Rainy Night House
It took us 1-1/2 hours to get from 12th Street to 47th Street last Friday night.
But we were men on a mission. Neither a subway system that seemed perilously close to total collapse nor a hike from 6th Avenue to 10th Avenue in a teeming torrential downpour could dampen, so to speak, our ardor. For we were heading to GB: NY3, a convocation of contemporary digital scribes, better known as bloggers.
The opening event, a meet and greet with cocktails, had called for us to assemble at 7:00 PM at Barrage, a chic Hell's Kitchen boite. We thought to make a smart New York Entrance around 9:00, but clearly the fates had other plans in mind for us.
Instead, we arrived at 10:00, less smart than late, and completely soaked to the skin. Umbrellas had proved completely useless on our crosstown hejira. Rain water poured from all our visible extremities. I'm sure we did not present a pretty sight as we stumbled into Barrage to face the battalion of bloggers assembled there.
A quick glance around provided me with the information that I needed to hit the bar post-haste to begin assuming my liquid personality in order to deal with the daunting multitude already assembled. We indulged in a fast bourbon to ward off any possibility of chill and dove in.
At first, I think my vast size and age, not to mention wetness, was a bit off-putting. I could see people regarding me from corners of the room with what looked like terror in their eyes. But friendship prevailed and what a pleasure it was to see so many of my local favorites, like Bryce and Neil and Eddie and Michael and Mike P and Glenn. And to meet locals I hadn't met before like Vasco and Vinny, or sort of met and finally connected with, like Eric. And to meet visiting dignitaries I'd corresponded with like Mark & Brian and Scott. And to make the acquaintance of people like Sean and Byrne.
And of course, no event, not even an ordinary Sunday night, is complete without my Blogdaddy.
The evening progressed with advanced alcohol consumption, accompanied by a blinding flurry of photographs. Some of these, mostly any that I might have appeared in, are quite frightening.
An aside: Clearly the camera and I are not friends. And I'm learning that flash photography is definitely my enemy. It didn't help that I was wet, either. I'm thinking I need practice sessions with some sympathetic photographer. I've tried ad naseum to take my own picture with my smart little camera, and have had to erase every single one in disgust. I know I don't look like that!
Among my vague recollection of the rest of the evening, I remember the appalling mirror and spotlight set-up in the Men's room, which could make the heartiest soul pee-shy. I recall an unwise attempt to have a shot with Scott. What was I thinking? A shot, while I was imbibing bourbon? When the shot turned out to be a Lemon Drop, I wisely declined. Someone else I know had one and soon confessed to being D.R.UNK!
Let's just say that Saturday was spent in recovery. We missed Part Deux, a meet and greet with cocktails that took place at the Eagle. We were in bed by 11:30, and therefore totally refreshed for Part Trois.
Imagine my surprise, while standing at my post in the Dugout, to see Mark & Brian wander in. They had planned to leave town on Sunday morning, but apparently there had been some changes made, and well, here they were! Followed by many of the same gentlemen from the previous night's frolics. There was dancing, there was singing. There was another armada of alcohol consumed. I became ballcap stylist to Scott. I even got to meet some non-blogging civilians, and to further an acquaintance with a very comely gentleman, who knows exactly who he is.
Sign me up for next year. I had too much fun.