THE SEARCH FOR MR. ADEQUATE
11/17/06

By Susan Silver

I did something I’ve never done before … and of course, must share it with you Dear Readers.

A group of younger friends came into town Monday and wanted to go to a “gentlemen’s club.”  Since I’m supposed to be the sophisticated New Yawker, they left arrangements to me.  Yeah, right.

Fortunately my friend LL who is obviously more fun than I, had seen a place advertising on TV and told me to look it up on the Internet, along with the usual suspects like Scores.  (I wouldn’t go to Scores as Howard Stern likes it and I don’t like Howard Stern or anything he likes. Digression … isn’t it odd that a singularly unattractive man pokes fun at sad creatures who are either deformed, or mentally challenged and gets paid for it? I don’t get it.)

So I researched this other place called The Penthouse and it said there was a great restaurant downstairs and “strip club” above.  We got a huge stretch limo which was hysterical … very hip hop and wended our way through traffic down to what looked like a shady neighborhood to me, but then I don’t go out of my surroundings that much.  A trip to the Village is also a stretch speaking of stretches.

We got to the place and a huge, and I mean huge bodyguard/doorman welcomed us.  There were more of the Soprano looking guys with earphones inside.

It was suitably dark and sorta sexy in there. It was “lingerie night” and some of the ‘dancers’ wandered around in sexy lingerie.  We were escorted upstairs to the restaurant.  There was a table of guys who were being “visited” by more girls in lingerie and a stereotypical guy with a pinkie ring entertaining a young woman … and us. Must have been a slow night.

We ordered and I have to say that the food was superb! Who knew? And the service … well … we must have had five waiters at our beck and call and occasionally a young thing would stop by to smile and flirt. 

It was interesting that they looked at the women in our group, not the guys … sort of for permission to visit.  And once we were amenable, they moved on to the guys.  The guys had to be controlled … some drooling was going on.  But it was all kind of fun and innocent and the lingerie was very cute … I’d like some myself.

Then the dinner was over and we went down to the show floor. Things changed dramatically. One sort of bored looking dancer was meandering around the stage and another was giving a lap dance to a rather unattractive guy sitting next to our table. I thought those were done in the private rooms, but maybe that costs more.

Anyway, she was facing us and had the most vacant, far away look in her eyes … as though she had to put herself in another place.  It was sad and we all kind of looked at each other at the same time and said, let’s get out of here!

I thought maybe the guys (all adorable, bright, and sweet) would go back on their own at some point, without dates and it would be more “fun” but they all said no.   I felt for the “dancers” who had been so cute and friendly in the restaurant and then had to perform more personally for some shlub.

I’ve seen on TV many Chippendale experiences, where women go crazy and seem to be having fun watching male strippers.  Maybe it’s not as demeaning to them.  But either way … that’s my first and last trip!

The Moth Ball

No, this is not a household hint on how to supply your closets.  There is an organization in town called The Moth.  Stan had taken me several years ago, as he thought it might be something that would appeal to me as a writer.

It’s a group of people who are dedicated to storytelling.  Not stand-up comedy, but real stories, humorous, or sad which run no longer than nine minutes and are performed to keep the tradition alive.  They also have a mentoring program which helps disadvantaged people learn to communicate in ways that will enrich their lives.

I’d always wanted to participate and tell a story but most of them were taking place downtown and I never seemed to be able to shlep down there.

My new friends,  The Fun Couple, are involved in it and they invited me to go to the Moth Ball which for some reason was a celebration of the Rat Pack and it’s era of glamour.

For days I tried to figure out what that meant costume wise and the best I could come up with was a boa. Don’t ask.  Anyway, they graciously were picking me up at 5:40 … for the 6:30 invite, and for some reason, still unknown to me, I started to get ready at 3:30! I hadn’t slept the whole before and I was on Vegas time or something. This started the chain of events … downward.

As I was drying my hair, I realized that I’d run out of hairspray.  Guys … tune out for this part.  Girls, I have baby hair...no body, it looks better the second day but this was the first day. 

Anyway, there was no way I could go out ‘limp’, guys … you know this part, if you’ve tuned back in … and so I called the drugstore around the corner. I told the gal there that it was a hair emergency and I needed a delivery asap.  She told me she couldn’t guarantee it. I begged her, she said she’d do her best.

I was all made up, dressed, ready to go with my combed but not sprayed and it was now 5:15 … no spray.  I called again and she told me she’d sent it a half hour before and I should check the doorman. No he hadn’t received it. I called back and she said the delivery guy was unreachable and I, pissed off, got undressed and put a rain coat over my underthings and tennis shoes instead of my sexy heels and set my hair again, threw a scarf over my head and ran around the corner … pissed! Yes, I know I said that already.

It was starting to rain and I hadn’t taken an umbrella and was rounding the corner when I saw what looked like a delivery guy … ambling along. He had the name of the drugstore on his jacket and I screamed out my address. He said, slowly … as he did everything slowly … ”yeah.” 

I grabbed the bag and ran.  He was yelling that I had to sign for it and I yelled back, you do it!

Drenched, I got home and had to blow dry my hair again and spray it … and fix my make up and rush to get dressed.    

Then the phone rang and they, who were coming from their country place were running a half hour late.  So I got undressed. Then with five minutes to go, I got dressed.

A half hour later, they called to say the traffic was horrendous and they’d be another half hour.  I got undressed.  They called ten minutes from the house and I got dressed.

Well you know, gals, what happens when you peak too early? I had wilted by the time they arrived.  We slogged our way through unbelievable traffic to first pick up their lawyer and then way down to the Bowery and finally … we made it somewhere around 7, I think!  By now I looked like something the cat had dragged in, strangling in a boa.  My friend looked gorgeous and her hubby looked elegant.

Now to the event itself.  Capitale, which was a bank, I believe, is stunning and the food was good.  The cocktail party was in the foyer, crammed with people, very few of whom I knew.  I did, however, get to talk with Gay Talese, that dapper writer, whom I’d met years and ago and was as charming as I recalled.

Some parties, the people talk to just people they know, and this was one of them.  So we wandered to our table. A nice couple of guys was sitting there and we joined them.  I was sitting in a draft so I moved twice.  Yes, I am getting old and cranky when I have no sleep.

The dinner was excellent and they ran a short film.  Mr. Fun was featured as one of the “star story tellers.”  The program was hosted by Simon Doonan who told a very fey and amusing story about Sammy Davis’ wardrobe.  (I’d actually seen Sammy’s closet … no no get your minds out of the gutter … a group including my then husband was taken on a house tour at one of his parties.  His closet looked like a child’s, albeit a very rich child’s. Everything was teeny tiny.)

Then the “featured” story tellers were on … Dominick Dunne who told the story of how Frank Sinatra paid a waiter at The Daisy to deck him and

Malcolm Gladwell, who was delightful with hair right out of the sixties. 

Then there was an arm wrestling contest which for some reason seemed to attract a ton of people who lined up to wrestle a guy in a robe … men and women. 

“Me, Ms. Fun, Lawyer, Mr. Fun.” Photo: Flash Rosenberg.

At that point, the lawyer had gotten into a political argument that I thought was going to come to blows with the nice guys. Since I really was falling asleep by now, I begged off and the lawyer wanted to leave too, so kindly dropped me off at home.   I did not talk politics.  I know there was a silent auction and dancing later.

Memo to self: keep extra hair spray and get sleep before you go out.    

Another night I had a very interesting cocktail event with a book author I am going to tell you about another time.  Thursday is theater, report to come. That’s it folks … am going to sleep early tonight.

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