Alan Greenspan died Monday. The longtime Fed chairman was once hailed as the most powerful man in the world. Greenspan was 100 years old.
Back to me: A couple of cool, smart, and nice D.C. friends of mine wrote a book that came out in the summer of 2009, and other cool, smart, and nice D.C. friends threw them a party. Some of the most powerful people in the city, meaning some of the most powerful people in the world, were invited. They also put me on the guest list. The invite said the party would tip off at 6:30 p.m., but I found no dress code, and I'm thinking the hosts know what they're gonna get couture-wise from McKenna, so as usual I just take whatever's risen to the top of the pile in the walk-on closet in my bedroom and throw it on.
I show up an hour late at a beautiful house in the tony Kalorama neighborhood, and when I walk inside I hear all the noise coming from the backyard, which has an entrance to the side of the front door, and I look out the windows and see everybody looking fancy as hell and face the fact I fucked up, fashion-wise. Plus it's D.C. hot outside, and my car air conditioning had been broken for years, so I’m sweating like Marion Barry and the AC inside the house feels real boss. So instead of immediately going out back, I keep walking past that backyard entrance and toward the kitchen to see if there's anybody lagging in the house who I can bother while I decompress and let my pores close, but I quickly determine that everybody's outside and I better join the party before I'm caught wandering the halls.
I turn around to head toward the backyard entrance. And as soon as I do my turn, who walks in the front door but Alan Greenspan, all by himself. So we're suddenly face to face, maybe five feet apart, in the front hallway. And when our eyes meet, he starts giving me a slow once-over, worthy of a movie scene, checking me out from top to bottom, from my damp-with-sweat mangy hair to my off-the-clearance rack short-sleeve plaid shirt to my khaki cargo shorts to my over-worn sneakers. Then, as soon Greenspan's gaze gets back to eye level, as quick as a guy in his 80s can do a 180, he turns and walks back out the front door, and while leaving the door open, leans to the side and checks the address on the front of the house against the address on the party invite he'd removed from an inner pocket of his designer jacket. His body language and facial expression scream: I CAN'T POSSIBLY BE INVITED TO THE SAME PARTY AS THIS FAT RATTY-ASS SWEATY UNKEMPT MOTHERFUCKER!
So I scream at him, "MOTHERFUCKER, YOU CAUSED THE GLOBAL FINANCIAL CRISIS, SO IT'S YOUR FAULT I'M A FAT RATTY-ASS SWEATY UNKEMPT MOTHERFUCKER!"
OK. I didn't scream that, or even say anything to Greenspan. For one thing, I dressed exactly the same way while the global economy boomed. And besides, life is for the retelling, so even as he gave me the once-over, I was already thinking how long I'm going to be feasting on this incident.
I went straight from my summit with Greenspan to the backyard, and told the hosts and other friends and probably everybody else at the book party, except his wife who was also there, that I just got dissed by the former most powerful man in the world and I felt fine! Hell, I should write a book just with that one story in it! And throw a book party! With a dress code!
RIP, Alan Greenspan.
