holiday party, number six (and seven)

In which I adventured to somewhere between Weehawken and Guttenberg, NJ on a Jitney bus with my cabaret crew, stuffed my face royally with all manner of homemade delectable nibblies, bemoaned the awkward state that is my twenties, had a glass of red and some bourbon champagne punch (genius!) and was back in the city by ten pm.

Would have been an exercise in temperance all around, had I not grabbed my tango shoes and run right back out the door for the All-Night milonga.

I will remember the xylophone cortinas, the feel of the floor beneath my suede soles, the blue predawn light, the white grey rainy morning, the clementine, the sweater that smelt like books and a passage from Theroux's The Old Patagonian Express. I dreamed it all and still I'm not awake.

(On tonight's party, there is not much to report—except to say a jolly time was had by all at Carmine's, compliments of an inexhaustible wine supply and platter after platter of hot, cheesy Italian grub. The birth of Peter and the holiday season were celebrated. I went home early, of course, to fall into bed and start The Kingdom by the Sea.)