March 2, 2006. Evening.
The weather is some serious crap. In like that bloody lion. First snow, then rain-ish sleet, then small clumps of ice, then straight sleet. It will freeze slick tonight.
I pulled out the Prada motorcycle boots - no, that's not an oxymoron - and will bundle, babushka-like - large, furry hat and the black feather boa - to venture out into that icy, slippery mess.
First up, the First Thursday drink-em-up with the skiers - at some place called Redemption in the Fifties on Second Avenue. Not my neighborhood, outside of my habit trail comfort zone.
The plan is to hang in midtown until about 10 p.m., then hop the Six train down to Spring Street (whew, south of 34th Street, I'll be able to exhale), over to L'Orange Bleu, where the core/corps French will be celebrating un autre joyeux fete - for the fetching, fine, young Frenchman, Simon. Some of the gals might say, "See-moan."
At the first gig, I should see Prima Downhill and Datomantrix, maybe the Voice of Reason (whose behavior of late suggests that I rename her The Kissing Bandit).
At the second, L-Diva, Liz Taylor Jr., and Surfer Girl.
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March 3, 2006. Mid-day.
The sun is out and perhaps because I want it so much, it feels warmer.
First Thursday was a hoot. La Latina and GV Wonder showed, rollicking-frolicking. And the digital cameras were flashing, most of all, mine.
True to recent form, The Voice of Reason demonstrated again why I should call her The Kissing Bandit. I've witnessed the activity now four times, I think? She meets a fellow, and in the space of forty-five minutes, goes into a heavy lip-lock.
La Latina remarked, "See? What did I tell you?"
I could have stayed, but as planned, I returned to the subway station at 53rd Street, took the wrong escalator before figuring out the strange, circuitous route under Citicorp to the downtown Six.
The French were in fine form at L'Orange Bleu.
Birthday boy.
I nearly lost one of my little pave diamond earrings. It fell out as I peeled off the layers of winter clothing. Ma boucle d'oreille - yikes. The proprietor gave me a flashlight and I found it, incroyable. I cannot afford to lose any diamonds (no matter how small or clustered) right now.
Cocktails, chit-chat. A flaming birthday cake.
And a funny. After someone spilled Sambuca on me (no sticky, licorice-smelling gunk, please), I hoofed it downstairs to wash off in the women's, but not before I heard a loud voice, "I have had sex twice in the last month!"
A heavy German accent. I turned and looked at one fellow bleating to another as I made my way to the bathroom door. He caught my eye, and I said, "Good for you."
I can't see an American guy shouting the same thing. Well, maybe I can - but I have to believe that an American guy of similar age might think that two times in one month isn't anything to brag about (and I don't like ending sentences in prepositions either).
That guy was still out there haranguing his buddy when I left the women's.
"You're German, right?" I ventured.
"Yes, we are German."
"Super," and I zipped right back up the stairs.
When I left L'Orange Bleu, re-bundled, wearing one earring, the other one safe in my wallet, I noted the Germans chatting up the last, straggling patrons. Bon courage, guys.
I made for the nearest subway station, the N-line this time. The train was delayed. Track workers walked between the rails, carrying plastic white bags filled with god-knows-what. The four of us waiting on the platform could see the lights of the next train, down the tunnel, on hold. One by one, the workers stepped off the track to allow the engine to crawl into the station. We boarded, and I got off three northbound stops later.
The ice crunched under the tread of my boots as I crossed westward, away from Madison Park and down the long block to my front door.
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