natural leadership. I pull out my checkbook, write a check for one dollar more than Brooke's bid, and walk off of the stage.
I had bought myself.
I ate alone that night at an exclusive Filipino-French fusion brasserie in Highland Park (L' Petomane Du Manila) and refused all of Brooke's urgent texts.
The lesson was clear: no one may ever own a Cooper. Not even the Trilateral Commission.
And no filthy Sooner will ever own Texas.
Obviously, I'm going to the game Saturday afternoon before the Cotillion. Yes, I know the game starts at 11:00. That's an absurd kickoff time, one I can't take seriously. It's like the Barney Frank of kickoff times. I'll be just waking up then. I need time to have cocktails, exfoliate, have USA Today read to me. I'll make it to the stadium by halftime, see if we're winning, and then stick around if we are. If we're not, I will fax Sally Brown a reprimand, get in 18 holes, get ready for Cotillion. Pretty much the same gameplan that most of you probably have.
See you in Big D.
For more of the Clipper Chronicles: