Beautiful people with foreign accents, recent haircuts, and stubble,
barking like clergy at a cock fight. They’re shouting at
the desk-staff, hailing cabs (inside, which was strange), jumping
off the top rope, ordering champagne, and singing the theme from
“The Jeffersons.” No rules. The inside of the Moody
Lobby is a God-less world where only those who project, survive.
Social Assholism. No TV. No basketball. No God.
Gets better.
Now I have to speak. I have to project. I have to ask, as I’m
on the hook. No, musn’t ask. Must say simply, “I’m
a friend of Ol’ So-and-So.” Because I am. And that’s
all I am by this point. Gotta get up. Gotta be let up. Movin’
on up.
Know, my
friends, that my name never has been on a list. Ever. Not at a
bar or at a nightclub or at a slumber party. Never. My mom only
gets it right half the time.
So, I ask.
This Franco-Anglican chick. About the list. About my name. And.
Yes. My name. Is on the list. Is on the fucking list! Well-spelled.
Very well-spelled. I was in. I was made. MTV’s “Made.”
The one for thirty-somethings.
Franco-Anglican
Chick: “George Lowry. Just take zuh elevator to zuh fifth
floor.”
(George’s
Inner-Monologue: “Must act like I’ve been there before.
Must act like I’ve been there before.”)
George: “Thanks.”
I’m
in. “The Forbidden City.” Without a picture of my
dead fiancé, no less. Yep, I’m in. Lucky me. What
about that game, though?
Movin’
on up, I get into the elevator and look, naturally, for the button
for the fifth floor. Naturally.
Not so fast.
No such thing. No such button. Only long gold buttons with cute,
exclusive white names on them. “The Club Room.” (“The
what-what?”) It’s the fifth button from the bottom,
so naturally it’s the one I want. Right? Right.
Now, by this point, I’m undaunted. I refuse to be fucking
daunted! I press the button. I take the elevator (alone) to the
“Club Room” or “fifth floor” or whatever
the fuck. Ding.
Elevator
stops. Finally. “Fifth” floor. Doors part. Slowly.
Turns out, the place is an Aryan Wonderland; a non-beer-drinking,
non-basketball-watching zoo. I was stupid. I should have bailed.
My social phobias are justified. My exclusionary angers are correct.
I fear scenes. I hate scenesters. I fear. I hate.
Oh well.
Yet, I’m
in. I’m quickly, silently directed, by a svelte woman of
an indeterminate ethnicity, toward our chum, Ol’ So-and-So;
and, of course, I immediately ask him what the chances are we’ll
actually see the game tonight. He says to me that they’re
gonna hook us up. Literally, “The dude’s wiring cable
into a private room downstairs, dude! Right now, dude! With a
wrench! We can watch the game, drink our beer, and order spring
rolls, dude. Right now!” (I hate Sammy Hagar.)
So, we’re
briskly escorted out of the “Club Room” and taken
down an auxiliary staircase (one I believe Harriet Tubman made
famous) to the fourth floor (not sure of it’s nickname;
I’ll simply refer to it as “Crate & Barrel.”)
We get to Crate & Barrel and, remarka-fucking-bly, we have
an entire goddamn rumpus room to ourselves: plasma TVs to watch
by, draught beer to ponder with, and spring rolls to confess to.
Ol’ So-and-So’s now the man! Alas.
For the next
two hours, beautiful, unattainable white people peek into Crate
& Barrel just to get a looksee at the guys who made cable
TV famous at the SoHo House. Us. And though no one stopped for
more than a minute or two, we had become minor celebrities. Junior
achievers. The BOCES of beautiful people.
Yes, we were on top of the world. All that was missing now was
the group sex. And why that hadn’t been offered-up to us
was unfathomable in our new beautiful vision of the world. See,
we had created a niche market in this SoHo House. Much like Sergio
Leone (another Italian) had created in American cinema with “A
Fistful of Dollars” and the birth of the Spaghetti Western.
The big difference between us and Sergio, however, was our dream
was over after the post-game show; his lasted until, “Duck,
you sucker.”
Point is,
this is the closest I’ll ever get to group sex, and it sucks.
I’ll never make love to nineteen 19-year-olds, nor will
I ever marry someone from my “Top 5” (the “Top
5” is comprised of celebrities I’d marry without knowing
any more about them than I do right now) and I’m fucking
pissed about it. Maybe Ol’ So-and-So could hook me up? If
he’d return my call.
After the
post-game, I was told we’d just missed Nicole Kidman in
the “Club Room.” Shit.
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George
Lowry's welcomes comments from readers at THEBEAARTHUR3000@YAHOO.COM.
For past columns, please visit his archive page at http://www.rawstory.com/exclusives/lowry/.
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