A Knight at the Loxbury

Another Saturday night and I was canoodling with my hardware and haagen dazs (Cookies and Cream has never rejected me, but has been physically abusive towards me for years)  SNL was in reruns as was Piers Morgan and so I took my friend Larry up on his gratuitous invite  to have fun and go out, like normal people.  Though that adjective has never applied to me,  I decided to deviate from my exceptionally thrilling routine where I debate the pros and cons of female skins vs male skins (on furs, of course) and deciphering Loehmann's labels, but then I remember I was broke and a vegetarian to boot.  With nothing else to do, I grudgingly squeeze into my "vintage "Herve Leger bandage dress and Laboutains.  I would be remiss if I did not admit that the last time I wore this particular corset, I was partying like it was 1999, because it was!  Being the intense artiste that I am, I decided that it would be beneficial to my health to get some exercise and get rid of the cobwebs that were encompassing me and my party gear.  A night out was what I needed and I was determined to have fun. I was going to be young, beautiful and worry-free, with the exception of obsessing if I was fat or if the cute guy who resembled a somewhat haggard Tatum Channing liked me.  I was going to prove I still had "it", whatever "they" say it means.

Since it was early, we met Larry's "friends", a word that has been diluted by Facebook, who he coincidentally (wink, wink) met through the on-line community.  The Martini Bar located in the Four Seasons Hotel was the assignation site. An over-priced watering hole where the horny, yet mature people meet.  Larry was wearing his navy blue velvet blazer that reminded me of that rich guy on Gilligan's Island.  All that was missing was the cap and the pipe.  Little did my naive Larry know was the brutal fact that his "friends" were coke heads.  When men disappear in the lavatory for hours, they aren't putting on make-up unless they are gay and the lecherous pawing that began shortly proved they weren't.  It wasn't 1999, It was 1989!

As my righteous self kicked in,  I understood why I refrained and abstained from socializing after nine pm.  I had no patience.  I was officially an ancient relic bound for the assisted living.  I yearned for my
I pod and bathtub followed by seducing myself with a glass of chablis.  I wanted to go home....NOW.
Larry must have been having a stimulating evening because he decided he wanted to extend the revelry. I was stuck.  I was left with three middle-aged men and me.  Either a great comedy routine or a harrowing nightmare.  Off we went to a Kosher restaurant, since this was a respectful bunch.  When we
sat round-robin (after another "potty trip") bachelor number one became extremely aggressive with me and became like an octopus, all hands.  I calmly explained to him that just like you don't mix meat and milk at a kosher establishment, you are forbidden to touch anyone either.   The guy bought it, because I meant it.  My knight in the blue blazer was a bigger pushover than I was, since he was left with the bill that the waiter served like a subpoena.  My jovial friend was uncharacteristically taken aback, but did not utter a sound.

By now it was after twelve and my prince still had not made an appearance and my glass slippers were killing me, but the glorious night was not finished yet.  Off we went maneuvering the maze of Manhattan traffic from Midtown to the Village to "La Sook"..  At this point I felt like screaming "La Fook", but Larry wanted to have fun.  He assured me that he would "protect" me if the guy tried to molest me.  No offense, but that would be like Paris Hilton winning a boxing match over Oscar De La Hoya.  My "knight" was taking me deep into the bowels of some Hookah equipped, decibel shattering, 20 year old-filled bridge and tunnel crowd club in the village.  I was NOT happy.

After one more round of "freshening up", our bachelors procured a "table".  In club speak, this is as cool and ridiculously expensive as it gets.  I, being the observant jew that I am, decided to move to the music on the dance floor to get away from any wandering appendages.  As I danced to Whitney Houston and Cee-lo I felt Bachelor one behind me.  It was John Travolta from the seventies.  I carefully avoided his advances and returned to our table where two attractive women joined us.  I couldn't understand any utterances other than "Hi" and As I was "nudging" Larry like a cranky kid on a family vacation,  I turned around and saw a freak of nature., literally. Bachelor number one was making out with one of our new arrivals...he didn't even give her a mint or a glass of water.  I guess I was on a different sphere.  Was this Planet Uranus or a new reality show where they gaged the reaction of unsuspecting patrons with hidden cameras.  I attempted to maintain my equilibrium and unconditional love towards humanity, but I wanted to get out of there before I went postal with my apple martini.  We finally left at 1:30 with Larry using his Visa to magnanimously pay for their generosity or what I called pretentiousness.  If this was anyone's idea of a good time,  then a career as an actuary might excite them.

Though I was exhausted the next day,  I thanked Larry for showing me what I was not missing.  When I reviewed the memory in slow replay, I realized that for one night I had been one of those dorky old people that act like they are twenty.  It wasn't a pretty, but I appreciated my flatscreen, laptop and ice-cream even more the next Saturday night at my personal pajama party.  It wasn't a Night out, but the best Night in I ever had.