Gala Party Quotes

A happy clown inside spat out a pig-in-a-blanket and yelled at the cute waitress holding the tray. … I had to throw up but other than the banker’s suit forcing its way onto Elise’s face there really wasn’t an appropriate place for it.

It's like, Jude, for example," I say, quietly, careful with my words. "He's so nice. Everybody likes him. He just gets along with people, everywhere he goes. I know I'm not that. And Ari, she's so talented, and so passionate about music, but I'm not really passionate about anything, other than wanting to succeed. To do my best. But I can make plans, and I can stay organized, and if a teacher assigns a report, I'm going to write the best darn report they've ever seen. If I'm throwing a gala, I'm going to throw a party that no one will ever forget. I can do that. And if I can impress people, then maybe they won't notice that I'm not witty or beautiful or... fun.

And you did all of this before I awakened?' 'Not all of us can afford to be layabouts ... You upper class types are all the same. Sleep until noon and then fritter your nights away.' She narrowed her eyes. 'I do not fritter my nights away.' 'Really? And what do you do at night?' 'I go to social events. Parties or galas. Sometimes a musicale. Or a charity event,' she tacked on with satisfaction. 'Well, I must retract my frittering comment in that case.' 'It's not frittering. It's surviving.

I had to pull columnist George Will out of a baseball game—like yanking Hemingway out of a bar—to correct one misattributed quote, and berate blogger Josh Rogin for recording a public talk between Jeffrey Goldberg and me in a synagogue, on Yom Kippur. Most miffing was the book This Town, a pillorying of well-connected Washingtonians by The New York Times’s Mark Leibovich. The only thing worse than being mentioned in Mark’s bestselling book was not being mentioned in it. I merited much of a paragraph relating how, at the Christmas party of media grandees Ben Bradlee and Sally Quinn, I “hovered dangerously over the buffet table, eyeing a massive Christmas ham.” But Nathan Guttman, a reporter for The Jewish Daily Forward, changed the word “eyeing” to “reaching for,” insinuating that I ate the ham. Ironically, the embassy employed Nathan’s caterer wife to cook gala kosher dinners. George Will graciously corrected the quote and Josh Rogin apologized. The Jewish Daily Forward printed a full retraction. Yet, in the new media age, old stories never vanish. A day after the Forward’s faux pas, I received several angry phone calls from around the United States. “You should be ashamed of yourself!” they remonstrated. “The Israeli ambassador eating trief? In public? On Christmas?” I tried to defend myself—“I didn’t eat it, I eyed it”—but fruitlessly. Those calls reminded me that, more complex than many of the issues I faced in the press, and often more explosive, was the minefield of American Jewry.

Thunk. I jump back in alarm, my heart pounding against my ribs. And then I hear, “Jemma!” A loud whisper, coming from below. I open up the doors and step outside. Moving quickly to the railing, I lean against it and peer down to find Ryder standing there, staring up at me. He’s dressed in a suit and tie--the same charcoal suit he wore to the gala, with a narrow silver-blue tie. “What are you doing?” I call down to him. He drops a handful of pebbles, scattering them into the grass by his feet. “Shh! Can I come up?” I lower my voice to match his. “What’s wrong with the front door?” He eyes me with raised brows. “Really?” I picture my parents downstairs. Imagine what questions they’d ask, what gleeful conclusions they’d leap to at the sight of him here, asking to see me. I shake my head and reach a hand down toward him. “Here, can you climb?” There’s a vine-covered trellis against the house beside my balcony. If he can just get a foothold, he’s tall enough to swing himself up and over the railing. Which he does in less than two minutes. Pretty impressive, actually. Once he’s got both feet on the balcony, he casually brushes himself off. Somehow, he manages to look like he just stepped off the cover of GQ. I tip my head toward the window. “You wanna come in?” “You think it’s safe?” “Just let me go lock the door,” I say before hurrying back inside. And don’t think I’m not amused by the irony. Because unlike normal people, we’re not sneaking around to avoid being caught and punished. Nope. On the contrary, our parents would celebrate if they caught us in my bedroom together. I’m talking music and streamers and champagne toasts. As quietly as possible, I turn the key in the lock, listening for the click. Sorry, folks. No party tonight.

As soon as Mr. Clinton became the president, Mrs. Clinton and her staff sought to repair the Clinton brand among groups they thought had been damaged during the campaign, scheduling galas, balls, and dinners. They hosted open house tours day and night, especially around Christmas and for the military. What she and her staffers failed to realize was that the White House had a budget like any other government entity. Each shindig still had to be paid either from the Executive Residence budget or the Democratic Party’s purse. Event planners dropped the ball on costs. One Rose Garden event required big, rented, air-conditioned tents that ruined the lawn. Landscaping crews and the National Park Service tore up all the dead grass, installed new sod, and sent them the bill. That’s expensive. But you can’t just have a whole White House lawn muddy and looking like crap. “Just get it done,” staffers would say. Party rental companies refused future events until they were paid. The discussions were plain embarrassing, but when I heard them I wasn’t eavesdropping. They were shouted in the hallway. The Clintons believed that a magic royal pot of money somehow existed for their every whim.

Entertaining is a way of life for the Southern girl. We’ve been doing it for over three hundred years now, and we’re not too shy to say we’re just about the best in the world at it. There really doesn’t have to be an occasion to entertain in the South. Just about any excuse will do, from the anniversary of your friend’s divorce (a “comfort” party) to national flag day (Southern girls are always eager to show the flag the respect it’s due). Parties in the South have always been big affairs. In pre--Civil War days, it was a long way between plantations on bad roads (or no roads at all), so parties lasted for days on end. The hostess spared no expense, with lavish dances, beautiful dresses, and meals that went on and on, with all the best dishes the South had to offer: from whole roast pig to wild game stew. After all, plantation parties were a circuit. You might go to twenty parties a year, but you were only going to throw one--so you better make it memorable, darlin’. Grits work hard to keep this tradition alive. The Junior League and Debutante balls are not just coming out parties for our daughters, god bless them, they are the modern version of old Southern plantation balls. The same is true of graduation, important birthdays, yearly seasonal galas, and of course our weddings.

The Union of South Africa divided the functionality of government between Cape Town and Pretoria. Cape Town was the Administrative Capital and Pretoria served as the Legislative Capital. Consequently, many of the politicians divided their time between the two cities and there were always gala events in both cities. Lucia was the perfect hostess at home and the belle of the ball at Events of State and formal holiday parties. The dividing line between the “swells” and those of a lower standing was very apparent. The blacks were at the very bottom of the list and the privileged few were at the top. Apartheid was alive and well! The social structure was very much the same as it was in the American Deep South in Antebellum days and in both cases became accepted as normal. For Uncle Mannie and Aunty Lucia life was beyond good. They lived in a beautiful home and their every need was tended to by their servants, who were always treated well, but were never the less thought of as subservient to them. It was the established way of life and it was just the way it was. Written and unwritten rules regarding their interaction were strict but accepted and no one objected to them. Every day the commuter trains brought the black laborers into the city to work, mostly in the mines. The more privileged Caucasian men planed their ongoing business transactions and expansion in wealth at their exclusive clubs, while their wives socialized, organizing charitable events. Frequently to break the monotony of their daily lives they colluded clandestinely with lovers, thereby enhancing an otherwise affluent but shallow existence.

Zara had taught him that there was so much more to life than sitting behind a desk. He would never have imagined a world of vulva fruits, zombie parties, pirate musicals, footballs in courtrooms, celebrity galas, and role play without her. He would never had been tempted to dance in a Mexican restaurant or seduce a woman in his office. He never would have laughed as much, smiled as much, or felt as connected with someone as he had with her.

Le directeur du "Musée des monstres végétaux", M. Valeriu Pop-Poenari, se réveilla de très bon matin, après une nuit agitée et pleine de cauchemars. Il avait discuté à la veille, à une agape avec des amis de politique, la situation du gouvernement et il avait été de l'avis de tout le monde, c'est-à-dire qu'un remaniement ministériel était non seulement rapidement exigé par les circonstances, mais aussi salutaire pour le parti. La discussion avait continué, mais le directeur du "Musée des monstres végétaux" était discrètement sorti de ses méandres et, en faisant semblant de parler dans une chambre à côté avec un collègue de l'université, il avait laissé à trois chaleureux amis le soin de soutenir qu'un remaniement ministériel sans Valeriu Pop-Poenari serait une trompeuse tentative de redressement. Les trois amis avaient parlé éloquemment et le milieu politique avait gardé, paraît-il, la conviction qu'il fallait que Valeriu Pop-Poenari devînt ministre. C'est pourquoi l'illustre homme de science, directeur du musée et professeur universitaire avait mal dormi. Bien qu'il fût très habitué aux succès et aux honneurs, bien qu'il fût un enfant chanceux de sa patrie, le directeur du "Musée des monstres végétaux" attendait depuis assez longtemps ce dernier honneur que la patrie reconnaissante pouvait encore lui accorder. (Il n'était pas membre de l'Académie jusqu'à présent, mais l'immortalité académique le tentait peu.) Ministre ! il voulait être ministre et depuis dix ans il attendait toujours. Jamais il n'avait attendu si longtemps jusqu'à présent. Tous les souhaits, les ambitions et les aspirations de sa vie avaient été couronnées à temps et pleinement : la bourse au lycée, la bourse à la faculté, la bourse à l'étranger, la chaire universitaire, le "Musée des monstres végétaux" et –ce n'est ici qu'ici qu'un petit embarras avait surgi– le mariage, avec la dot d'un million environ. (En route pour le portefeuille)

Though Will had designed every last detail of the hotel, he set foot in it only one time in his life. When it opened with a gala party in 1893, William Waldorf Astor did not attend.

The Ultra-Super-Gala-Mega-Mall 97-Screen Cinema was showing Beach Blanket Prophecy in which, according to reviews: "A bump on the head as a result of a surfing accident gives Frankie’s girlfriend the ability to see into the future, making it the only film in the beach party series to turn Annette prophet. ...

I dunno if ya know Gala, but an 'untold favor' is a mildly terrifying prospect. Might just want to come to a Henchmen party, might need me to help bury a body.

I owe Gala an untold favor for it since that was meant to last the whole night at the shop. And I dunno if ya know Gala, but an 'untold favor' is a mildly terrifying prospect. Might just want to come to a Henchmen party, might need me to help bury a body. But I've had it before. It's fuckin' worth a possible felony.

In the nonprofit world, the more a charity gala looked like a party where a supervillain might take the guests hostage, the more of a success it was.