George and Lucy are social climbers and have figured out that they can reach the top of San Francisco’s social stratum by attending at least one black-tie charity gala every month. The cause doesn’t really matter that much; it’s the exposure that counts. And so they go to fundraisers for: Save the Endangered Three-Eyed Toad, In Support of Clean Air: Eliminating Air Fresheners, Help Cut Out Cuticles, and Beautify Turk Street.
They manage to get on the list that mysteriously makes its way to every nonprofit in the city. The invitation arrives. The more ambitious the event, the heavier the envelope, and the more skilled the calligraphy. And there’s usually a little personal note from a friend: “Hope you can join us. Otherwise, I won’t come to the gala you’re working on.” George and Lucy are invited to participate at different levels. The levels vary in cost and have different names: patron, sponsor, platinum circle, gold rectangle, silver dodecahedron. George thinks the labels are much too genteel. The top contributors should be called Heavy Hitters and those who buy the cheapest tickets should be in a category called Better Than Nothing.
Figuring out at what level they should participate is a delicate subject. People always scan the program to see who is listed in each category. The higher you are in the program, the higher your social standing. George and Lucy aren’t exactly in the same class as the Gettys or Dede Wilsey or Jeannik Littlefield (who gave $35 million to the Opera) or the Gunns ($40 million, also to the Opera). At the same time, they realize that if they give the minimum, they might be served only Diet Coke during the cocktail hour, and for dinner will be seated at a table near the swinging doors of the kitchen. And they won’t be invited to the upcoming benefit for a museum to display 100-year-old San Francisco sewer pipes. They usually shoot for $1,000 a ticket—not flamboyant but enough to gain nods of approval.
Lucy goes to the gym three times a week in order to develop the stamina required by these major social events. First, she has to get back down to a size 4. Then she has to buy a gown (which she might wear a second time in 2013, but only if there’s a recession; otherwise, it gets locked away for fifty years at which time her grandchildren can wear it as vintage), a major undertaking. Does she get something with cleavage? Something with a train? Go with an international designer, such as Oscar de la Renta, or someone local, such as Lili Sami or Colleen Quen? What type of gown is likely to land her photo in the Style section of the Chron or the first five pages of the NHG? If the gown drags along the floor, how will she show off her sexy Manolo sandals? Decisions, decisions.
Lucy makes an appointment for makeup at Saks and calls her hair stylist. She also signs up for a pedicure/manicure and two-hour spa session. And she checks out CNN and Bloomberg so she won’t come across as a dummy during the stand-around-holding-a-glass-of-wine-and-babble session prior to the dinner.
George has no such problems. He simply checks the collar on his tux shirt, and he’s ready to go. He realizes this is all about the women. The men stand around, convenient timber to lean upon. The women swish around the room, practically screaming to be noticed. They compliment each other on their gowns while secretly harboring contrary opinions. The men try to find someone with whom to discuss Tiger Woods’s meltdown at the British Open.
George muses about ways the men can grab some attention. There are, of course, the iconoclasts who wear tuxedos with white tennis shoes and a black t-shirt. These guys are as exhibitionistic as the men and women who show up at the opera wearing jeans. George is not that type. He’s not about to wear a kilt to a black-tie event or a bowtie with flashing lights. Still, he wishes the men at these affairs were not prisoners of black tuxedos and white shirts. Wouldn’t it be nice if men had some choices—maybe a brown tweed or gray flannel tuxedo, a throwback ruffled shirt, two-tone shoes, a diamond stud in one ear. It’s not going to happen. The most George could do would be a colorful vest with matching bowtie. But it’s more likely he will remain a penguin, and nothing more than Lucy’s accessory.
One source of amusement at virtually every charity gala is the auction, silent and live. The live auction often features unusual items: a chance to stand next to Warren Buffet on a BART train, a trip to a wax museum in Prague, a tour of mansions in Mogadishu with first class airfare on Air Somalia, a cocktail party for forty-two on a Hornblower yacht in dry dock, a case of empty wine bottles once owned by Thomas Jefferson. The silent auction has more variety but lacks the same sex appeal: a photo shoot with a local photographer (you get a 4” x 6” for nothing; an 8” x 10” will run you $650), a tea cosy crocheted by an inmate at San Quentin, an overnight stay near the factory outlets in Gilroy, two tacos and an order of carne asada from a curbside truck, an invitation to watch Seinfeld reruns at a home in Oregon. The unfortunate thing is that you can never get a bargain at these auctions. There is always some joker who will bid $780 for a dinner for two at a small Thai restaurant in the Mission or $1,000 for a painted stool by Mrs. Smith’s fifth graders.
Dinner at the galas is predictable: salmon or filet mignon and for dessert, a chocolate concoction with a raspberry drizzle on top. But there is an element of suspense at the dinner table. George and Lucy never know who will be sitting next to them. Last time Lucy sat next to an old geezer who was hard of hearing and put his hand on her knee. The opera gala is coming up and maybe this time they will get lucky. Maybe they will be seated at the same table with David Gockley, the General Director of the SF Opera, or Diane Rubin, President of the Opera Guild, who will say nice things about Lucy’s gown.
At several charity galas, a few people spoke not only to his wife but also to Asher Rubin.Usually, however, he’s an ornament. Sometimes, instead of attending, he just sends over his tux.
