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Mon, January 29
French Tuesday Special
On Saturday night, we waited outside of PM halfheartedly. I’d sure eaten enough to want to collapse in bed in a food coma. But V was totally into extending the night (we had had an early dinner at 8 o’ clock, which is unheard of for J and me), so we ponied up to the bouncer. “How many girls you got?” he asked us, as if us girls could be sold as a two for one special. “Two girls, two guys,” we told him. “Nah, nah, we can’t have that. We got far too many guys in there already. Girls ONLY.” We stepped back and watched five groups of guys approach the bouncer and then get rebuffed. “I thought you said it was two guys and six girls,” the bouncer said to one of the would-be club goers. “Yes, we will have more girls coming, but it actually is four guys and two girls.” “Well then, where are the girls? I don’t see any girls,” said the bouncer. “They’re coming. They’re on their way.” “Sorry man, it’s not gonna happen.” Then, this crazily dressed black dude came out of the club. He wore dark shades, all black, some knee high leather boots, and a furry hat. J leaned in and whispered in my ear, “See that guy? Just say to him, “Aramis, can we have the French Tuesday special?” I had no idea what that meant, but figured it must be some kind of cool kid code. Surely J would know. I put on a fake French accent and tried my best, to ask for a French Tuesday special. “But it is Saturday,” Aramis responded. “Yes, but perhaps you can give us the Tuesday special?” I tried asking again. My faulty logic must have worked, because then he asked, “How many?”and ushered us into the club. With no cover. Mais oui! It had been some time since I’d been to a club in the Meatpacking, and I was surprised at how old I felt in comparison to the other girls around me. Oh, by the way, the club was 95% girls. There were maybe, three guys, including the bartender. The girls traveled in packs, urgently pulling one another in different directions so they could gossip about this or that in private. As if you could overhear anything in there. As the night wore on, the music of course got better. And best of all—a live drum band came out, and it was just like my African dance class except everyone was wearing better clothes than sweats. Somehow the drummer skillfully combined Nine Inch Nails with African drumbeats and it was insane. V and I got up on the banquettes and danced. I confided in her that I was just a little afraid of heights and she just bounced all over the place. Luckily there was a group of guys below who seemed more than willing to catch me if I fell, but I kept my feet movements at a minimum. I love unexpectedly outrageous nights.
The next day, while waiting at Sunburst café for my Linz, a woman pointed to me (I should have known something was amiss. She was the only New Yorker in the city wearing a fanny pack). “You. You’re Mariah Carey,” she stated plainly. “Oh, me? Yeah, sometimes I get that I look like her.” “No,” she objected. “You ARE Mariah Carey. And my daughter is Mohammad Ali.” “Excuse me?” I asked. I wasn’t sure if I heard her correctly. She shouted, to be clear this time, “My DAUGHTER is Mohammad Ali. And you, you must have seen me on TV.” “Oh,” was all I could muster. I smiled at the Crazy. “You’re her, I know it, and you’ve seen me your whole life on TV. Yes, you have,” she insisted. Thankfully just then Linz, Lex, and Taryn showed up at the café. It would be far too tight a squeeze for a group, thank goodness. I waved goodbye to Crazy, and we made our way towards Pete’s Tavern for brunch.
Just as an aside, I'd like to wish my Grandma Bea a very Happy Birthday. She hasn't aged a bit, even though she thinks she has. (My Grandma maintains a farm, is a wonderful hostess, and travels often with my Grandpa. I think she's just the same as she's always been.) I'm lucky and so glad that we are close...and that she cares to read my blog even if it is sillly most of the time.
Posted by lexzog at January 29, 2007 11:32 PM
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