Down The River

This is a cautionary tale about watching your children.

I was enjoying a swanky party on board the Palmerwood paddle-wheel steamboat, the "Palmerwood Queen." I hold these parties every so often--it's a lovely and leisurely venue for entertaining.

I simply adore the river. I really do. I like to look at it, and think to myself, "You know, if I just sailed by luxurious paddlewheel steamer, the 'Palmerwood Queen,' all the way down, eventually, I'd hit salt water and the Caribbean." Here's a picture of me and Agreeable Louis J. on board.

Which is precisely what my younger sons, the Junior Partners, Agreeable Louis J. and Assertive Emmanuel J., decided to do.

I was so engrossed in my conversation with Kanye West as Mrs. West fended off the advances of former President Clinton that I completely lost sight of what those irrepressible scamps were up to. The lads had, apparently, swiped my side-arm--a Walther PPK--and hijacked the tugboat.

"Grab sky, Popeye," Agreeable Louis J. snarled at the tug's surprised captain, "or you'll look like you
just got back from a Jason Aldean concert."

"Oh, for Pete's sakes, Louis," said Assertive Emmanuel J., leaping down from the "Palmerwood Queen"'s promenading-deck to join his brother. "I appreciate a good wisecrack as much as anyone, but too soon, pal. Too soon."

"Nothing's ever too soon," growled Agreeable Louis J. "Especially ditching our imbecile father's stupid swanky river-boat party with a bunch of B-listers. Time to make our escape. You hear me, Captain Ahab? Downriver. Fast. Avanti, putz, avanti!!!!"

My youngest sons, the Junior Partners, Agreeable Louis J. and Assertive Emmanuel J., are quick studies. By the time the tugboat they'd hijacked reached Cairo, IL, the sporting young hounds figured they could handle it without aid (Assertive Emmanuel J. had to stand on a few phone books to reach the wheel, but he managed).

"Hope you can swim, Commodore," said Agreeable Louis J. "Because we no longer require your services."

"You're a couple of right little sons of b*&$%es," growled the tugboat captain, as he leaped overboard.

"You're lucky we don't plug you full of lead for that," Assertive Emmanuel J. said, smiling, but steely-eyed. "Our mother's a saint. Longest-suffering woman in Christendom. Our father's the real sack full of calabashes. He's dumb, too."

"Enough with the witty banter with the help, Manny," said Agreeable Louis J. "Set a course for the Big Easy. I've got a hankerin' for some jambalaya and a Sazerac."

My youngest sons, the Junior Partners, can be pardoned if they were feeling a bit self-congratulatory. They'd effected a daring escape and were now some distance downriver from St. Louis.

"By the time that low-watt loser Dad even notices we're missing, we'll be in New Orleans," chortled Assertive Emmanuel J. "Good call on grabbing a bottle of MacAllen 25 before we jumped ship."

"It always tastes better out of a plastic sippy-cup, doesn't it?" Agreeable Louis J. mused. "Manny Boy, our troubles are over. By this time next week, we should be in New Orleans. And then..."

"Then the real fun begins," smiled Assertive Emmanuel J. sinisterly. "Two years of planning, but it's all coming to fruition."

They were, however, to meet a snag or two on the way.

My youngest sons, Agreeable Louis J. and Assertive Emmanuel J. are but two. Their reading-list thus far hasn't taken them beyond the usual Palmer kiddie-fare: "Curious George," "Where the Wild Things Are," and "Lady Chatterley's Lover." So it is not to be wondered at that the lads had not yet stumbled upon that marvelous passage in Mark Twain's "Life on the Mississippi:"

"Piloting becomes another matter when you apply it to vast streams like the Mississippi, whose alluvial banks cave and change constantly, whose snags are always hunting up new quarters, whose channels are forever dodging and shirking..."

Had the lads known of the fickle old river's ever-changing nature, they may perhaps have been a little more cautious about sand-bars. But they weren't. Consequently, they ran aground in Mississippi.

"Well, there's a cluster#$%@ worthy of Dad," grumbled Agreeable Louis J.

"No use crying over spilled breast-milk," sighed Assertive Emmanuel J. "Looks like we're not too far from Natchez. Still got the old boy's platinum card?"

"Don't leave home without it," said Agreeable Louis J. "On we go."

The Junior Partners may be vicious, ruthless little bandits, but they ARE Palmers, and like all their breed, possessed of superb taste, aristocratic tendencies, and insufferable elitism.

Predictably, they are a little disappointed by Natchez.

"What a sty," grumbles Agreeable Louis J. as a couple of Natchians guffaw and point, yelling, "AW, LOOKIT THEM LIL' SAILOR SUITS! THEM'S REAL CUTE LIL' SAILOR SUITS, BOYS! HAW HAW HAW!"

"Think I should kill them?" Agreeable Louis J. wonders idly. "I mean, I'd probably feel bad afterwards, because if I did, I don't know who their sisters would f--"

"They might have a point, Lou," Assertive Emmanuel J. says. "Maybe matching sailor-suits aren't nearly as badass as Dad told us they are. But we're in luck! Look, there's a haberdashery called 'The Natty Young Gentleman,' and they're having a sale! C'mon, we can deal with Zeke and Earl later. Let's go get duded up.

Now, I own something in the vicinity of 1200 shirts, 500 suits, and God only knows how many ties. And I keep a personal tailor, Sal Sapienza, at Palmerwood. Sal's 92. He has the Parkinson's something awful, but he's still a dab hand at making me look good. Damn good. Really damn good, if I do say so myself.

Anyhow, this isn't just idle vanity. Not entirely. One's turnout frequently determines how people react to one, as the Junior Partners learned when they sidled into the Natchez Saloon, all duded up like dudes, with blood in their eyes.

"Lord a mercy," breathes one of the products of incest that mocked the lads' dapper little sailor-suits but mere minutes before. "Looks like we got us a pair o' dangerous 'n' despurt big-time riverboat gamblers in town!"

"Dishy lil' things, ain't they?" purrs the resident saloon-floozy.

"What'll it be, gents? Shot of something?" asks the barkeep nervously. He can smell trouble brewing.

"Yeah, we'll do a shot. Give us two Hillaries," says Assertive Emmanuel J.

"What's a Hillary?" asks the barkeep.

"It's when somebody gives you the best shot in the history of the American presidency and you still blow it," says Agreeable Louis J.

"Never heard tell of such a drink," says the barkeep bewilderedly.

"Fine, then, just give us whatever single-malt's in the well, one rock apiece," says Assertive Emanuel J. "And then let's see if these two rural gentlemen care to join us for a few hands of Go Fish."

My youngest sons, Agreeable Louis J. and Assertive Emmanuel J., may be the most vicious, ruthless two-and-a-half-year-old desperadoes out there, but they're not stupid. They know that, once you've fleeced the locals in a couple of hands of "Go Fish" and a few rounds of "War," then it's high time to turn tail and get out of town.

I'm pretty sure they're gifted.

At any rate, the lads hightail it out of Natchez and skedaddle back toward the river.

"The damn tugboat's probably still stuck on that sandbar, Manny," observes Agreeable Louis J.

"Eh, I was getting bored with it," Assertive Emmanuel J. responds. "If Dad's taught us anything, it's that if you can't travel in style, there's no sense in going. Actually, that's about the only thing he's taught us. It might be the only thing that six-volt simpleton actually knows, come to think of it. Anyhow, Lou, let's get our Trump-sized toddler fingers on a slightly more stylish conveyance.

I was (frequently) described by my father, JP Senior, as "luckier than you are smart." I find no reason to disagree with the old boy's assessment. And much the same can be said of his younger sons, the Junior Partners, Agreeable Louis J. and Assertive Emmanuel J.

The "Memphis Belle" was just getting ready to steam away from the Natchez Landing when the incorrigible young scamps scrambled up thegangplank in the nick of time.

"Pipe us aboard, Bo's'un," Assertive Emmanuel J. said to the rather startled steward. "We'll take the finest suite this tub has to offer."

"We're paying cash," Agreeable Louis J. added.

"Ah do declayuh, Essie May!" declared one of two delightful southern belles just leaving the bar. "If those two ain't jeyust the most adorable big-time rivuhboat gamblers I ever did see..."

"That blond one's like to give me the vapors," purred the other. "Beulah Fay, ask those rakish young gentlemen if they fancy a promenade around the uppah deck aftah suppah."

My youngest sons' new acquaintances, Essie May and Beulah Fay, were more than happy to join the lads for lobster and champagne in the "Memphis Belle's" dining-room. They didn't care that the boys ordered graham-crackers and macaroni and cheese as well, nor did they comment on the fact that the young hounds quaffed their champagne out of sippy-cups.

But the evening went sideways in a hurry when Assertive Emmanuel J. (traveling incognito as "Missouri Manny") leaned in for a quick smooch, and drew back in horror.

"Louie," he whispered urgently, "the mustache..."

"Since when is that a problem?" whispered back Agreeable Louis J. (traveling under the name "Saint Louie Louie"). "We've spent our entire lives around Greek women. It's not like we've never seen a chick with a..."

"No, nebbish, MY mustache," whispered Assertive Emmanuel J. "It got unstuck from me and stuck to her!"

"Mercy sakes!" shrieked Essie May, "that's a FAKE mustache! Why, these dashing and rakish rivuhboat gambluhs are... are... they, they're TODDLUHS!"

"Oh, hell's bells," groaned Agreeable Louis J. "We are so screwed."

Thus, the Junior Partners, found it expeditious to disembark from the "Memphis Belle" as soon as it had been ascertained that they were, in fact, toddlers.

Luckily--for them, anyhow--they were, by this time, in Louisiana, and able to obtain the services of Clement "Mon Dieu, je suis tres gros" Broussard, and his airboat, to take them across Lake Ponchartrain.

"Sure, I be happy a' take you petit boys inna Nawlins," M. Broussard said. "Jes' don' feedem a'gators."

"Are we ever going to make it to New Orleans?" grumbled Agreeable Louis J. disconsolately, feeding the alligators anyhow.

"Oh, cheer up, gloomy," answered Assertive Emmanuel J. "We're almost there. Chin up, Louie! Son of a gun, we'll have big fun down on the Bayou!"

Meanwhile, back at home at my sumptuous, sprawling, historically-significant country-estate of Palmerwood, I was going over some bills as I got my nails did when I noticed some odd charges on the Platinum Card account.

"That's peculiar," I mused. "Why would I spend $800 at 'The Natty Young Gentleman' in Natchez when I already have my own personal tailor, Sal Sapienza?"

That's when I realized my platinum card was missing.

"Good God's urge!" I shrieked (but in, like, a masculine way. Totes masculine). "If my card's gone, it can only mean my younger sons, Assertive Emmanuel J. and Agreeable Louis J., have swiped it! Again. Those rapscallions."

Immediately, I swung into action and called my crack security-team, Messrs. Miller and Dailey, and his pilot and Aviation Librarian Rhodes.

"Gentlemen!" I bawled. "My boys! My sweet little angel-boys! They're missing! Great Zounds, the lads are running up charges like a sailor on shore-leave! Go retrieve the little darlings before something unspeakable happens to them! Why, I can't bear to think of---oooh, that's nice, Cubbings, well done, my cuticles look superb--anything untoward happening to the little chaps!"

"Who was that?" asked Dailey as Miller hung up the sat-phone.

"I think Father of the Year just realized his Platinum Card's missing," sighed Miller. "The kids've been gone for two weeks."

Meanwhile, my youngest boys, the Junior Partners, Agreeable Louis J. and Assertive Emmanuel J., at long last found themselves at 209 Bourbon Street, the French Quarter, New Orleans--the famed Galatoire's.

"Well, we made it!" Assertive Emmanuel J. exulted. "This is where he said to meet him. Let's go in and see if... what?"

"Something doesn't feel right," Agreeable Louis J. says slowly. "What if it's a trap? Just how much do you trust this guy?"

"Louie, Louie, you worry too much," Assertive Emmanuel J. laughs. "We didn't make it all the way down the Mississippi, fleece rednecks in Natchez, escape from a riverboat after being outed as toddlers, and survive an airboat trip through an alligator-infested bayou to give up now. C'mon, let's just get in there and listen to what the man's got to say."

Reluctantly, Agreeable Louis J. followed his brother inside Galatoire's. He still had misgivings, but damned if that duck and andouille gumbo didn't smell good. So they stepped inside to meet A Mysterious Personage.

Galatoire's was closed--to the general public--but the maitre d' wordlessly ushered the diminutive rapscallions inside, and gestured toward the back of the place, where The Mysterious Personage sits at his usual table. Who, oh who, could my boys be meeting? And to what dark and nefarious purpose?!?

The lads sat themselves at the table of my old friend and fellow Kraken Club member Messire Tim Van Huss, who has thoughtfully asked the maitre d' to bring a couple of high chairs.

"Welcome to New Orleans, gentlemen," he says. "I took the liberty of ordering the oysters rockefeller, the crabmeat maison, the escargot, and the shrimp cocktail."

"Nice," says Agreeable Louis J. "Well, I'll get right to the point. That effete limpwristed limousine liberal of a father of ours tells us you're a libertarian."

"I am," Messire Van Huss answers. "Well, more of a Voluntaryist-Agorist. With tendencies toward An-Cap. Anyhow. Smash the state. Have a nice day."

"Well, we too struggle against an unjust and arbitrary authority system that reduces us to being mere cogs in a machine in service to an unelected elite," Assertive Emmanuel J. says. "We've come to enlist your service in our struggle to overthrow this tyrannical and self-appointed authority."

"And this authority is...?" asks Messire Van Huss.

Agreeable Louis J. and Assertive Emmanuel J. exchange exasperated looks. "Haven't you been listening?" Agreeable Louis J. says, sipping his Martini out of a sippy-cup. "That aforementioned effete limpwristed limousine liberal of a father of ours. We want the putz overthrown."

The chaps were not particularly pleased by what they hear next.

"Boys, I'd love to help, I really would," says Tim Van Huss. "Lord knows I hate arbitrary authority as much as the next fella. But your old man is a fellow member of the Kraken Club, and clubmen in good standing don't work against each other's interests."

"We came all the way to New Orleans to get stonewalled?" says Agreeable Louis J. in an ominous growl.

"You don't want to see our dark side," Assertive Emmanuel J. says in an equally threatening tone of voice.

Messire Van Huss quails under the steely gaze of the toddlers. "Gentlemen, I understand your disappointment," he says, "but I could get expelled from the Kraken. Do you know what dues are a year there? A lot, trust me."

"Pay for lunch, Manny," says Agreeable Louis J. to his brother, who obligingly holds out their father's Platinum Card. "Thanks, Mr. Van Huss. Really. A lot. And don't think we'll forget this."

My youngest son, Assertive Emmanuel J., as he holds out my Platinum Card to pay for lunch at Galatoire's, is surprised to feel a hand of steely strength clamp around his tiny wrist.

"Let's assess the situation," the lad muses. "Self-collared striped French-cuffed shirt from Turnbull & Asser, likely custom-made, judging by the perfect fit. Eighteen-carat gold bespoke monogrammed cufflinks. Vintage Ebel Sportwave watch, the '1911' series. Monogrammed signet pinky ring. And the smell of Pinaud's 'Clubman' aftershave, available at Walgreens, and cigars. That's a whole bunch of expensive yet tacky bling that can only indicate one thing."

Sighing, Assertive Emmanuel J. turns to his brother, Agreeable Louis J. "Louie, my boy," Assertive Emmanuel J. says, "it looks like our plans just hit a significant setback."

As my youngest sons, Assertive Emmanuel J. and Agreeable Louis J., stared up at me in terror, I reflected that two and a half is a mighty young age to have to learn the bitterness of betrayal.

Nonetheless, I was quite grateful to Mynheer Van Huss for compromising his principles and letting me know where and when I could apprehend my errant lads. I know what it feels like to have to compromise one's principles. You can't be a neofeudal land baron with well-nigh uncountable gobs of inherited wealth and still be a Bernie supporter without compromising your principles somewhat.

I also knew that I really should discipline those irrepressible young scamps, but they're just so cute. It's almost enough to make me forget they swiped my platinum card, hijacked conveyances at gunpoint, and attempted to conspire to overthrow me.

My youngest sons, Assertive Emmanuel J. and Agreeable Louis J., weren't pleased about being escorted somewhat forcibly out of Galatoire's.

As I dragged the rapscallions outside, I reflected somewhat ruefully that, no matter how massive your rambling, historically significant, ancestral country estate, no matter how debonair your turnout, no matter how glittering your annual Holiday Party's guest list, and no matter how envy-inspiring your lifestyle is, it only takes two screaming children to reduce you to the status of That Guy Whose Children Embarrass Him In A Nice Restaurant.

Now, my boys, Assertive Emmanuel J. and Agreeable Louis J., are somewhat jaded for two-year-olds. It's not every toddler who can swipe their father's platinum card, hijack a tugboat, outgamble a bunch of rednecks, and generally cause mayhem and havoc all the way from St. Louis to New Orleans.

But even they are a little shocked at what's waiting for them outside Galatoire's.

"Look at this, boys!" I cried. "Why, it's Dear Old Nanny Klagg! I never understood why she quit so unexpectedly, but I found her breeding wolfhounds in Romania. Don't worry about what Daddy was doing in Romania. Top-secret, for the moment. But anyhow, considering you two have misbehaved quite badly lately, I thought it would be a good idea to hire her back for a bit."

"How good it is to see the little dears again!" hisses Nanny Klagg. "I've missed you boys... and I've been looking forward to this day for quite some time. Quite some time indeed, boys."

Assertive Emmanuel J. turns to Agreeable Louis J., his face horror-stricken. "Louie," he says, "we might very well be %#$@&ed."

"Language, boys," hisses Dear Old Nanny Klagg. "I see two little mouths that might need to be washed out with soap!"

Well, all's well that ends well. My youngest sons, Agreeable Louis J. and Assertive Emmanuel J., winged their way back home, albeit not in the manner they are accustomed to. Usually they travel in high style aboard the luxurious Palmerwood G-6 private plane.

"And when we get back to the Palmerwood Infantorium, oh, what fun we'll have," creaks Dear Old Nanny Klagg, sipping her tea. "Why, we'll have elocution and deportment lessons from dusk 'til dawn, and lovely snacks of asparagus juice and liver cookies. You little rascals will rue the day you chased me out of there."

"You think you'll last any longer this time around, you old bat?" snarls Assertive Emmanuel J. "You'll have had pedicures that lasted longer than your tenure at Palmerwood'll be. Well, maybe not you. Your pedicures probably take months, what with those claws of YUURRRRK!"

The lad gasps as the claws in question tighten around his midsection.

"Honestly, lady, just drop us off and keep flying," says Agreeable Louis J. "You've met our older siblings, Intrepid Stella A. and Young Leo J.? Well, we're even worse."

"Oooohhh, I remember your older siblings very well," chuckles Dear Old Nanny Klagg, in her creaky, whispery old voice. "And I'm looking forward to seeing them again ever so much as well."

"Well, then," says Assertive Emmanuel J., rubbing his midsection, "if that's your attitude... may the best monsters win."