"It's My Party And I'll Dance If I Want To."---Lesley Gore & Bill Killeen
My curious wife asked me one day long ago if I'd ever had a birthday party. I don't remember any extravaganzas, but we did have cake and ice cream as small children and I have vague memories of blindly pinning the tail of a donkey on Mary Ann Hart's ample butt. I'm not the shy, retiring type but neither am I comfortable being the center of attention, so the lack of a large celebration was never an issue with me. Mind you, I'm perfectly happy going to someone else's birthday party, especially where champagne toasts and inappropriate gifts are involved, but when you're the star attraction dangerous things can crop up. I was told by an anonymous source that my old nemesis Gina Hawkins tried to get Anna Marie Kirkpatrick to slap me with a pie, but fortunately she demurred, one of the two dozen reasons I'm taken with Anna Marie.
Siobhan, alas, didn't feel she knew most of my friends, especially the Facebook version, so she enlisted the services of man-about-town David Hammer to send out the invites. There are reasonably dependable people and then there is David Hammer...if you give him a task, he will invariably accomplish it, which he did in this case. Sad to report, David is temporarily convalescing in a medical facility as a result of the Republicans salvaging Florida, an intolerable result. I'm trying to get him to take a shot at the Florida legislature, so if you see him, please shout "Run, David, Run!"
When it comes to celebrations, Siobhan has an actual Party Hall Of Fame member under her own Pathogenes, Inc. roof, that being the famous Laura Benedetti, otherwise known as The Panamanian Projectile. If your party is too genteel and you want to stir things up, call Laura on her emergency line...she'll have them up and dancing in minutes. Laura spent the entire day Monday decorating the One Love Cafe and making it otherwise suitable for invaders, dancing as she worked. Meanwhile, her quiet partner at Pathogenes, Julie Osborne took care of planning the menu. Astonished to discover pate de fois gras has been voted off the menu in many American cities, she quickly recovered with traditional fare.
On hand to help Laura and Julie out were my in-laws, Stuart and Mary Ellison, who made the plunge from Ann Arbor. Mary is a charming woman, but demands an elite level of workmanship from her providers. When she went to Walmart to pick up the giant cake, she was taken aback by Bill's green face swimming in the icing (I thought it fetching, myself). Mrs. Ellison demanded reparations so they gave her the cake. Now I feel guilty. Meanwhile, Stuart circulated through the party crowd taking brilliant photos of virtually everyone for Bill's Facebook explosion. Sadly, Mr. Hammer's publicity department scratched a few due to unprepared facial expressions, but they are still available on the Black Market.
The A-List
A year or so after the Subterranean Circus opened, a recent UF graduate hopped up the three steps of the store and ambled to the counter. His name was Harvey Budd and he wanted to see our books. Dick North brought forward a large box and dumped the contents on the counter. "You need an accountant," said Harvey. "No shit," said we.
Accountant Budd did an exemplary job, but nonetheless we were summoned for an audit by the IRS. "Don't worry," said Harvey, "they'll only want another three or four hundred dollars." He was right. After that, they never bothered us again during Harvey's reign. We enjoyed a great relationship with Mr. B., even attending his wedding to the lovely and talented Ilene Silverman. Now, Harvey might have been Triple-A, but Ilene was the Major Leagues, so how did he talk her into it? "I told her if she married me, you'd let us have the reception in the blacklight room," he said. Okay, it makes sense now.
Eventually, Harvey graduated into the television business with a side dish of politics thrown in, but he sent us one of his employees named Richard Allen. Richard was a little shy and quiet but also pretty funny. More importantly, he was married to future ace reporter Kathleen Knight, famous on three continents and now the provider of Kathygrams in The Flying Pie. Accountant Allen did an outstanding job but eventually we were re-summoned for an audit by the IRS. "Don't worry," he said, "they'll only want another three or four hundred dollars." We didn't and they did. "What is this with the three hundred dollars?" we asked him. "Is this like the New Accountant Initiation Fee?"
Eventually, Richard hooked up with Regeneration Technologies, a human body parts bank in Alachua, taking his salary in stock rather than cash. He got rich, bought a horse farm, joined the Rotary Club and started tromping off to Cambodia, building schools for kids under the flag Sustainable Cambodia. He still likes to tinker around with his software business in the old Firestone building on University Avenue. Don't drop in unexpectedly, Richard has several big dogs which will kill you.
The Subterranean Circus once had a unique store manager named Rose Coward. Rose was loud and insane and talked to her friends on the phone all day, but otherwise did a good job. Rose had a longstanding boyfriend named Michael Davis, who was somehow able to remain with her for eight years without jumping off a tall building. We lost Rose somewhere along the line, but we were able to keep Michael, and a good thing, too. Whenever we scheduled a Hogtown Opry, M.D. showed up to buy a whole row. That's fourteen seats at a c-note per. Then he'd stomp up and buy half of Wil Maring's inventory.
An Award of Merit goes to old-timer Allen Cheuvront for climbing out of his hospital bed, hooking up his dog JoJo and struggling in to the party. Allen's been confined to quarters with the rockin' pneumonia and the boogie woogie flu, having lost a thousand pounds in the process. In the 1960s/1970s, Cheuvront was Gainesville's premier art photographer and in 2022 he labored mightily to create an enormous photo of the Subterranean Circus facade, which visitors to The Last Tango in Gainesville could pose afront.
I first met my New England countryman and fellow Red Sox fan Art Johnson while selling Charlatans at FSU in the mid-seventies. He moved to Gainesville years later with a law degree from Boston University and a large family in tow. Art eventually joined a local legal research practice, bought himself a cattle ranch near Jonesville and took up with a dangerous Swedish woman named Ula. Over the years, Mr. J. has responded to the ArtSignal many a time and fended off the barbarians forthwith. He has faithfully attended each and every musical event I have put on even though he was never allowed to be a hippie. Matter of fact: there has never been a single hippie who grew up in Andover, Mass. Check it out.
I've know all of these grand people for more than 50 years, and I love each and every one of them. Thanks, all you degenerates, for showing up to the ultimate party.
The Blam! Squad
If Laura Benedetti and Anna Marie Kirkpatrick joined forces to open a party-planning business, they'd get rich overnight. I suppose it comes naturally to Laura, being from the jolliest country in the world. You probably think that's Finland, nine times voted the happiest country on the planet, but not so. Finland is merely the least unhappy place, whereas Panama, Paraguay and Costa Rica are one-two-three on the happiness charts. When anyone at Pathogenes has a birthday, Laura is right there for two choruses of Happy Birthday To You, one in English, the second in Spanish. She decorates for all seasons, even Lent, but her sizeable yard is a Fantasyland at Christmas, which she prepares all by herself starting two months in advance. Laura spent all day Monday decorating the One Love Cafe for the party and the result was fabulous.
At one time I thought that Anna Marie was a normal person. She sang with Nancy Luca at the Last Tango and even did a spoof as Jeff Goldstein's abandoned trailer-trash wife. She also showed up at the first Hogtown Opry to sing a couple of western tunes with the irrepressible Ms. Nancy. It was when I hired her to emcee The Grand Finale, however, that I finally comprehended just what we had here...a whirlwind who kept things moving through rainshowers and costume changes and people who liked to hang around too long on stage. I felt like I'd discovered penicillin. Where have you been so long? The Bible tells us that Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead, but Anna Marie did him one better--she got Bill Killeen out on a dance floor. By the way, Cathy DeWitt, the next time a conga line forms right in front of you...PLEASE...don't shut off the music on this miracle!
It wouldn't be a party without Will ("Joolery") Thacker of Black Hammock and his much better half Marleah Krohne. Will made a long introductory speech, which few heard because of microphone insufficiency, which basically said I was an old relic worthy of feeding cake to. The Cathy DeWitt Homecoming Band played happy dance music to the end, at which time I capitalized on her long ride on the champagne train to get her to let me sing a few choruses of Gold Watch and Chain. Fortunately, everyone had left by then, so no arrests were made.
Let's not forget the invaluable photographers who left us with visual memories of the Big Day. In today's column and/or on Facebook, we have splendid shots from David Ellison, Vickie Bordeaux, Wendy Thornton, Monica Kincaid and Sharon Cinnie. All images of David Hammer have been approved by the It's Hammer Time! political PAC.
The Producer
My wife, Siobhan Ellison, is the furthest thing from a party animal you could find. At the end of the work day, she's physically and mentally spent and happy to sit down in her overlarge chair and watch reruns of West Wing or Justified, cat in lap. We when we started living together 41 years ago, I couldn't even get her to take a vacation until I broached the subject of the Grand Canyon. In other words, she's the last person I can think of who might throw a surprise party. To all of you who asked me if I was surprised...no, I was astounded. I was dressed for The Ritz, and we wound up at Nathan's Coney Island.
So thanks, everybody, for showing up on the Day of the Dead as well as the Day of Not Dead Yet, and, especially you, my blushing bride for concocting the whole affair. You never know if we'll all be together again under the same roof, so here's a little ditty for those of us who don't make it back for the next one:
So long, it's been good to know ya,
This dusty old dust is a-gettin' my bones
And I gotta be driftin' along.
That's all, folks....+
bill.killeen094@gmail.com
