Plus One

Mr. Big's friend hit on me last night.

I'll back up.

I had an extremely New York night last night: I had VIP passes to Chris Noth's bar/lounge/club.

Naturally, none of this is nearly as glamorous as it sounds. My stepbrother's band, The Ruse (see left), was playing at the Cutting Room, guest-list only. So I hopped on the subway, which was a bona fide full-moon Saturday night ride, complete with random stops, sudden service changes, loud and inappropriate remarks, people all in my space, and a bottle opening that sounded like a gunshot, setting off a small panic. Apparently, Mary, coming from the opposite direction, had a very similar experience, so we suspect that the ugliness was widespread.

Fortunately, we ran into Jim (aka: my stepbrother) a few blocks from the bar--apparently, all three of us were looking for another bar to go to first. I say it was fortunate because the Cutting Room bouncer later confessed to me that he had lost the list; meeting Jim got us the nifty passes. More than that, it reminded me of just how much less neurotic he is than almost anyone I know. I got to see how a person could walk into a bar without trying to decide if it is really a good fit for them, find a place to dump coats before the rest of us are even inside, and be holding three beers before we're done setting the coats there. It's all very rock star.

So, after all the inevitable reunions and cattiness outside the Cutting Room (the cattiness was me--there was this bitch who...never mind), we wandered into the charming lounge, and within five minutes were bumped into by the famous owner. In fact, he bumped into me three times over the course of the night; swoon if you are so inclined. Adorably enough, the first time he walked by was right after Mary remarked that she never saw famous people in New York. The second time was as she was remarking that it is particularly pretentious to display massive photographs of oneself in one's own bar.

We don't think he heard.

Thinking that that would be our brush with fame for the night, we headed back to the bar just before the Ruse went on--and found ourselves right next to Mr. Noth and some friend of his named Julio, who was quite taken with the two of us. "Watch out for that guy," he yelled in my ear, pointing to his better-known half. "He's delusional...thinks he's some kind of actor or something."

"Probably thinks he owns the place, too," I deadpanned, making the poor man blink furiously. New York is not about seeing celebrities; it's about faking unphased by them. Which is why I will not mention that Mr. Noth is ridiculously attractive in person, nor will I ever admit that Mary and I giggled like schoolgirls every time he walked by. (Speaking of that--oh hell. Someone else was there, too, but it's too overeager to say so now. Never mind.)

Oh, and the show was great, too, although far too short. The last two shows have been, actually--at both, people were chanting for an encore for a good long time but never got one.

I blame Big.