Last night, the Ooh Laa Laa Bar. Where the drinks are as bad as the spelling. And the food even worse. Halfway through my first Martini, my mate passed me her iPod. Snaps of a party in the Big Apple. Her husband's 80th. Let me tell you, there is nothing more scary than stills of a toothless octogenarian. With his hand inside the thong of a Naomi Campbell lookalike. "He loves African Americans," explained my mate airily, "So I got him a stripper." He doesn't, of course, have stiffies. But it still feels morally unsound:-o My mate is thirty years her spouse's junior. A latter-day Anna Nicole Smith. She, poor sap, died last week. Still fighting over her husband's will. He was a nonagenarian billionaire. She, his 26-year-old bride. "The great thing about my old man," said my pal, "is I get his crip sticker. I can park anywhere in Manhattan." Earlier I'd attended my first writer's club meeting. In the kitchen. Three of us each reading a thousand words from our new novels. I hate self help groups. But it really made a difference. I've been restructuring ever since. Tonight, the Oxo Tower. We waited three hours for a table. By which time my rather straight companion, was under it. They do stonkingly good champagne cocktails. She's invited me to spend a week in Palestine. "We'll do some fact finding." Some facts, I'd posit, are better researched by experts. On the other hand, it's good to be out in the sun;-)
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Last night, the Ooh Laa Laa Bar. Where the drinks are as bad as the spelling. And the food even worse. Halfway through my first Martini, my mate passed me her iPod. Snaps of a party in the Big Apple. Her husband's 80th. Let me tell you, there is nothing more scary than stills of a toothless octogenarian. With his hand inside the thong of a Naomi Campbell lookalike. "He loves African Americans," explained my mate airily, "So I got him a stripper." He doesn't, of course, have stiffies. But it still feels morally unsound:-o My mate is thirty years her spouse's junior. A latter-day Anna Nicole Smith. She, poor sap, died last week. Still fighting over her husband's will. He was a nonagenarian billionaire. She, his 26-year-old bride. "The great thing about my old man," said my pal, "is I get his crip sticker. I can park anywhere in Manhattan." Earlier I'd attended my first writer's club meeting. In the kitchen. Three of us each reading a thousand words from our new novels. I hate self help groups. But it really made a difference. I've been restructuring ever since. Tonight, the Oxo Tower. We waited three hours for a table. By which time my rather straight companion, was under it. They do stonkingly good champagne cocktails. She's invited me to spend a week in Palestine. "We'll do some fact finding." Some facts, I'd posit, are better researched by experts. On the other hand, it's good to be out in the sun;-)
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5 comments:
Hmmm, hiring a stripper for your 80 year old husband - I'm not sure if that is cruel or kind. But it is weird! (the hand in the thong - eeew!).
You had to see the snaps. It was gross... She tells me that his current screen saver is a close up of female genitalia. It gets her off the hook I suppose. I am forever grateful to him, it must be said, for introducing me to the glorious Maria Callas. I first heard her at full throttle in his apartment 25 years ago. I think he could go full throttle then, too. But he had a different wife at the time!!
Speaking as an almost 79 year old man, that gives me grounds for hope
Ah! At last I know who you are;-))
Damn. Paparazzi at the door now I suppose
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