It begins like any Friday night: I'm invited to come down to Stamford. It seems my ladyfriend and her co-workers are partying it up tonight at Hula Hanks. Hula Hanks is both the best and worst bar in Stamford. Best because the drinks are strong (most of the time) and it is very close to a cheap parking garage - worst because it pretends to be a beach party even on a night where it seems we are suffering a Nor'easter. Oh Well.

So, I throw on my lizard shoes (tres fasionable!). Unfortunately most of my good button down shirts are at the cleaners until tomorrow morning. Drat! Well there's a white one in my closet and an iron. But without starch it will still be wrinkled and unsightly by the time I get down to Stamford. Hmm. Well, I'll wear a jacket with it. The gray one has lapels too large to wear with jeans, the brown one doesn't match the shoes and is too warm. Okay- I'll go with my Dior jacket - the one with the subtle striped pattern. Magnifique! So - a white shirt - with a dark jacket and jeans. Hmm- needs something else. A Tie? The dark blue paisley pattern just isn't working - so no tie tonight. Aha! A pocket square. Seems I have a purple one with dark purple stripes and a bluish border. Luckily instead of fluffing it for an hour it falls at a daringly rakish poof in two tries. All set. I reach for the Dunhill cologne. Second thoughts. My ladyfriend says it gives her a headache. Fine! I'll go with the Drakkar Noir which we both like so much- but I am embarrassed to wear of late since I've seen it ridiculed in at least two fashion magazines. I'm all set.

Showing up to pick up my ladyfried's sister twenty minutes late, (i..e rakishly on time.) we head to Stamford. Ladyfriend will arrive from NYC by train. Ladyfriend's sister's boyfriend will arrive by car. Check, check, check. Lots of small talk about ladyfriend's little brother and a car with a dying battery. Ladyfriend's sister seems unduly afraid of not having conversation. When she runs out, she enjoins me to talk about my prejudice against the suburbs. I prefer to draw the attention to the Ryan Adams C.D. I've been playing at too low a volume the past thirty minutes. I point out the over-the-top imagery:

Wow! She says. We laugh, but I think it is so beautiful I want her and I both to weep. But sobbing is not the appropriate thing to be doing while entering Hula Hank's, so we just laugh.

Seems like someone else is picking up the tab. I'll have a gin and tonic. Why? Because otherwise I'd order a whiskey which I'm told makes me look like a) a drunk, or b) an old man or c) all of the above.

Gin is great. But I'm driving, so I'd rather start off with whiskey- that way I feel it for an hour and can drive safely by the time we leave. Ah well. Hello ladyfriend's coworkers - nice to see you again. Hello ladyfriend's co-worker's girlfriend's best friend who I met at that Irish bar months ago, Heather, with the smile. "Hi, Heather."

She gives me a look of panic mixed with pleasantry. She seems to calm when she realizes I'm only drinking gin.

"We met at one of the other happy hours."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, sorry I'm just good with names. Didn't mean to freak you out." All lies. I'm awful with names.

"Okay"

I turn away and talk with ladyfriend's co-worker's boyfriend about my internship at Penguin books.

"Yes, I did read that new Hillary book before almost anyone else." I got to work on Ed Klein's salacious manuscript - if by work you mean - I got to read it (finish by 5)- find one typo of an errror and talk about it's readability with the Editor.

"Wow...Did you,...." blah blah something about Kitty Kelly.

Girl that is not a co-worker of my ladyfriend in the long brown hair and tube top brushed passed me and we make eye contact. Twice! Now a third time, and she giggles.

I keep my eyebrows raised because it gives my face a more symmetrical look. Long brown hair girl and I will indecently make eye contact six or seven more times throughout the night. But my ladyfriend is around, and I do not have anything like a calling card to discreetly slip into the back pocket of her jeans. These are the circumstances that assure me guardian angels do exist, and exist to thwart you from doing what your sinful human nature tells you to do. I think of St. Francis DeSales and what he had to say about parties [i] and I am happy to be thwarted.

An eighth eye contact! I know it's the pocket square and the watch (I didn't mention the watch) which make me look more successful and cultured than the other polo-and-khakis wearing neanderthals that are paying attention to long brown haired girl in tube top. St. Francis DeSales never saw a tube top. I think until tonight I had only seen one that did not look cartoonishly bad.

Gin is not working. Attractive co-worker of my ladyfriend is going to the bar. I blurt out "Red Bull and Vodka.". Why? I don't know. It seems like a mook drink, and I'm surrounded by mooks. It comes in a huge class and tastes like ice cubes floating in rotten candy.

I keep drinking it and making eye contact with Heather and girl in tube top with long brown hair. This eye contact I cannot control. What I can control I focus entirely on my ladyfriend - when she is not occupied with co-workers.

Did I mention the New York Mets are now blowing a 5-1 lead in the bottom of the ninth inning with 2 outs on the board? What the heck has gotten into Looper?

Attractive co-worker and I start talking about her office romance. I offer sensitive, insightful remarks for someone as unfamiliar with the details as I. She appreciates a guy who listens to her and doesn't take every chance he can get to fleetingly brush up against her. I silently sympathize with her plight. I am a good guy. (This is around the 6th eye contact from girl in tube top.) I am the guy who will report to ladyfriend on the innocous nature of this conversation momentarily.

All the Mets needed was one strike against a Pirate hitter to win the game 5-1 and now it is 5-5. The Yankees are winning and I couldn't care less.

I finally finish this stupid Red Bull and Vodka drink. Blech! So I discover that the tab is closed and pay for my own Maker's Mark on the rocks. Now a girl in cat eye glasses is making occasional, incidental eye contact. Or is that the Gin and tonic and Red Bull and vodka? I remember that I'm 5'11'' and weigh over 200 lbs - its definitely not the drinks.

Ladyfriend's co-worker's girlfriend's best friend Heather asks me what I'm drinking. I say "Whiskey." She gives me a look of pleasantry mixed with panic this time. I soften it by asking her. "What do you think when you see a guy drinking whiskey? Do you think he's a drunk? an old man? or cool?" She says she thinks of an old man. But she's laughing.

The Mets have now lost in the 10th or 11th inning. So much for building on that 3 out of 4 series with the Nationals. I don't care that much. Maker's Mark tastes like butter to me. Seriously, like butter. Ladyfriend points at glass of whiskey and says "Last drink, you are driving." She smiles and hugs me tightly. Very tightly, and I know she's not driving. I slip away and order another Maker's Mark. My lips feel really nice to me.

Ladyfriend slips off into the bathroom. Ladyfriend's co-worker's girlfriend and her best friend (Heather) pull me out to dance. (The music is getting louder.) I dance with them. For some reason my body wants to swing dance even if the music is generic bar music. Ladyfriend's co-worker does not dance - he nods his head and drinks beer. (Beer!? It's Friday for Houla Hank's sake.) Ladyfriend returns from bathroom - grabs me by both hands and says "No, dancing."

I'm offended.

I'm the best male dancer in this bar! I think. I look around to confirm and realize "that's not saying much" (har, har). All the other guys that are dancing look like idiots because they a) can't dance and b) are drunk and c) are drunk and can't dance. Ladyfriend's co-workers are accountants and so choose not to dance (or were chosen not to dance before the foundation of the world depending on one's theology of dancing at Houla Hanks.)

Within a minute ladyfriend's co-worker's girlfriend's best friend, Heather makes pleasant (unpaniced) eye contact, then so does girl in tube tob, then (turning further) so does cat-eye glasses girl, and just beyond her is very attractive, but obviously recovering from divorce "older woman" who makes eye contact. I unconsciously wink. I feel, with my pocket square and Dior jacket that I can lay waste to this unending field of estrogen. I look to ladyfriend and remember that instead I Am. I am long-term relationship guy. I am guy who would remain faithful, even if he didn't want to. I am the old man (old for 23) drinking whiskey and wanting to cry over (fergoshsake's!!) Alt. country lyrics. I am guy who fancies that his pocket square is rakish.

I put down the second glass of Maker's Mark - half finished. (Gasp!) "I think I'm going to get going." I say to Heather.

"You aren't that lucky." She says.

"What?" I can't hear her - or if she said that I'm not sure if she attempted a clumsy double entendre.

"I said 'I don't think you are that lucky.'"

Ladyfriend, and her sister and her sister's boyfriend swing towards me. "I think I am" I say to Heather as if there were an emphatic "Not" hanging on the end of my sentence.

I Am. I am not ready to drive back home. I am going to stop at the diner and have a Sprite and a turkey sandwich. I am dropping ladyfriend home- and before I fall asleep I will be blogging about it. (Blogging!). Yes I am that guy. The guy who blogs about his Friday night. I will now fall into sleep, rakishly sprawled on the bed.

[i] Dances and balls are things in themselves indifferent, but the circumstances ordinarily surrounding them have so generally an evil tendency that they become full of temptation and danger. The time of night at which they take place is in itself conducive to harm, both as the season when people’s nerves are most excited and open to evil impressions; and because , after being up the greater part of the night, they spend the mornings afterward in sleep, and lose the best part of the day for God’s service…..Moreover, those who frequent balls almost inevitably foster their vanity, and vanity is very conducive to unholy desires and dangerous attachments. - "Of Balls, and other Lawful but Dangerous Amusements" - from Introduction to the Devout Life by St. Francis DeSales