Fri 03 Apr 2009 |
|
The story you are about to read is true. Only the names have been changed to protect . . .whoever. So. How do you know that the new man you’re dating is a stand-up guy? You could meet his mother, which I did. You could talk to his kids, who were very welcoming, and obviously liked their Dad. You could Google him, but this was in the Dark Ages, before google was a verb. You could ask your friends, who gave him the thumbs up right away. You could just trust your instinct, even though your instinct had been miles off in the past.  I found another way — although you might not want to try it anytime soon. For me, the question was answered definitively one fateful night when I asked him to rescue me from The Pussy Cat Lounge. That really sealed the deal. Wait! Before you jump to conclusions (or anything else), let me tell you the story. It doesn't begin on a dark and stormy night, although things did get a tad turbulent in the course of the evening. It began, in fact, on a lovely Spring day . . . A few months before our story begins, at a time in my life when I should have known better, but was — in the words of Carly Simon— still quite naive, I met a man on a plane on the way to California. I was developing a cold that day, a bad one, and he had a flask of whiskey (I should have been suspicious immediately), which he shared with me to help me get through the flight. Although I told him that I was seeing someone seriously (as opposed to un-seriously, I suppose), we exchanged numbers, and back in New York had a very pleasant lunch together, can’t remember where, but someplace nice. He was an ex-cop and was working as Security Chief at a major midtown hotel. He said that he understood that I was involved with someone else, but liked the company of good-looking women, and just wanted to do lunch. Right. A few weeks later, on that lovely Spring day, he called to arrange another lunch, a late lunch, and I said okay. Since I was working hard in those days, I figured that I could make it really late and take the rest of the day off. Well, by the time he called back, it was really, really late, for lunch anyway, but I was hungry, overworked, and far too agreeable. I agreed, therefore, to meet him at an address downtown I was unfamiliar with, left my office and grabbed a cab. (Why do we say “grab” a cab? What does grabbing have to do with it? Never mind, let me tell the story.) So, the cabbie pulls up to the address I had been given, turns around and asks, just like in the movies, "Lady, are you sure this is the place?".  I wasn’t sure at all: it was a dive called The Pussy Cat Lounge, a bona fide strip joint, with a long, low-lighted bar, and a stage on the right as you entered, featuring a woman on her back with her pelvis thrust towards me, or the door, or the Universe, doing what looked very much like the bridge position with benefits (not physical therapy as I know it!), wearing a bad attitude — and very little else. The scene was eerily similar to, but far more lurid than, the illustration above, the place darker, much, much darker, and the woman wearing less, much, much less, and not so girl-next-door; you get the idea. As for me, I find that generally it's a not a good sign when the first thing you see upon entering a public place is a pubic place. And "crotch" is not a word you think of for a restaurant review. Never a person to let a little thing like this intimidate me, I strode to the bar, wearing a business suit and a confident air, which was a total joke, and asked for the person I was supposed to met, thinking all the while that this had to be a Big Fat Misunderstanding. It wasn’t. Not only was he meeting me there, that very evening, in that very unsavory place, he was a co-owner of the joint, and, as I later found out, not just an ex-cop, but an ex-cop who may have been asked to leave the force. Uh-oh. So I bellied up to the bar (What else could a girl do?) and pretended that this wasn’t really weird. The bartender told me that He-Who-Shall-Remain-Nameless (we could call him He-Who for short) was running late (running from what, I might have asked), and that I should have a drink on the house. I did. Several. And it was lucky for me that they were watered down, because I was determined not to leave. I don’t know why, but this had become a point of honor or something, and I kept drinking. The women who were performing across the way would come up to the bar between acts, so to speak, and when they found out I was in publishing would tell me their life stories. And interesting stories they were. One of them was working her way through business school by performing a routine that involved not only whips and chains but a very severe haircut and strange-looking handcuffs. Another had taken this gig because the auditions weren’t exactly panning out, and all the directors wanted to do was, well you know. Another was paying the rent, and getting away from a bad boyfriend, by wiggling her ass and so forth for drunken Wall Street types who were only too happy to shove ten-dollar bills in her g-string — this was, of course, before the market tanked. Now, I hear, women who lost their jobs on Wall Street are taking jobs as strippers, and can make as much $160,000 a year in tips alone. And you meet such interesting people! Well, we all drank Scotch together, enjoyed lots of girl talk, and I told them to send me outlines of the books they wanted to write. Thank Zeus, none of them ever did. I published children's books! Finally, my “date” showed up, but by that time I was convinced that he didn’t just want a good-looking woman to have lunch with. (Duh.) Besides everything else, there was no food at this dump, not even a measly peanut. Somehow, before I was too drunk to descend into total madness, I made a phone call. To the new man in my life. The one I was seeing seriously. And without missing a beat, he took down the address, hopped into a cab (And what’s with the hopping into cabs, like we’re all frogs?) and appeared on the scene, all Mr-Steady-As-She-Goes, a good thing because I wasn’t steady at all, obviously, and he rescued me. So how often do you get to be a damsel in distress? And then, how often do you get rescued? Not that often. I knew that night that this man was a keeper. He sized up the situation, he didn’t get upset, and Mr. Plane Person, AKA He-Who, knew that my guy was there, and he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. In the course of that strangely enchanted evening, we saw a woman perform an act that involved fire coming out of an orifice I’d rather not specify, and heard, from the female performers, many more tales of woe. And, from the customers, talk of dough. They were paying a lotta money for a little Scotch, a lotta crotch, and not complaining at all. In fact, they were bragging. People do tend talk to me, a lot, and it was all very educational. Very educational. Plane Man (that isn't his real name) asked what it would take for me to get on stage and do my thing, whatever the hell my thing was, and I said, A million two. Cash. I have no idea where I came up with that figure, but co-owner or not, Mr. I-Just Wanna-Have-Lunch wasn’t coming up with the money, so we’ll never know if I would have done it or not. Big surprise: I never heard from him again. After a sufficient amount of time had passed in this colorful atmosphere, I left The Pussy Cat Lounge with my new steady, and we walked off into the night, me staggering a bit on the streets of the Village, and him, being him, keeping me straight. It was a great night, and the beginning of a beautiful friendship. |
Blog Roll
- ► 2012 (5)
- ► 2011 (46)
- ► 2010 (44)
- ► 2009 (58)
Comments
- Aunties Of The World. . . Unite!
Oh Mr. Poole, your witty comments are always anti-... - Aunties Of The World. . . Unite!
These vigil-aunties are anti-quated, anti-social,a... - Aunties Of The World. . . Unite!
The things you learn on blogs . . . - Aunties Of The World. . . Unite!
Hi, Sara: I agree about the scary stuff, but I dec... - Aunties Of The World. . . Unite!
Your essay is funny, but this is really scary stuf... - Aunties Of The World. . . Unite!
Oh the benefits of globalization, we get to learn ... - A Devout Coward Goes To The Dentist
You betcha, and I take two aspirin before I go. I ... - A Devout Coward Goes To The Dentist
On the other hand . . . I'd hate to be toothless. ... - A Devout Coward Goes To The Dentist
I think we can both expect a call from Dr. Mirsky.... - A Devout Coward Goes To The Dentist
Who wants to be a dentist, anyway? What kind of pe...
Bitter Patter
NO LAUGHING MATTER:
Did Demi Moore overdose
on laughing gas??
That's what's being reported
to those of us at:
A DEVOUT COWARD
GOES TO THE DENTIST
Have you seen The Artist? Seeing it mentioned at
The Golden Globes reminded me that that not ALL movies are
Incredibly Loud!
Do NOT Google Santorum.
I warned you . . .
I did it!
I actually got that
LITTLE BLACK DRESS!
How hard was it?
Click on the link above.
I also got my iPhone.
It's great.
Thank you Steve Jobs
Wherever you are.
Just as I posted I WAS THE GIRL PHANTOM, I found a website called The Ghost Who Blogs about The Phantom comics:
http://falkonthewildside.blogspot.com
Writing Comics. . .
Was a small but wonderful part of my checkered career, and doing a post about it brought back a lot of great memories. If you know any other women in NYC who wrote — or are writing — comics, tell me how to get in touch with them.
I'm on a watching-old-movies kick these days.
Great way to lose yourself.
If you're lucky, you'll never be found.
REVIEWS TO PERUSE
I'm All Right, Jack:
"Jack" is not just all right, it's totally delightful and fresh as a daisy after all these years (made in 1959), with Sellers, although not technically the lead, giving the brilliant performance that launched him as an international star. He plays an all-too-zealous union leader and father of a blonde bombshell who falls for Stanley, the British Upper Class Twit played, also to perfection, by Ian Carmichael, who you might remember from the Lord Peter Wimsey series. The makeout scenes between the the Twit and the Bombshell are priceless. But what is Stanley doing in this working class atmosphere anyway? Working. And too well at that. Forced by financial circumstances too dreary to discuss, he gets a job in his uncle's factory and messes things up for the other workers by, well, working, and thus making his fellow employees look bad. The film takes a big shot at unions — but also at management: they are manipulating white-collar thieves who'll do anything for a buck. Or a pound. Except for the ones, like Major Hitchcock, played by Terry Thomas, who are just plain lazy and inept. Needless to say, Stanley foils everybody's plans, labor and management alike, to my great joy and delight. Oh, and on top of everything else, Margaret Rutherford plays dotty dowager Aunt Dolly. Delicious!
The Big Lebowski:
What can you say that hasn't been said before: brilliant, inspired, with some of the most memorable lines ever to come out of a movie, the most quoted being "The Dude abides." Oh yes. For anyone who hasn't yet seen the film, and it's now out in a special Blu-Ray edition if that floats your bowling ball. The Dude in question, played to perfection by Jeff Bridges, is an out-of-work pothead who is roughed up and has his rug destroyed by some thugs mistaking him for another, bigger, Lebowski. The Dude is really upset about this because, man, "that rug really tied the room together," which The Dude says with all seriousness and not a trace of irony, a great comic touch considering the condition his condition is in. Oh, and besides "Just Dropped In," all the music is perfect for the film. The plot, according to Wikipedia, which has been known to be wrong, is "loosely based on Raymond chandler's novel, The Big Sleep." Could be. But who cares. It involves a bowling competition, "the occasional acid flashback," a trophy wife, a group of German nihilists, a kidnapping gone awry, a mad millionaire and his lackey, in another great performance by Philip Seymour Hoffman. Actually, they're all great performances. Never a fan of John Goodman before or since, he is brilliant in this film. And so are John Turturro, overacting his little heart out, Steve Buscemi in a nerdy, needy role that makes you marvel at his star turn in Boardwalk Empire, and even the actors in the smaller parts, especially Julianne Moore and Sam Elliott. Elliott plays The Stranger (God? Everyman? The part of us that roots for the bad boy?) who elicits from Bridges the immortal words, "The Dude abides." Which prompts The Stranger to comment to the audience: "Don't know about you but I take comfort in that. It's good knowin' he's out there. The Dude. Takin' 'er easy for all us sinners. Shoosh. I sure hope he makes the finals." We'll never know about the bowling trophy because there's never been a sequel to this 1998 film by the great Coen Brothers, and I hope there never will be. It just abides, as all great films do.
Prince of the City:
Okay, the criticisms of this movie are not totally unfounded: it's too long, and Treat Williams may have overacted a bit, although I found him so deliciously charming I couldn't care less, and there's one part concerning the Jerry Orbach character I just didn't understand. But get over it, The New Yorker, this is one powerful movie. And yes, Dog Day Afternoon it isn't, but what it? The DVD has a great special feature with Williams (I so want to call him Treat) and Sidney (what the hell: I once made a meatloaf sandwich for the man) that explains a lot about filmmaking in general and this movie in particular. Also, Sidney's views on good and evil, and how things are not so black and white as you think. I loved it.
Bad Day At Black Rock:
Recommended on TCM by Robert Osbourne as a film he originally had no interest in seeing, then loved it, and by Alex Baldwin, who pointed out the great actors in the cast, including Lee Marvin, Ernest Brognine and Dean Jagger. Well, after all that, I had to like it, right? I did. A lot. It was a Good Day On My Couch.
Behind the Scenes Stuff: Spencer Tracey was off drinking and wouldn't commit to the film until the producers (who wanted him desperately) told him that they had Alan Ladd, at which point Tracey grabbed it. He was perfect for the part, wearing a dark suit and tie the entire time in a western setting, pulling it off perfectly. Other than that "fashion statement," the film makes a strong case against racism: the hatred of the Japanese during WW2. See it.
Song of The Thin Man:
I usually like these frothy, silly, suave, utter unrealistic films from the 30s and 40s, with William Powell and Myrna Loy as the couple we'd all like to be — if only we had the looks, brains, money, a huge capacity for drinking and a dog like Asta. But this one was a stinker, rather than a stinger, or maybe a sinker, because it turned out to be the last, not to mention the least, in the series. Watch any of the others four sequels, but not this one: Even the pooch jumped the shark.
The Children's Hour:
It had its moments, and just looking at Audrey Hepburn makes life worth living, but mostly I kept thinking that the play, by Lillian Hellman, was so much better. It's about two young women runing a school for girls, who are accused by a hateful little brat of being (GASP!) lesbians. And although the closest we get in this 1961 production to using that actual term is the word "unnatural," it's enough to ruin their lives. A young Shirley McClaine is worth seeing in this, and James Garner, and Audrey Hepburn is, well, Audrey Hepburn. The rumor of the love that dare not speak its name is totally untrue — or is it? And I'll say no more, because you should see the movie for yourself, imperfect as it may be, as is Life Itself.
by martinis alone,
I like this blog:
grapesandgreens.blogspot.com
BITTER PATTER
Click on:
Welcome To My Blog
Scroll down to
PAT'S FAVORITES
for a blast
from the past.
Comments
Easy to do in NYC. I am still out here on long Island, leading a family oriented life.
I have been to a wedding and a Christening and getting rather tired of family occasions. I signed up to make pastels in an art institute, but dont feel like doing that either.
I will be coming in more often now that it is warmer. I really miss Gramercy Park. How is your nice hubby?
Love Judith
And you didn't even have to go to a strip club . . .
And Judy, my adventure took place a while ago, but yes, the city is fun, and my nice hubby is still, well, nice!
Emme
RSS feed for comments to this post