I Second That Emotion
Last Saturday was one of those rare nights where you go out only to stay in, if that makes any sense at all. We ended up in this high-flying mansion of an apartment in Midtown that has wings, left and right, multiple flights of stairs, and a balcony with a view and a half. Apparently, some friends of some friends are house sitting for the summer, while the owner, a 71 year-old man, who used to be married to a Rockefeller gal (before jumping out of the closet several years later), spends the summer in Connecticut. Unbeknownst to him, while he is on vacation, a young book worm like myself would land there on a Saturday evening in midsummer to paw all over the first editions in his library. It was more of a small get together than a party and it was very refreshing to dance around a living room without bumping into the furniture or, for that matter, one another. So we sipped Pipps, among other things, listened to Motown, and played Chopsticks on the baby grand piano before heading back to my hovel.