The Velvet Rope

Jewels and I went out on the town last night. He invited me to Red's birthday party. This young lady, a twenty something gal, is unaffected and delightful and someone I genuinely like. The party was on the Lower East Side and was slated to start at 10:30 pm.

I anguished over my wardrobe. Jewels advised that it was a cool, dressed down vibe. I settled on some black jeans, black patent leather sandals, a bejeweled gray tank top and a black cashmere shrug. I thought I looked hip.

I met Jewels first for dinner. We went to his favorite haunt, Arriba, Arriba in Midtown. We hoisted a Mama and enjoyed a plate of chicken wings. This place fries the shit out of them.
Fully lubed, we caught a cab to the Lower East Side. We stepped into Antarctica, a cool, youthful club. We saw Red and wished her well for the occasion. I raved over Red's new boyfriend--he looked like John Mayer--and I told her so. She was thrilled. We wandered through the place and I was suddenly horrified to realize I was the oldest person n the club. Everyone around me--the bartender, the patrons, the bouncer--were half my age. I felt utterly out of place, like an adult chaperon. I needed to leave.

I appealed to Jewels and we went off to a local club called "Ear." It offered a more conducive environment, with twenty, thirty and forty something patrons. It was rough and dive-like in a NY kind of way. We quaffed a Stella Artois and mingled. Better.

I still wanted to dance so we hopped a cab and headed down to Chelsea. We went to a club that Jewels liked and saw a long line of hip young things sequestered behind a thick red rope. Oh please, bitch! Mama wants to dance. I went up to the bouncer, a beefy young man with a shiny bald head. I asked, "Is there a cover charge?" "20 dollars," he replied. "OK," I replied, "is there any point for us to wait in line here?" He shuffled and slowly replied, "I don't think so. You're not on the list." Seriously? I couldn't help myself. "What list? Your list? You don't have a clue who we are. What--we're not pretty enough?" He laughed. "Money is money, honey," I said, "Let us in. We just want to dance." He then really laughed loudly. "I like you," he said, "but you're not on the list." Smiling sweetly I said, "I like you too, but this is outright BULLSHIT!" And I really yelled that part. Jewels was doubled over with laughter. So was the bouncer. But we still didn't get in. We kept walking.

We went to another gay club but were also dismissed. New York is a cruel city. We just wanted to go somewhere and dance with abandon. It's really wrong to rob people of joy. What's with this fucking hierarchy? Honestly.

In the end, Jewels and I went to a local bar, had a martini and talked late into the night. I wandered home at 3 am and fell into bed. It seems strange that in my head and in my heart that I share the same passionate exuberance for life as someone half my age. So why deny me the chance to express that?

So wrong.