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The Four Seasons. Studio 54. The Russian Tea Room. The Tilt'n Diner. The Puritan Backroom. Every great city has one -- the It place. Where the glitterati go to see and be seen. Thursday in Concord, that place was Room 104 of the Legislative Office Building, for the grand (Second? Third? Who can keep track?!) work session of the Legislative Administration Committee on Representative Michael Brunelle's qualifications to serve subject to Part II, Article 7 of the NH Constitution. Were you there? Of course not. You're a nobody. But your reporter was there among your betters to be your eyes and ears.
And what a room it was! More egos than a Latin grammar book. More swells than Scarlett Johansson's sweater. More Brylcreem and flop sweat than Mitt Romney prepping a concession speech. Bodies packed in like skeletons in Mitch McConnell's closet ...you get the picture.
Oh, did I say "get the picture"? I got the pictures. What, after all, would be the purpose of a celebrity turning out to such an exclusive event if their public, hunched over camp stoves in the kitchens of their foreclosed homes, couldn't catch a whiff of the glamour as they heat their beans? Let me lay the scene for you, as if you had been one of the elite...
First and foremost, at stage center was the Honorable Paul Mirski, of the Enfield Mirskis, presidentially presiding over the proceedings as only the dashing spitting image of Rutherford B. Hayes possibly could. How dashing, you ask?
Rocking the resplendent funky grandpa look in a lavender button-down Oxford daringly topped off with a delightful pale green Easter-themed bow tie (Easter! In February! Marvelous!), Mr. M. finished off his above-the-waist ensemble with a wonderfully rumpled oversize (and heavily Joan-Collins influenced!) pleasantly textured dark grey sport jacket with subdued multicolored threads running through the fabric. Natural fiber? Synthetic fiber? We couldn't tell! (Not that we would tell if we could. (ed. note: Yes we would.)) His trademark ivory-tipped silver-filigreed ebony sword cane (with fresh notches?) doubtless lay ready at hand by his chair. Casually tossed out before him on the table was his glossy light brown baby-sealskin wallet, stuffed to exploding with Benjamins, library cards and tear-stained cocktail napkins with the scribbled phone numbers of smitten fangirls. Feast your eyes -- if you're wearing sunglasses:
Every Batman has his Robin, every Green Hornet -- or Clouseau -- his Kato, every Indy his Short Round (well, in the tragic Temple of Doom, at least -- ugh), every Putin his Medvedev, every George Michael his that other guy in Wham!, every Billy-O his D.J., and Chairman Paul Mirski has his Vice-Chair Tim Comerford.
Comerford? More like Come-over-here-ford! Seated at the right hand of the man who could easily be his grandfather (not that we're suggesting he is! (ed. note: only because of libel laws)), this (apparently single!) up-and-coming second-term twenty-four-year-old charmer is a cheery, chunky, cherubic, chipmunk-cheeked Birther with a wondrous and uniquely sculpted minimalist neckbeard reminiscent of Mr. T -- if Mr. T was white, and upside down. (Which, for all we know, he might be. Has anyone seen him since D.C. Cab?) At 1:08:34 of the video below, the Honorable Timothy C actually manages to deliver a gentle yet decisive smackdown to President-Chair Mirski-Hayes, much like the original smackdown delivered by Rutherford B. Hayes to Samuel Tilden in 1876, but without any concomitant deal for creeping de facto re-enslavement of African-Americans across a wide swath of the nation (that we know of!).
Over an hour-plus the assembled sachems, solons, poohbahs and newbies talked about not much and agreed to tell a researcher-minion to look up stuff. (Stuff that at least one committee member and two audience members could have told them right then, but hey, whatever.)
And let's not forget the number three man on this committee! Dapper, polite, and down-the-line conservative as his darker-than-navy-blue suit, Committee Clerk Carlos (The Jackal of Hearts) Gonzalez worked his pen like Arthur Fiedler worked a baton, like Julia Child a wooden spoon, like Andrea Bocelli a paintbrush. What does a clerk actually do when nothing happens for over an hour? For all we know, he was just writing "Mr. Carlos Mirski" over and over again. And who could blame him? Poised, genteel, marginally chattier than Clarence Thomas, and of a hue and accent to make Tom Tancredo run home weeping to Colorado (ed. note: if he hadn't already!), Silent Carl rocked not one, not two, but THREE lapel pins. This is a man who really believes in things, and in flair.
(Aside to Tommy T.: crucifix on side opposite heart! Secret Muslin alien? Aside to Dan I: Hurry up with that militia bill -- we're being invaded! Aside to all: why, oh why, do so few gentlemen who chase fashion these days follow the example of often-available erstwhile mucketymuck Chuck Douglas, whose monogrammed shirt cuffs perfectly complement his flame-patterned high-heeled ostrich-skin boots? Rowr!)
As the magnificent soiree drew to a close, and the sparkling stars of the legislative firmament swirled off into the velvet night, a small barefoot child in tattered rags outside the door was heard to inquire, in a high, piping voice, "Why can't those men just admit they were wrong and say they're sorry?" but was beaten to the ground by truncheons promptly produced by plainclothes protectors of the peace and thrown into an unmarked van before your reporter could ask the little urchin where he'd gotten such foolish notions.
This has been a field report from your state house reporting team -- as dedicated to honest high standards as those we cover.