Ibuprofen, You Are A Friend Of Mine
Another round of holiday parties were knocked out this weekend. Saturday night, the Farmboyz and I attended a mobbed party on the 18th floor of a Garment District office tower, where the hosts have held onto an old unfinished apartment for decades, despite the rest of the building turning into commercial space. With rough concrete floors and floor to ceiling views of the Chrysler Building and the New York Life tower, it was the sort of shabby/chic apartment that I'd often imagined that I might have if I ever lived in New York. (Like the one Jennifer Beals lived in in Flashdance, just not in Pittsburgh. Also, this one didn't have that cool freight elevator with roll-up gate thingy.)
Within a hour of our arrival, the crowd had swelled to over 100 guys and the two rolling coatcheck racks were full of peacoats and Nicole Miller. All black, natch. We ran into the always charming Eric and a posse of Time/CNN/Fox News guys. I never can remember which one works where, it seems they are always jumping ship from one to the other. I caught up with super-smartie Time critic Richard Lacayo and managed to fudge my way past forgetting his boyfriend's name. Again. Oy. After the party, we hiked the dozen blocks across town to find the Eagle bursting at the seams with seaminess. I abandoned the Farmboyz after only one beer, as we'd all overimbibed at the party. In fact, the next morning Father Tony reported finding photos on his camera that none of us could recall having posed for.
Sunday afternoon, the Farmboyz and I were hosted by the erudite RJ Keefe and his lovely wife Kathleen, who gathered together a quite lively and interesting group of folks, mostly strangers to one another. I met one of RJ's favorite bloggers, a fascinating fellow who reads JMG, but since my knowledge of French begins and ends with a certain Patti Labelle song, I can't reciprocate, which is regretablel, as we bonded over our mutual love of City Of Night and Gordon Merrick novels. As happens at all Manhattan parties, everyone ended up in a tight circle discussing real estate, "market value" being the phrase of the day.
After RJ's party broke up, Father Tony and I grabbed a cab to the Dugout, nearly choking on the $24 fare, courtesy of the latest "waiting time" increase. Ack, it used to be about $16 from my place to Christopher Street! Two hours at the Dugout, then began the cab caravan up to the Eagle, where DJ Paul Ferrer was in top form. I think I asked him about three songs and forgot all three titles immediately. (Check out Paul's Flickr account, as he's uploaded the last three years of his always-hot, often hilarious Sunday beer bust invitations. Totally NSFW!)