“The peacemakers should have known better than that,” I object. I go on to shift the topic to another hotspot, Sudan. Eventually Rick interjects a notion distilled from our second-born son who has worked for UNICEF there. To wit, Sudan’s crises stem in some part from British colonials, thinking that they knew best in 1946 when they decided to integrate Northern and Southern provinces under one government. Almost totally excluded by the British from the new government, political groupings from the South eventually took arms against Northern authorities in a bloody civil war, next a ten-year hiatus in that war, and then a deadly resumption for 21 years of hostilities. Only in the last couple of years has that conflict in the South staggered towards resolution.

Lately, as everyone well knows about Darfur's provinces, mass murders by some reckonings of far over 200,000 have been accompanied by displacements of well over 2,000,000. Big-time genocide and anarchy. Our main riff on those data tonight is the debate we have about numbers -- "The deaths have reached 400,000", somebody down-table maintains. Our group decides to stick closer to the lower, better-researched, still-ghastly 200,000 figure.

I am tickled to see Tom Hodgkinson finding common ground with Margaret MacMillan. As well, our anti-State, self-described anarchist is attentive to my little recital about Sudan's failed State and its current anarchy.

During his turn at conversation, Tom deplores “people who simply cannot help interfering in other people’s lives...They make perfect politicians, bureaucrats, and fat cats. They want to make something happen, but they don’t really care what it is."

Beyond questioning the role of government, Tom is questioning the belief that work is virtuous. I guess it depends on what type of work one is working.

A few twists, turns, and even some back-loops in our patter and it develops that Margaret began researching her Paris book more than a dozen years ago, and that she spent three intense years writing it up. Her work ethic is one that many in my generation somehow grew up with. Impressed by that dedication and talent and doubtless affected by Michael Jordan’s liqueur, Rick mutters at Margaret his favorite superlative -- and Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s favorite too -- “Grand!!”.

Frankly, Rick overdoes these "Grands." I know he does not want to wallow second-hand in the glow of our important guests. But poor devil -- he is getting carried away.

Like Margaret's central subjects, the Presidents Wilson and Nixon, my husband is "complicated." Rather, it's Rick's plans that are complicated. There! I said it. But to keep the peace, I had better add that sometimes, somehow, his plans do work. More or less.

Rick is different than Tom. The younger man has this charming emphasis on serendipity. "I’ve found, Tom opines, "that there isn’t any correlation whatsoever between the hours put in and the quality of what comes out. Most of the Beatles’ songs probably originated in about five minutes. Often the things that a lot of work has gone into have been incredibly bad because they’re overworked...I like the idea that says ‘What a small amount of effort is required to produce a great work of art.’"

I want to question that provocative 'take' on the production of art. Before I can jump in, however, Tom is expostulating: "Like, there’s a Picasso piece, I don’t know what it’s called, where he basically turned a bicycle handlebar into a bull’s head. You know, it was just a matter of putting two different things together.”

Difference of opinion flare within our huddle. My Rick looks fidgety. He gives a good impression of wanting to challenge Tom.

Right now, Tom is approvingly quoting the French, "Travailler moins, produire plus," the less you work, the more you produce...

Oh my, Tom Hodgkinson really lets the sunshine in, or is it the moonshine? Whatever, his pitch for perpetual idleness entices. Rick seems interested. Perhaps Tom's free-spirited vision also appeals to a side of Michael Jordan, super-affluent retiree. Margaret MacMillan, though, looks startled into skepticism. I feel wary too. Is Young Tom a role-model for doing nothing?

He takes cognizance of our reserve. Tom says that he has thought about a lot more than the idleness of, say, drunken sex. He says those last two words emphatically, like DRUNKEN SEX. Folding his hands casually (and defensively?), Tom claims that men are better idlers than women: it's an old story to say "that women's work is never done, but it's got some truth in it. Women tend to be thinking about a lot of different things at the same time whereas a man can work incredibly hard [on something he wants to do] and with great concentration on one thing, and then stop and do absolutely nothing. Women can't believe that we can just sit there doing nothing, when there's all this work to be done."

There's something to that. And when I bring up the transcendent gratification that comes with service and the use of one's talents to achieve goals, Tom springs forward: "What I've found in working less is you start to get a bit more involved...in your own community. Also, you have time to do things because they're fun and not because you get paid."

On the spot, shortly we all agree with Tom about what Society should do next. (By 'Society,' he seems to mean the big, bad Government he's dubious about.) Society should introduce four-day work-weeks. Hence Tom would bring back Saint Monday, a day off "widely honored throughout the 18th, 19th, and even the 20th centuries." In that spirit of fellowship that suffuses the dying moments of dinner parties, everyone promises to obey Tom's ultimate commandment, "Play." I'm thinking about playing with our grandchildren.

I am not sure if anyone at our party budged much from their pre-existing views on the apt balance between hard work and sheer idleness, between the State that does "most things badly" and the State that does yield benefits for its citizens.

Stand by, though: maybe Tom has had an effect. Rick is leering now, like he is more comfortable about becoming a libertarian or a hedonist. Or both...

Tonight, Barb’s been clattering back and forth to/from our kitchen, puttering around fixing different courses, parsley here, fresh raspberries there.

(Agreed, I should help more than simply making soup for these shindigs. I ought to be like our gallant son-in-law, cooking meals some nights. Maybe all nights.)

Barb now is positioning herself as the evening's promoter of Tim Berners-Lee’s work. Clearly she’s googled-up on his achievements. Before him, the Internet had millions of documents secreted away on servers round the world, accessible only through user-unfriendly lingo.

Seems Barb's eager to know about inventors’ minds, how they tick. “Tim, did you deliberately set out to create simple systems with simple rules that could be democratically decentralized and acceptable to all? For you, was it ‘Ready, Aim, Fire’? Or was it more exploratory, like ‘Ready, Fire, and then Aim’?” (Barb's curiosity is but one her gifts.)

But then, before Tim can answer, Barb's querying again. (Meantime, nostalgia jolts me. Somehow, Barb's question-per-minute style tonight is reminding me of Dr. I.Q., on old-time radio.)

Barb: “Tim, did you really enable the Hypertext Transfer Protocol, Hypertext Mark-up Language, a client interface for your World Wide Web, and" -- here Barb blinks -- "the very first server to store Web pages and dish them out on users' demand?"

"I have a related question," Lisa Kudrow piles on the much-questioned chap. "In the computer world, Tim, it's difficult to tell who really is the pioneer and who is the developer. Various people may contribute to the important idea’s development -- but the prizes, patents, and profits go to just a handful. Is that how it is?"

Tim wears a grimace that might mean “C'mon now, ladies, no one subscribes anymore to the lone-gunman theory of technological inspiration.”

Jack Kiley jumps in to emphasize that the women's grasp of who-does-what is “good enough.” Many women don’t realize, he adds, that sometimes in some spheres these days, “good enough” is all that’s required.

For Tim, however, Jack’s endorsement is not good enough. He starts to list a crowd whose work he’s drawn upon – Vint Cerf, Bob Kahn, and Paul Barran for coming up with packet-switching, Paul Mockapetris (sp?) for Domain Name Service, Dave Somebody at MIT, and Van/Vann Somebody Else also at MIT.

I bring up the developer of the e-Bay auction. Tim buys online but, as far as I can tell, Tim doesn't see himself standing conceptually on that chap's shoulders. Jack refers to the creators of Facebook, Napster, and the Electronic Readers coming on the market this month. "Software is still a hotbed for young conceptual innovators."

As you can see, our dinner-party conversations sprawl. They’re anything but systematic or systemic.

Tim must be satisfied, I remark, to have invented e-mail. And then I trot out how I first went online, in the mid- ‘90s. I share that story because, well, because Barb's food is fantastic, and consequently we all feel warm, cozy, relaxed, and open to swapping autobiographies.

Actually, it was not until the ultra-late '90s that I first e-mailed. Tonight's group, though, is so tech-savvy that a confession of late adoption would be humiliating.

Here's the scoop. Years ago, during the business meeting of an international conference with 70 of my peers in Folklore, a friend (Ed) stood up to comment on an agenda item. He said our organization couldn't start an electronic newsletter -- because “a couple people, like Townsend” (me) "do not e-mail."

Tonight Jack guffaws as I tell our guests about what happened next at that international conference: I said, “Come on, fellow-Folklorists, surely the number is larger than just a ‘couple.’ Let's have a show of hands of all who are not into e-mail?” Confidently I raised my hand, the brave truth-sayer fearlessly contesting widely accepted falsehoods.

No other hand shot up, not one.

Next day, I sent my first-mail. In due course too, the Folklorists started an electronic newsletter.

Lucian Freud and Elisabeth Lloyd happen to arrive at our door almost simultaneously. Taking and hanging their coats, Barb says that tonight we’ve invited folk who deal differently and significantly with the general place of women in society. Lucian says he knows a couple hundred women, but isn’t sure he generally knows women’s place in society. To myself, I say that’d be like Joe DiMaggio having a 56-game hitting streak in 1941 and claiming he doesn’t know baseball.

Elisabeth says she’s delighted to meet the creator of Lucian’s vibrant and powerful paintings. The 85-year-old Lucian says he no longer 'does' many dinner parties, but nicely adds that he's glad to be here.

Elisabeth is curious too about the man from Beijing who affects half a billion women through his tightly managed state and its rule of only one child per urban family (farmers and minorities can have more). I say that when we invited him, we thought he'd be Time's "Man of the Year." It was too awkward and late to dis-invite him when he was dubbed only a Runner-Up (along with Al Gore, J.K. Rowling, and U.S. General Petraeus).

We chat briefly about the results of the Iowa caucuses last night, including the stirring cadences of "That Speech" by Obama. We disagree over whether it was too long or whether it was diminished by being telepromptered.

Because Hu Jintao advocates ‘mutually respectful talk,’ in advance of his arrival I’ve got a little list. First, I entreat Lucian and Elisabeth, “Please don’t talk with the President about Chinese dissidents.” Apparently, that’s a cold-war category, without full meaning now that some internal criticism is O.K.

Second, I plead with Elisabeth, Lucian, and Barb not to bring up the plights of those left behind in the economic transformation and hyper-consumerism of China’s past 20 years. I refer to the elders whose needs exceed the country’s resources, the youngsters from non-elite universities who can’t find relevant jobs, the cashless who often are refused treatment by Chinese hospitals, and the down-and-outs whose organs are harvested and sold. “Remember,” I entreat in my long-winded way, “China wants to project the best possible image to us and the world. We don’t have to be apologists for Hu, but the chap has taken steps to reduce rural poverty and promote social justice, eh?"

“Also,” the control freak in me hovers over Lucian and Elisabeth, “I know the scientific community says that time is running out, and global warming is worrisome, but kindly forbear in giving voice to that tired complaint of all Westerners, that 1) the air is filthy and soot-layered in China, and 2) the country’s pollution is epic, despoiling the whole world’s environment and health.” I point out that polls indicate that voters in the West lately rate the environmental issue at the bottom of issues they care about (after the economy, war, money, health, etc.) That's a lame rating.

Nonetheless I request forbearance because, well...because a couple weeks ago when I had phoned-in our invitation, one of President Hu’s aides had said his government had imposed a fuel tax, mandated a 20 percent improvement in energy productivity, and envisaged a 10 percent improvement in air quality by 2010. “It’s a start,” the aide had said, hoping we’d avoid hectoring along those lines.

“How can anything be discussed,” Elisabeth queries, “when we have so many things we’re not allowed to discuss? “

“What can we talk about?” Lucian demands with what I interpret as ruefulness.

“Everything else,” I say, my bum against the wall and fearful they’ll both say, “Bor-ing, Un-in-ter-est-ing.” Instead I hear, from my co-conspirator in tonight’s time: "Now that reminds me of something I heard or read somewhere -- 'There is no such thing as an uninteresting subject, only uninterested people.'" I'm not sure that's true; is oatmeal interesting? what if something can't teach you anything new or helpful?

I persist with my go-easy-on-Huisms, although probably I’m alienating Elisabeth and Lucian by requesting they provide openings for the President to shine, to show how far his country has come of late. For instance, I say, “Let’s give the chap the chance to boast about his moderately increasing spending to repair China’s shredded social net. Let him preen too about educational progress in remote areas. When our neighbor visited there 15 years ago, most English teachers couldn’t even speak English. Now, they can.”

My final argument, which may be either my weakest or strongest: since Chinese do not like being criticized by westerners, the more we complain to Hu about his authoritarianism, the more he may feel a need to rally his citizens against the ways of foreign devils.

Have we covered our bases? We'll see, we'll see.

--------------
UPDATE: Barb's quote from 'somewhere' about uninterestedness, which I just googled-up, is from G.K. Chesterton. Didn't know my wife was into Chesterton. The lady keeps surprising me.

When Joan and I re-enter the LR, everyone is sitting around munching cheese on crackers. (This afternoon, I had mixed a mild cheese with a spicy topping of pepper jelly). Bob Geldof is explaining that he has Boomtown Bob and other narratives within him. And that he is evolving all the time. “Life has widened the narrow identities I started with.”

Billy Graham appreciates that perspective, saying that certainly he too is not the same man that he was, say, 20, 30, 40 years ago. "I am still a man in process.”

To which Bob says, “Do you ever run into the hellfire preacher who used to be you?” Instead of answering directly, Billy points to Bob’s slightly chubby gut and asks, “How long as it been, Bob, since you stopped working out at the gym?”

Gazing down at his belly, Bob smirks.

But then Billy does run with the idea of the guy he used to be. He shares examples of how he has tempered his hellfire views. “I talk less about sinning and more about having an abundant life. Less about fearing God and more about accepting God’s saving grace. I talk less about satanic forces in human affairs and a lot more about compassion.”

We all go on the record as favoring compassion, yes.

Joan of Arc says that identities not only change but, worse, can be misperceived. “Case in point: I get the impression that you gentlemen assume little Francois in there,” she points to her baby in the BR, “was from my womb.”

How come Joan is excluding me with that ‘you gentleman’ bit? Of course I assume Francois is hers. And what a strange phrase, "from my womb." Melodrama.

“Yes, yes,” we all react, although now we also are beginning to wonder. “And you seem like such a natural mother,” Billy Graham smiles.

“Well, my friends in this room,” she says without resentment but with a touch of psychospeak, “like other men in History, you have misperceived me. Sorry but I cannot construct myself as a biological mother. And Francois? Ah, dear Francois, he’s the child I nurtured, up to the end of my trial. I hope you don't mind that I brought him along tonight?”…

Over desert (fresh strawberries with port wine sabayon, a recipe from Barb’s Aunt Elsy), I proclaim, “I’ve called us all together to say how great we all are.”

Back at committee meetings that I used to have to attend years ago, that was a ‘laugh line’ I’d deploy. I’d make that crack that after some of us colleagues had over-waited for our convener to appear. From tonight’s colleagues, though, silence.

I get serious: “Barb and I are pleased to spend time with you tonight. Everybody has potential, yet you three exemplify folk who’ve profoundly taken advantage of yours. I’m not asking you to boast, but I'd appreciate if each of you could give us how you pulled it off. How you actualized yourselves.”

“This sounds like something out of a bad short story,” Jackie Robinson says.

From the others, nothing. Is that Strike 1?

I hadn't said anything about a story. I was simply inviting some 'handles' from guests who have 'made it.' To my brand-new chum, I muster, “A bad story? Jackie, how so?”

“Simple. You and Barb have brought together three very different people, from assorted cultures. Food’s good, we have our moments, and nobody’s stepping on anybody’s toes. For a good short story, though, Rick, what you need is a fight, a contest, a car chase, or something adversarial. That’s not going to happen here. We're too polite. Besides, you’re asking us to toot our own horns, which grounded people don’t need to do. Don’t like to do.”

Sometimes you don’t fight. You try harder. I reply, “You know how a parent always worries about his kids and grandkids, wants them to have the best guidance. Right along with Lord Chesterfield’s letters to his son and grandson, giving counsel is a thing that elders feel they ought to do. Up to now, a lot of what I’ve told my family are tired old bromides, like ‘Aim high.’ ‘Save money.’ ‘Find a work/life balance.’ 'Overcome your flaws.' 'Discover your inner self.' 'Serve others.' ‘Dress conservatively so folk will be fooled into thinking your progressive ideas are conservative too.’”

Muhammad's interest had been egging me on in this litany, but he cocks a critical eyebrow at my last prescription.

"Anyway, chaps, I'm not asking for anything as ambitious or arty as a narrative about yourself. No big deal like that. I'm just soliciting a couple quick truths on how you composed your lives. How your careers are happy expression of yourselves... Is that too vague?"

Again, blank faces. Game practically over?

Everyone sits forward as Muhammad Yunus posits, “I would recommend that your kids distance themselves from what they learned in formal education.”

At the risk of sounding rude, I react, “You cannot possibly believe that.”

But he does. “This grows out of my experience shortly after I returned home to the famine of 1974. We tried to ignore it. But then skeleton-like people began showing up in the capital, Dhaka. Soon the trickle became a flood. Hungry people everywhere. Often they sat so still that one could not be sure whether they were alive or dead…Nothing in the economic theories I taught reflected the life around me. How could I go on telling my students make-believe stories in the name of Economics? I needed to run away from these theories and from my textbooks and discover the real-life economics of a poor person’s experience.”

Our Laureate couples his story with a piece of hard-earned advice. His warning: "It’s very difficult when you have learned something a certain way. Not only your mind absorbs it; your eyes also are trained to see in a certain way because eyes are only as good as you’ve been trained to see…”

More wine, more reflection from Perween Warsi: “Our experiences differ, Muhammad. From my family’s kitchen in Bihar, I already had a vision of what South Asian food should be like.”

“I had no vision,” Muhammad reveals. “All I felt, if you would like to call it a kind of drive, was can I make myself useful to another person, a person who was in terrible difficulty…I didn’t have a plan…I had only immediate things today, only today, not tomorrow…Wherever I went to school, [academics] taught me [macro considerations] about…billions of dollars in national plans and [over-arching and long-range] investment plans and so on…That is what I [had] learned in school…trying to acquire a kind of a bird’s eye view. You drive hard and see everything…

“Then I realized in my work…that when you fly high, you really don’t see things very clearly. You make it up because it’s such a blurred reality. You make up stories and piece them together and then you lose touch of the reality because you fly too high…You tend to survey everything and decide on a particular point, then you swoop down and pick it up. In a worm’s eye view, you don’t have that advantage of looking at everything. You just see whatever is close to you. Then I began to see that the worm’s eye view was logical, it was reasonable, and it was important -- that small problems must be solved because people’s lives depended on all these tiny things. I was not trying to solve everything.”

Jackie Robinson, now sipping coffee (not Chock Full): “Sounds like you were ashamed of sticking so long with your bird’s eye view.”

Muhammad puts a napkin down and looks around the room.
“Very much true. I was very frustrated that my background didn’t help me. All those days that I spent very hard to learn things. Some things could be useful, but if it was not useful it became a handicap. I couldn't see clearly because my mind was leading me toward a different kind of vision of what reality is...”

What Muhammad Yunus says about ignoring micro realities rings true for Folklore and me.

The perspective in my academic discipline gradually shifted across the last 40 years, towards understanding individual identity via close ethnographic data. I failed to ride the expanding concepts of ‘tradition’ and ‘folk.’ I stuck to texts and archives. I clung to macro generalizations as well as comparisons about groups. I should have attempted some reconciliation between my bird’s eye and others’ worm’s eye. What I did probably wasn’t useless, but it wasn’t pioneering either.

I excuse myself and head for the toilet. Not to cry or slash wrists, but to answer a call of nature.

As I shut the door and before I proactively turn on the fan, Jackie Robinson is talking about Did You See Jackie Robinson Hit that Ball?, a song once high on Billboard R & B chart. After singing only a phrase of it, Jackie stops and says "I don't have much musicianship to begin with." Perween Warsi shouts, “Stay with it, Jackie, stay with it.”