Memoir is Faulty

My memory is faulty. I have written that before. I have said it out loud too.

As anyone knows from watching any of the myriad police procedurals on television (whether filmed entertainment or "reality"), eyewitness accounts are unreliable.

And then there's James Frey. Poor James Frey. Right. I haven't read A Million Little Pieces. But I have read some of the sturm und drang swirling around the many fictitious accounts he set forth as part of his monster-selling memoir.

I wonder, has anyone checked The Smoking Gun - the on-line outfit that "outed" Frey's lies? How straight up and honest are they? How accurate are their sources? True, they collect all sorts of "official" documents, but I am a skeptical reader. Hmmm...

And then there's Oprah. She gave him a good tongue lashing. And to Frey's publisher too, Nan A. Talese (musn't omit her middle initial). I sit on the German Book Office advisory board with the eminent Ms. Talese, although she has not attended any meetings in the last two years. She came once, though. Tall, imperious (to me), I remember that she aspirated her vowels.

I saw her more recently, at a distance, at The Moth Ball, accompanying her husband - okay, the genius author, Gay.

But basta, as my nonnas might say.

Last Saturday night, the gang was out party-hopping, night-crawling. I caught Liz Taylor Jr. at Moomia, sporting her brilliant, new Jimmy Choo handbag. Yes, it did smell good. Better, almost than that new car smell.

I chatted with Surfer Girl, mobile-to-mobile, before heading to Moomia, expecting to catch up with her irascible self through the course of the night. That was not to be.

Liz Jr. dashed out after a couple of hours at Moomia, I thought to meet up with Surfer Girl and head up to Pacha. I went to Pacha - god, I hate that place - I vow never to go into that cavernous, dark, grotesque, "fun house" again.

Surfer Girl and Liz Jr. were nowhere to be found - as I if could have spied them in that miasma.

The next morning, after I inquired, they each sent me emailed missives about their shenanigans that night. Mind you, they were together. Here is what each wrote:

First, from Surfer Girl:

Dear Hooker, old buddy of mine,

My best friend and her husband decided to hang in the city for a while after the hockey game, so after dinner, I ran up to meet them and talk them into staying in for the night at my place.

We met Liz Jr., and the boys at 007 (never heard of it) around 11 p.m. It was packed, so we went to Pastis. As we were walking, we ran into Liz Jr's friend, the UK-Guy, and his friend, Cute-Guy. As we were now one big happy group, we stormed Pastis and took over. Three drinks later, we went off to Cielo. At four in the morning we were getting kicked out, but none of us were ready to be done with the evening. At the corner, we ran into guys handing out fliers for an after-hours club.

The six of us jumped into a limo, and off we went. Half of us dropped out. I made out with Cute-Guy at one point in the club. I might hang out with him this weekend. I would have brought him home, but my friend (see start) was staying over.

Cute-Guy had to take the train back home to Princeton, and it was about eight a.m. by then. The three of us who were left stayed to dance some more, watch the freak show, until ten a.m., or something like that. So yesterday, my friend and I lounged all day and into the night, watching movies on the television, smoking ciggies, and drinking Gatorade.

Now, what I want to know is: What happened to Surfer Girl's friend's husband? And who the hell is this Cute-Guy with whom she was snogging?

Second version, from Liz Taylor, Jr.:

Honestly. It started as an innocent dinner at Giorgione 508. We came to meet you (at Moomia), but when we got there, the place wasn't hoppin'. I was ready to leave when you arrived - and I had to meet up with Surfer Girl who had just left to get her girlfriend and her husband.

We went to Double Seven (Oh, that place - now I get it) still cannot find info on the place). They were full to capacity and didn't let us in. So we walk down the street and guess who I bump into? My heart was pounding, I lost equilibrium, and didn't know what to do: it was no less than UK-Guy (Liz Jr. had gone on a couple of dates with him - so far).

Surfer Girl "jumps" all over him, introduces herself to his friend Cute-Guy, and off we go to Pastis. But there is a line stretching around the corner. I walk up to the front and get everyone in - because "I'm good like that." But I got into trouble  because Surfer Girl made a drunken scene at the door. Chris, the bouncer came over to me. "Girl, you can't do this." So I looked like the asshole.

No matter. Surfer Girl asks UK-Guy for his Black Amex and gets the tab started. We had a great time. Some dirty old man hit on me, and UK-Guy rescued me, taking my hand, and going for a little public display of affection. I'm not one to kiss on the street, much less in a bar, and much less at Pastis.

We got kicked out of Pastis (I'm assuming it was closing time), then went to Cielo, had a little dance-off, more kissing, and got kicked out of there too (closing time too). Stranded on the sidewalk, someone handed us dinky fliers for an after-hours club. A ghetto stretch limo pulls up, and we in we hop - off to another club. Don't even ask me what time it was, it's a blur.

We arrived to a smelly, dark, $30-cover charge of a place. They served no liquor, what? Next time, I'll carry a flask or a bottle of Veuve in my new, bright orange purse.

We grab a couple of Red Bulls and bottled water and watch the people: gays, lesbians, young and old, ghetto peeps, yoyo's, Chicanos, Jerseys - name 'em and they were there, dancing to most ridiculous music. I guess it made sense to them, probably they were all on drugs.

I checked my watch. It was 6:30 a.m. I had a meeting that same day. UK-Guy walked me to a cab and sent me home.

Surfer Girl and her friend stayed. I found out later that they left the club at 11 a.m.

So: Close, but not identical accounts. I believe everyone survived to live another day. Another day in the city.

For a quality memoir, stop muck-raking about and read this one: Ann Marlowe's just released The Book of Trouble: A Romance.

Comments

[cute guy (thanks, thanks, thanks!)]

Hello! Hope you got home in all the snow ok.

Surfergirl gave me your blog url to check out - can't wait for next write up of our great night last night (between the 6 of us we will probably piece most of of the evening together)
Anyway, I also got to thinking about who uk guy should be referred to (he really wanted to be called cute guy). Would 'backdoor baguet boy' raise too many questions?

Must go now because i have to start planning my week around revisiting the various places we hit through the evening to hunt down my various id and credit cards - seem to have forgotten at least something in each club we went to - probably something to do with the 4 (yes 4) bottles of vodka we got through while wishing surfergirl a very HAPPY BIRTHDAY!