One last opera out on the turnpike

Strange as it seems, we had our company holiday party tonight. It was delayed a bit because of the economy. Even so, it is first class. For the third year in a row, it takes place in the Tribeca Lounge, a ritzy place in, well, Tribeca.

I go in with the mindset that this will be my last one ever. Hell, in the company meeting before the party our bosses show a retrospective of all the commercials we have airing on the tele these days.

Swear to god, half of the ads you see on TV are born from my the brains in my building. It is tantalizingly revolting.

The party is a hoot. It gets off to a fast start with Torrey and me checking our coats and snagging stemware filled with alcohol that tastes like breakfast before we even get on to the elevator that rockets us to the rooftop.

We meet our friend "Z" and, since neither of them have been to the place before, I take them on a tour. First stop, bar. Jack and Coke.

It is then I know I’ll be home writing this entry later, which is now.

We are soon split into thirds by requisite social interaction.

(I go to the photo booth, where approximately 200 pictures are taken of me with my friends at work. I will post the choice ones when I gain access to them. I guarantee they’ll be wildly interesting. I can’t wait to see the “American Gothic” impersonation Heather and I did with an inflatated guitar balloon.)

The pic above is of a wickedly talented artist friend and me. A professional photographer snaps it using my celly after the photo booth is shut down. (Way to go, photo dude. Yeah, we want it to be upside down.)

I meet two totally hot women who seem even crazier than me.

One is a girl who starts an argument with me after we make the prototypical eye contact from across the room, walk slowly toward each other and try to fan the spark with conversation.

I make the mistake of asking if she knows another girl I’m making heavy eye contact with. She flips out and walks away. Never did get her number.

I meet the next one later on the rooftop, in the “smoking lounge”. She starts talking to me by punching me in the chest 20 or 30 times as a Bon Jovi song blasts out of the DJ’s speakers.

Apparently, she is Living on a Prayer.

The guys at the party are referring to her as Angelina Jolie. I think it is because she looks like Angelina Jolie. Big lips, big boobs, curvy bod, yet petite and light as a feather. It is icy cold on the roof (20 degrees in NYC) and she freezes and makes a move to go inside. But not before she mashes her boobs on my chest with a pouty look that says, “follow me”.

I follow her like a dog.

We go downstairs (stairs imported from uptown, a place called Studio 54) and she asks me to dance. We do a few twirls to Sweet Child of Mine and retreat to the bar.

I play it cool and blow her off.

Later, I discover we have a mutual friend at work. Mutual friend tells me she is an editor and reads every word I write.

I have a few more Jack and Cokes, leave, and catch a train home. I’m going to have to be more careful what I write. They might not get many more words.