It’s the holidays, people. Get your party manners on and run a comb through your hair: Time to put on the dawg! Why does nobody know how to throw a party anymore?
It’s absolutely laughable to me as to how anyone presumes an evite is the way to go when entertaining — especially on a large scale, where human adults are expected to travel for the pleasure of your company at their own expense.
Said guests deserve the courtesy of an invitation arriving via snail mail — an invitation of the sort involving effort expended on the host’s part to actually purchase a postage stamp and, God forbid, perhaps even cross the threshold of a stationary store.
Sure, of course, evites are free — just as the restrooms at 7-Elevens cost nothing to use, either. But when last did you invite over for dinner any hail fellow well met from a swamp-lit urinal?
Invariably, every party host’s most offensive sin usually involves lighting. I’m flabbergasted that canned ceiling lights are even permitted in building codes, at all. They flatter nobody. But at least cans are better than those fluorescent tubes! Why not just throw your shindig inside a Walmart!
Successful parties must be illuminated in the same manner as though guests still arrive by horsedrawn carriages. And, hell, if the flickering, flattering glow of candlelight terrifies you so much as to even dare pull the trigger on that never-opened click-a-BIC buried in the junk drawer, then the flameless varieties merely depend upon AA batteries bought in bulk.
Put a little effort into creating a soft, glowing amber-pink mood. And as for such holiday cliches as those old evergreen stalwarts peppermint bark, pumpkin lattes, popcorn buckets and poinsettias potted in red foil wrappers? Don’t. Just don’t.
Yes, my sweet readers, that ain’t no way to treat a party. So before you begin plucking divinity out of the carpet, please allow me share with you here a few cultured pearls of wisdom regarding how to go about throwing a memorable holiday soiree. Let’s just get all Jac-leen Kennedy right to it, shall we?
How many of us find ourselves trapped at excruciatingly dreary, lifeless, DOA parties this time of the year? Unable to rudely escape without being caught, yet much preferring the entertaining thrills of, say, watching wallpaper peel rather than having to endure another holiday fete consisting of staring at some stranger’s coffee table groaning laden with the hospitality of Dollar Tree peanuts (unsalted) and the promise of a build-your-own-banana-split bar beckoning from the kitchen, its overhead illumination of a glare so generous that it could spotlight rusticles eroding off the funnels of Titanic.
Concealing the contrast between outward appearances versus inner emptiness is at the soul of every party thrown throughout history. No host wants to be viewed as some backwoods rube, and no guest wants to feign joy over meeting your new pureblood greyhound or be asked to remove their footwear before gliding ’cross your precious zebra wood floors.
Oh, and you’d better put a drink in your guests’ hands! And quickly, too! Wallowing in your booze is their only escape.
If you’re of the opinion that alcohol is an optional ingredient toward the makings of a great party, then you’ve discovered why nobody ever attends your rapturous gatherings. Boozy libations, just like background music and tender lighting, are party requirements.
A smattering of American presidents discovered firsthand the true price of enforced teetotalism. President Rutherford B. Hayes banned all alcoholic beverages from the White House, even at state functions (with but one exception made for the visiting Grand Dukes of Russia). His prissy stance of temperance, combined with his wife Lucy’s moral influence of abstinence, won neither of them any fans. “Lemonade Lucy” became the First Lady’s mocking moniker.
In sidebar, it’s worth noting that the president’s father ran a whiskey distillery. Or, to be less artful, President Hayes, the son of a moonshiner, decided to run his own life polarly opposite his birth heritage; consequently, upon seeking reelection, the American people decided to run his presidency soberingly into oblivion. And the moral to this tale of whiskey in the wry, my pretty holiday party planners? If booze ain’t a’flowin’, ain’t nobody a’showin’.
But this hardly implies one need take out a second mortgage to fund full bar service. Wine, alone, is just fine. If worried about spillage on your upholstery and carpet, white wines are always the less stressful option. The general rule of thumb regarding wine is, “Only serve red to people sharing your bed.”
And now onto the true red meat: Any party either flies or flounders on its guest list. Variety is everything. It’s not a numbers game. A party of only a table full of people can be every bit as enthralling as a party of hundreds.
“Enchanting” is the premium you seek, and enchantment is bestowed upon spaces filled with differences, not likenesses. What’s the point in throwing a party only for individuals who share in your same exact expectations of this world?
President John Fitzgerald Kennedy, back in 1962 — our republic’s high-water mark — famously threw a dinner invitational for every single living Nobel Prize winner in the western hemisphere. Acknowledging the brilliance of such an assemblage, Kennedy remarked, “I think this is the most extraordinary collection of talent, of human knowledge, that has ever been gathered together at the White House, with the possible exception of when Thomas Jefferson dined alone.”
Do you wonder what sorts of flowers must have adorned the state dining tables on that brilliant evening back? Well, thank you, Smart GPT-5, for being so quick on your feet: “The White House dining tables at the Nobel Laureates’ dinner in April 1962 were decorated with white lilacs and orchids, chosen to create an elegant, spring-like atmosphere for what was the most celebrated, cultural evening in White House history …. It became known as the ‘Dinner of Camelot.’”
Hence, the most successful parties are those that span the entire gamut of age-range groups and socioeconomic levels: teenagers to centenarians, busboys to billionaires, the gorgeous to the gonzo. Toss them all together in the same pot, stir once, then stand back and watch in amazement. You’ve done it! You created magic via assembly: Your brew begins bubbling, enchanting the room — a spectacle, spectacular, shooting the moon!
Lastly, bois & gurlz, on a sad, parting note during this strangest ever season of partying thanks — where, daily, we’re only too well reminded that nothing in TrumpWorld is permanent or even long-lasting — it has now even been confirmed that The Farmers’ Almanac is calling it a day. Founded back in 1818, in a world then lit only by fire, where horses were the fastest mode of transportation on earth, 2026 will be the last yearly edition of America’s oldest, annual publication. The Almanac predicts for Dallas a sunny, albeit cold, Christmas season this year. Party hearty, people — like there’s no tomorrow!
— Howard Lewis Russell
Brrr! Let’s build a snowman together come December, guys. Put your leather mittens on. Y’all know where to warmly reach me: AskHoward@dallasvoice.com.