Remember cocktail parties? Pretty chiffon dresses, bowties and suits, loud jazz music, strong martinis, and, of course, witty repartee. How often in cocktail conversation, after a few drinks, was the ubiquitous question asked: “With whom would you like to be marooned on an island”.
The question inevitably led to thoughtful, albeit ridiculous, responses: Albert Einstein, Winston Churchill, Eleanor Roosevelt, Mark Twain, Queen Elizabeth, Oscar Wilde, Margaret Thatcher, George Washington and other august characters of that ilk, from which would follow pontifications about the noble attributes and deeds of such individuals; their virtues extolled. Inevitably, the compare - contrast soon would come after: Tennessee Williams or Noel Coward, Jayne Mansfield or Sophia Loren, Christine Lagarde or Angela Merkel. Really?
And while I listened to these pronouncements I always wondered: “and why would that person want to be stranded on an island with you?” I never asked the question out loud; that would be rude, but I have asked myself that question many times over the years. Why would any of those people want to be on an island with me. What genius pondering do I have to offer in return. The company of any one of these individuals would scare me speechless.
Think this through, my friend. After Einstein has espoused the import of, and explained the theory of, relativity, what happens next, when it’s your turn to entertain him. After Churchill is done talking about Dunkirk and the tribulations of navigating England through WWII, what are you going to say: “I’m having a hard time finding a good egg separator to bake a flan; any shopping ideas?”.
That’s not to say that I haven’t had a few ideas of my own on companionship during island isolation, depending on my mood. There are a few options: Bear Grylls, for instance. That guy is a survivalist and comes from a long line of British peers, but he’s not a talker. He could teach me how to fish, but dinner conversation would be limited to a few grunts and smiles. Noel Coward, on the other hand, was so witty that fish would jump on the shore just to hear him tell a story, but he was such a dandy that the thought of creasing his cravat would cause him to burst into tears. The same question always came back to me. What do I have to say that would be remotely entertaining and make me anything close to an equal companion to these erudite figures.
After long long contemplation, I know who I want to be marooned on an island with: Keith Richards. Yup, Keith Richards. That guy has lived nine lives, his world has gyrated from scrappy to luxurious and back again, he’s traveled around the world on several occasions, has conversed with everyone from Queen Elizabeth to the guy at the dry cleaners and faced the cavernous maws of death more than once. He has countless stories and reminiscences to entertain both of us. I’ve read his autobiography. I know about a lot of the people and places of which he speaks; enough that I could easily keep up with him (intellectually he’s not that smart, just lucky), so an occasional bon mot on my part would keep him equally engaged. He’s my stranded on an island go-to.
And the other perennial Gilligan’s Island question always asked: “who would you be: Marianne or Ginger”. And, of course, the correct answer would be Marianne. Marianne was so smart, so efficient, so capable, could do everything, and do it right. Who wouldn't want to be Marianne? Me. I not so much wanted to be Marianne; I wanted to be Ginger. Why would I want to be Marianne? She cooked everyone’s meals, she cleaned their tents, she sewed people’s clothes back together, she did carpentry work, she grew foods in her garden. She worked hard all the time, day and night, even fashioning candles from bees wax and did anyone ever say “let’s make this ‘Marianne Day’ for all that she has done for us”? Heck no. No one ever thanked her or gave her credit for her good works, even though she was the go-to for just about everything, including cleansing and taping up boo-boos — ask Gilligan. Ginger, on the other hand, never raised a finger, other than to polish her nails. She always wore beautiful gowns; her hair and makeup were consistently set to perfection. Her meals were prepared for her; she was taken care of, there were no expectations from her. Everyone entertained her. She spent her days under a sun umbrella, and she was always sweet and funny. Why wouldn’t I want to be Ginger. Thoughts?
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