Wednesday, September 17, 2008

You never you know when average, ordinary life will turn into magic. You put together all the ingredients you think will work and hope. Coney Island. Mojitos. Boom box.

Nothing. Boredom. Ennui.

And then on your average Tuesday night, all the pieces fall into place. You wander down 14th Street and spot six Snow Whites holding picket signs in the window of Diane von Furstenburg. It's some art piece, so they're loaded with attitude: fists on hips, cracking gum, checking the time on nonexistent watches. One winks at you. You're making time with peeved Disney characters.

You walk past the MILK gallery next. An opening? Sure, I like champagne. Nice people, interesting art. Oops, got a party to hit. Lifebeat: the Music Industry Fights AIDS is celebrating the publication of an autobiography by Pepa, from Salt N'. Somebody doing something worthwhile in NY? They need all the support they can get.

The club, Home, is nice. Lots of dark wood, banquettes, twinkling votive candles. Crowd runs the gamut of all ages and colors. Hey, is that Joe My God? He's a hunky little sparkplug. You're so excited you forget to gush, like meeting Michelangelo and the first words out of your mouth are, "So, what's new?" Aaron? Good to meet you. He's ridiculously tall, like God enjoyed making him so much he didn't want to stop. Handsome. Too much to talk about, between blogs, bears, and Berlin. Joe is the Rain Man of pop music.

An artsy young couple approach pushing the NY Burlesque Festival. Yeah, we're just three guys who love to see tit. Another vodka tonic? Sure. It's only my fourth. The DJ puts on MIA's Paper Planes, and now the puzzle's complete.


The next hour is a blur. At one point I head back to my table to try to write down the elusive formula. Six Snow Whites, two champagnes, four vodka tonics, Joe & Aaron, Paper Planes? I could probably duplicate that.

Magic turns a person magnetic. Everyone around me has something to say, and for a change it's not "You've got falafel stuck in your teeth." I'm dancing on air when I head outside and see a small crowd standing outside a Chelsea sushi bar. They're not casually milling around like they're waiting for a table: all eyes are focused inside.

I pause and glance in. An attractive foursome sits in the front window. Nice looking group, but none of them ring a bell. I spot a couple slightly effeminate guys, so I approach them. "Somebody famous in there?"

They shake their heads. "Nope," one says. "Nobody," confirms the other.

"Oh," I reply. And just as I start to leave, a woman at the front table turns. "Is that Beyoncé?" I ask.

"Well, yeah," one guy says. "Of course there's Beyoncé," agrees the other.

And just like that, real life is back.

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