So the end-of-the-year Christmas party was the best yet, even if I say so myself. The festivities began at 10 p.m. and ended somewhat hazily around 6 the next morning. My son JT provided the youth, I provided the gravitas. Actually, it was the other way round. I provided the brawn — judo and karate instructors and practitioners — he provided the artsy-fartsy types from Brooklyn with lotsa pretty girls. Cauliflower brains mixing freely with cauliflower ears.
To my great regret my buddy Michael Mailer, son of Norman and a very good boxer who has gone to Hollywood and now produces movies, had to fly to South Africa, but like a good friend he left three beautiful blondes behind who all came to the party. At midnight I announced that the three beauties sitting together in the Mailer corner were now my property because Michael had been eaten by a rogue lion somewhere near the Cape. The ladies thought it unfair, but I reminded them that life’s unfair and if one’s eaten, one stays eaten.
How strange it is to be writing about parties and good times when the world is in the state it’s in. Two days after the blast, I flew to Switzerland and was driven up to Gstaad. Chalet Palataki seemed awfully tame after the Bagel shenanigans, but at my age I guess I can get used to anything. The mother of my children looked at me as if I were a leper who had dropped in uninvited — an ‘I’m surprised you made it’ sort of greeting. Well, the answer to that is I’ve made it for so many years now, I can get across the ocean and up the mountain with my eyes closed.
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