I know I don’t get out much, and I’m getting older, but I sure do find myself shaking my head and saying, “Who are these people?” an awful lot these days.

Who are these people who don’t like riding bikes? Who are these people who don’t really care what they eat? Who are these people who like living in back-of-beyond New Mexico?

I sound like I know best, but at least in the case of dinner parties, I do.

Here’s what made me realize: I was composing a glowing little note about myself on the self-promotion machine that is AmazonConnect (have you bought my book? Now I can email you, whether you like it or not!), and there was this tip for how to write a note:

When posting, we suggest observing “dinner party” etiquette. Engage in conversation with your readers using thoughtful, interesting or amusing dialogue while avoiding profanity and insulting comments.

Well, no wonder some people think dinner parties are dull and grownup and a sign of utter lameness! No wonder they don’t realize a good dinner party, like the ones we have at Tamara’s, with 20 peopled wedged in the living room eating all of spring’s green treats and yelling to be heard, is the pinnacle of human interaction. Because if I had to sit and observe any etiquette at all, and not swear, and always be interesting, well, I’d probably rather just go do bong hits too.

Also, I was catching up on New York Times food sections, and I was reading another one of those utterly weird columns that this woman (man?) named Alex Witchel occasionally writes, in which s/he moans about the perils of dining in NYC’s upper stratosphere—in this case, about political discussions at dinner. That was when I started saying, “Who are these people?!” out loud.

(On a side note, I’m not sure why Witchel writes these things. It’s hard to muster sympathy for someone whose whole purpose seems to be complaining about the very thing they spend all of their time doing, which is eating annoying meals with annoying people who are most likely very rich. And why does the Times publish it? It’s this creeping Styles-section-ification of the rest of the paper.)

Anyway, what was particularly gruesome about this essay was…well, lots of things. First, this, describing guests opining on current events:

The men, as a rule, will have Big Opinions to match their Big Jobs: War is bad. War is good. Their wives take a different tack. They read the fine print, those girls, in between Pilates and collagen shots. Their strategy to near the end of every relevant article in the morning papers, memorize a telling quote, then recite it.

If two of these ladies happen to cite the same quote, well, heavens, it’s “the conversational equivalent of wearing the same dress.”

I’m not relating—are you? What’s extra gross about this is the knowing, catty tone in which it’s written, that implies I, the reader, know exactly what Witchel is talking about.

Well, thank god I don’t. Yes, at my dinner parties, there may be some loud guys with opinions, but whatever—they’re drunk. And they’re probably saying something offensive, but so are the “girls,” and we’ve all read the same story in the New Yorker. There are no salad forks or finger bowls (a previous meaty topic of a Witchel column), and seconds and thirds are the norm. Eating great food that we thought a lot about and took the day preparing is part of the conversation, but so are a million other topics. Sharing food can bring together the most disparate group of people, not just as a pretext for meeting, but as a source of pleasure that everyone can have in common. People who don’t get this are missing out.

What also annoys me about Witchel’s essay, and the Amazon advice, and every other commonly accepted rule for dinner-party socializing, is the implication that you shouldn’t be talking about politics at dinner. (Of course, if you know jack about politics, as Witchel implies these would-be wonk socialites do[n’t], then I guess you’re screwed any time of day.) Dinner is exactly when you get to know people, and what they think about things, not some enforced period of civility and stultification.

I know not everyone can or wants to dine the way I do, but I’m deeply relieved and grateful that I can. I’d also be happy if I never had to read another Witchel bitch-fest. Maybe the fastest way to that is to get him/her off the social circuit: Hey, Alex, wanna come over to dinner at my place? I promise no one has collagen-injected lips, and there will be lots of profanity.