[img]1926|right|John Schwada||no_popup[/img]It was a pretty damned good time and place to be David Boies.
The time: Less than 12 hours after the announced U.S. Supreme Court decision that reopened the doors to same-sex marriages in California. The place: A posh French bistro in Beverly Hills with more than a few guests celebrating the court’s ruling.
As for David Boies, one of the attorneys who argued to protect same-sex marriages from Prop. 8? It just so happened Mr. Boies – or at least his lookalike – was with the six of us friends, dining Wednesday night at Bouchon’s Bistro.
And that mixup explains why a $168 bottle of Moet & Chandon arrived unexpectedly.
“But I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
To my left, my friend Sandy Harcourt was protesting, as a hovering maître d’ and sommelier were presenting him with a bottle of champagne, swaddled in a white-towel, inclined to show the label – Moet & Chandon.
What Is Your Name, Please?
“Is this a gag? I did not order….”
“But you are Mr. Boies, are you not? From the Prop.8, gay marriage case? And those people over there wish you to have this bottle, with their compliments.” At this the maître d’ nodded toward a table of diners behind us.
“No I’m not Mr. Boies,” Sandy insisted, his British bearing and accent starting to take command. Sandy was putting his foot down, perhaps thinking Battle of Britain. I was thinking Gen. Robert E. Lee at Appomattox: Accept defeat, damnit, but take the bottle of champagne.
The maître d’ now quickly retreated to confer with our benefactors at the other table.
“What was that all about?”
“It seems those people over there” – Sandy indicated the table, two away from ours – “think I’m an attorney in the Prop. 8 case. Someone named Boies.”
IPhones were quickly deployed to solve this mystery.
The maître d’ returned. “They wish you to accept the bottle anyway,” he said, smiling triumphantly.
Well, in that case – Sandy accepted, and we clapped loudly to thank our mysterious benefactors. I believe they nodded and smiled.
“Cheers, to mistaken identity!” “To hilarity and charity!” “To close brushes with fame!”
By now an IPhone image of Boies, the gay rights champion, was circulating.
Yes, a resemblance. But Sandy’s younger and better-looking, my wife insisted. Should we show our champagne-benefactors a photo of the real Boies? I asked.
“Better not, they may be having second thoughts about this champagne,” Sandy laughed.
Those Weren’t the Days
As we drank David Boies’s victory nectar, feeling lucky, not guilty, it was noted that same-sex marriage was unthinkable in our youthful salad days in the ‘60s and ‘70s. “Yes, we’ve come so far,” one of us said.
But had we? Earlier that very day, in fact, I had been reminded that we were stuck in many ways in the ‘60s and ‘70s. A friend, a retired Harvard University professor with a long record of engagement in social issues, had emailed in the morning, asking me, as a former newsman, for advice about a proposed op-ed he’d written about his deep disappointment with President Obama, in whose administration he had served.
Peering into the black kettle of dismal history, my friend concluded that when it came to foreign policy and national security, in particular, Mr. Obama had promised us change but was delivering us Richard Nixon redux.
Mr. Nixon had his secret invasion of Cambodia, he wrote. And Mr. Obama has his clandestine drone attacks in Yemen, Somalia and Pakistan, he lamented. Mr. Nixon had his Watergate break-in and coverup. Mr. Obama has a vast intelligence apparatus daily Hoovering terabytes of phone records and internet messages. Mr. Nixon had his whistleblower nemesis in Daniel Ellsberg of Pentagon Papers fame. Mr. Obama has his own whistleblowers in Pfc. Bradley Manning and quirky Julian Assange. And now the globetrotting data-geek Edward Snowden.
The coda of my friend’s proposed op-ed – stop the madness, stop pursuing and demonizing Snowden, Mr. President. Snowden is a patriot, not a villain.
My friend's thoughts were still with me as the dessert menu was inspected – and rejected. But it was no time to get morbid.
After dinner we introduced ourselves to our delightful champagne-benefactors, among them Hammer Museum director Annie Philbin and attorney Alan Hergott (as it turned out Mr. Hergott had a role in the making of the 1988 Dian Fossey bio-flick “Gorillas in the Mist” in which Sandy and his future wife, Kelly, had also played role in this film. In real-life, they were the famous primatologist’s jungle interns!).
Still later, on the way down to the subterranean garage, I briefly shared an elevator ride with two young, pale girls in high heels and mini-skirts. They snuggled and kissed briefly before the elevator stopped at their floor. One glanced at me as they brushed by to exit.
“Very interesting times,” I said.
“Yes,” she said, with a smile. They were so young, their improbably long legs and awkward gait like that of young giraffes just learning to walk.
As the elevator door closed on them, I wondered if we were really on the same page. Even reading from the same book. Probably not and maybe it was just as well.
Mr. Schwada, a veteran Los Angeles newspaper and television journalist, may be contacted at john.schwada@gmail.com
