When athletes in the town appear
And paint it red from far to near
To find a place to drink a beer
They hop a cab to Union Square
Lit by candles, drowned in hip-hop
Grumpy DJ's playing nonstop
So, how does the 'fly wind up in a nightclub in New York City with an earring in his pocket - said earring not belonging to his fiancee?
On Saturday night the Ladybug and I joined friends in the city. Any such expedition has adventures; our biggest occured right out of the gate, when one of our party missed the train and stalled our group for an hour. Instead of a leisurely walk uptown to gawk at the tree in Rockefeller Center, with window gazing and shop wandering, we had to blitz along, working through the crowds, in order to get five minutes in the square before sliding next door for mass at St. Patrick's.
The tree deserved better. It was lovely, and ginormous. Somewhere an Ent is flinging boulders because this tree was cut down and hauled to the city. A duplicate of the tree-topping star - better than six feet across and drenched in Swirovsky crystal - sat at ground level but we didn't get a lot of time to check it out. It was nice to see the projection of snowflakes flutter down the sides of the building all around the tree as well. As rushed as we were, we did have St. Patrick's, and that's always worth the trouble. The service was good, the homily was solid, and despite the standing-room only crowd, we were out in an hour.
Dinner was then consumed and the party broke up, but Ladybug and I kept on to the next adventure, a birthday bar stop for a close friend of hers at a trendy (and suitably loud) club.
It's not my scene, so I'm no good judge to the quality of the experience. The picture you see at that link is similar to the current decor, though it's nice to finally see what it would look like with the lights on. Mostly it's velvet and dark and lit with votive candles; Rick James probably wrote "Superfreak" after a night in a place like this. But the big moment happened shortly after we were punted from one of the booths, which was reserved for 11 pm.
We were standing around, wondering why the place was half-empty on a Saturday night. My theory was the shockingly depressing hip-hop mix: the DJ was playing the Stones' "Miss You" to the music from Blondie's "Rapture," then followed with "Dust in the Wind" over a pounding bass line. ("All we do crumbles to the ground, though we refuse to see..." Uh - more booze, please.) Turns out that the bouncers had been turning people away "to keep things low-key." Then we caught a glimpse of a tall guy who looked a little underdressed for a club, ushered smoothly to our erstwhile booth.
"Say, he looks like he keeps himself well," the birthday girl said to one of our friends. "We should introduce you."
M demurred, while another in the group peered more closely through the murk and said, "Wait a minute, I think that's Derek Jeter."
Now, when we couldn't get all of our drinks and I went to investigate, the bouncers wouldn't even let me talk to the waitress without standing between us. Mr. Yankee Captain would seem more unapproachable in that light, but my Ladybug instantly hit on a scheme. "You've lost an earring," she said immediately to our friend. "Go to our booth and look for it."
And that, friends, is how M's earring wound up in my pocket while M herself sallied forth. I was also left clutching Ladybug's purse. (I was tempted to follow them with the purse and claim to be A-Rod, but thought twice.) Turns out that it was Jeter, and he was a good guy - he slid to the side to let M rummage around the booth, and promised to keep an eye out for the earring. (Now that I've totally blown the scheme, ladies, you'll have to think of something else.) Mr. Yankee Captain, sir, please don't hold it against us. All these hi-Q rating-girls may be nice, but we were thinking of your future. M's a sweetheart.