Saturday night, I went to the Oklahoma City Museum of Art omelette party, this year called Egg a la MOD with a “Man Men” (after the television show I’ve never seen) theme. We were instructed to dress as mid-60s chic, and thus the skinny tie and snap brim fedora for me. Huda Mussa, Diane Glenn and John Mackechnie were among other friends who served on the committee and the Oz, the Bewleys, Clint Stone, Diane Coady, Larry Pickering and Kate Rivers were among friends whose artwork was featured. Bert Seaborn and Michi Susan had gorgeous works on display that I didn’t bid on, but coveted.

Several friends were among the chefs cooking, Beau Stephenson from Bin 73, Billy Tillman and Roger Lienke from Hefner Golf Course, Bruce from Rococo, Chef Ryan P from Iguana, the list goes on and the food was scrumptous, a sensual dining experience for having to eat off styrofoam plates standing up.

I spent some time hanging out with John X and the redoubtable B (all the way from Vienna), who held the tickets of Oz and the Debster because Oz was not well and croaking instead of speaking.

The normal “gang of 500″ from Oklahoma City’s art world was joined by an equal number of those well-off enough to buy a $75 ticket. Art parties are expensive, it would seem, but it was a fundraiser after all. Art, like freedom, isn’t free, you know.

I was conscripted onto the dance floor by a few generous benefactors, but it was a big mistake for me because the twist did not agree with my abdominal stitchwork and I really hurt by the time I got home about 11 p.m. and kept hurting right through the Super Bowl. I left at the perfect time, I thought: people were drinking and having a good time at 10:30 p.m. but no one I was around was yet at that obnoxious stage of sloppy drunk. I was amazed at the number of my AA friends who were there in some capacity or another.

You can view the photo above and about a zillion other party pics from the event at www.ionOKmag.com.

AND IN OTHER NEWS

Formerly, I made routine trips to that part of Edmond north of 2d Street, but not so much the past few years. Sunday, I returned to familiar territory to attend a Super Bowl party. Although I was invited by Jay, the husband, Roxanne, the wife, it turns out, teaches voice at UCO’s school of music and I saw some old friends rather unexpectedly and caught up on some gossip from the campus I’d missed the past several years. I guess that’s one of the penalties of not being on Facebook.

No one there was a rabid football fan, much less a fan of either the Packers or Steelers, so that was good and there was no impassioned yelling at the television screen. By far, the cuisine was the star of the party and I took home some leftovers as the batchelor odd man, for which I am very grateful since the food was delicious. Christine Aguilar botched the national anthem and, to me, the boxed robot heads during halftime were laughable and the Black Eyed Peas would have been a complete disappointment were it not for my lust after Fergie. The Darth Vader baby commercial was my favorite, but I’d seen it on YouTube before the game, so the ads weren’t all that cool for me and you don’t want to know what I think of beer commercials anyway.

I can’t express how nice it was to get out of the house and see people and do something other than fuss with Sinatra. I hope to go to hear jazz tonight at the gold dome and get to the “show” at 8 p.m. at the Western Club Tuesday night before the next round of snow hits town on Wednesday.

Blogblah