Well. Well well well well.
No grotto could be found at the Middling City's answer to Hef's Joint. But what I did find was a MC version of Fabio, long golden silken tresses and all. At some point in the evening, whilst speaking to a fun gal at the bar I noted that Fabio had unloosed his mane and was supine on the marble floor, in front of the classical musicians whom no one could hear above the party din.
I spoke with Fabio. His name is Arthur. He is a jazz musician. Who dances while he's playing. Or that is at least what I thought his handler, standing alongside him, said.
With a gown on my body and short hairs on my head - as well as my Don't-Fuck-Wit-Me physique some in the throng who I know did not know Yours Truly. One client of mine of about six months or so back, post several martinis, said to me You look like a movie star. I wanted to say to her Yes, internally I so AM a movie star and have been for decades - only YOU see my true, exterior movie star. And I thank you.
No other party notables except that the white wine ran low to dry and then it was high time to move along to scotch fercrissakes.
Up in the attic/third floor rumpus area I asked pal Sam for a coin to feed the very naughtily racist bank to see if, in sooth, the eyeballs rolled back to white as Kennedy swore they would. And, by gum and by crackie, they freakin' did.
And Happy New Year to all my faithful epinw readers of the Jewish faith.

Faithful Love Forever Now.