In the 1970s and ’80s, I had a friend named Ken—a rabid Republican and a bank VP. His politics tested my nerves, but beyond that, he was a good and decent man. We could spar, call a truce, and move on. And, like me, he was gay. Our tribe, during those times, needed to hold together.
One afternoon, Ken invited me to a Young Republicans (YRs) party in Hancock Park, that manicured enclave of Los Angeles where the lawns seem to whisper “old money.” He worked for Bank of America, and the bank had given him the tickets. Back then, I’d go to any party held in a beautiful house with free drinks and hors d’oeuvres. (I was an equal-opportunity guest.)
The moment we stepped into the grand foyer, it was clear there were lines drawn between the card-carrying YRs and their unwashed, ticketed guests. We were handed a thimble of sherry and two table water crackers topped with a wipe pâté. (I know sherry—and that wretched non-vintage, even at the high end, cost about two dollars a gallon. The pâté tasted like Friskies cat food smells.) Across the room, the YRs sipped Scotch from crystal tumblers and flaunted caviar on pumpernickel toast.
After fifteen minutes of painful endurance, I picked up a phone to call a cab. Before I could finish dialing, a young man approached—he was what I can only assume was a member of the YRs protocol police.
“What are you doing?” he asked. Condescendingly.
“Calling a cab,” I said.
“You may use a phone in the kitchen,” he replied, gesturing down a long hall.
I’ve never attended another Republican gathering. And I’m reminded why every time I buy a fine bottle of Sherry, a box of Carr’s Table Water Crackers, or a tin of Petrossian or Imperia caviar—the tastes of exclusion, perfectly preserved.
