Inside the party, the music was blasting out of massive speakers as ‘Fear and Loathing’ played on the TV. Despite the cool air inside, most everyone crammed together out on the tiny, sweaty balcony, I suspect equally for access to the open bar as to escape the thump, thump, bang, blare.
We made our way to the bar and stood awkwardly trying to sip our drinks. Jen’s heels kept getting snagged by the slats of the wooden deck. I, on the other hand, kept having to apologize to people who barely acknowledged me as we inevitably bumped butts, elbows or whatever.
We met up with P.R. rep Jodi Einhorn who had sent the original invitation. She clued us into the ‘secret door’ which lead to a far more comfortable rooftop. “Could this be it?’ I thought. Are we heading into the private lair of Gilbert Grape, Ed Wood, Ichabod Crane and the rest? Alas, no.
We were, however, not at a loss for wannabes in expensive jeans, boots, white dress rags, scraggly hair and pork-pie hats (a few fedoras, too). I don’t mind saying I did a doubletake or two. It made me wonder, does Johnny Depp put up with this wherever he goes? Does he calmly stick around pretending it isn’t weird or does he just split? Someday I’ll have to ask him.
Once Jen and I made our way past the next set of concert-venue speakers, we sat near the DJ (amazingly the quietest spot at the party). This was an ideal setting. The summer breeze on a Manhattan roof, sipping complimentary top-shelf cocktails with a wonderful friend and plenty of people watching.
Johnny never showed, but that no longer mattered. To be honest, it wasn’t ever the point of my night to meet any celebrity types. Yeah it would have been nice, but nights like this are more about hanging outside of my normal element. That in itself can be adventure enough.
