It goes on...

Our travels go on. After a 14-hour day, our shortest in recent memory, we head over to the Strip House, a steak house, on 13 East 12th for dinner. At this point, we all know more about each other than we ever wanted to know. To wit:

The producer's personal tagline is, “Deny until you die.”

Half the time I can tell what Dave, my creative partner, is going to say before he says it. I know what story he is going to tell based upon what someone else says. Lord knows he’s heard more about me than he ever wanted to know.

So into the blender of familiarity and contempt we throw a fresh ingredient, Mr. Tom M. Originally a musician in a rock band who later survived a tour of duty in Vietnam, Tom is a pillar of the production community. You can take away the espressos, the booze, the beanies, the uppers, the sugar, the over-the-counter meds and Tom on nothing but bread and water is still more energetic than a trained Labrador retriever who hears ducks and shotgun blasts out in the field.

It doesn’t take much to get Tom on a roll and he was rolling. He finds himself in a rather uncomfortable position, as he is being divorced by his wife of 24 years. It is good to chat with Tom as I too am in a similar position.

As Tom has no furniture, he went to Pier 1 or Pier 4 or whatever Pier it is to buy some new things, as he didn’t have so much as a stick of furniture. I asked Tom if his new furniture matched. He replied, “It matches my ass.”

Initially I was concerned that Tom was going to hijack the dinner party from the editorial company as it’s a bit like asking Robin Williams to join you for a quiet get together. Suddenly, quiet is not an option.

My concerns were dismissed when a nice looking woman at the table next to us attacked Dave Gardiner. The forty-something, bone-thin blonde, with the long hair, the long legs and the shortest dress I have ever seen launched a vicious assault upon Mr. Gardiner’s steak-carving skills. After the incomprehensible, baseless vindictive, she fell out of her chair, and landed upon the floor, high heels and legs catty wampus, short blue dress bunched up around her gym-enhanced, surgically modified buttocks.

Her companion, a 50-year-old, muscle for hire character with a nose out of a Scorsese movie didn’t blink. I jumped up, and stood by, thinking a butter knife was about to be thrust in Mr. Gardiner’s direction.

I was not alone. Waiters from far corners of the Strip House appeared to help the infirmed and perhaps escort her to the curb. The woman sat back upon her chair. This was not her first time to the rodeo, and she knew that although she had been thrown once, it was time to get back up on that chair and order another.

Dessert arrived and it was an obscene display. Pieces of cake as large as your head. Everyone had a bite and there were still enough calories upon the table to fuel a small army of the sugar deprived.

A walk back to the hotel from the restaurant burned at least 50 of the approximately 4,000 calories we had consumed. 60 Thompson is an exclusive hotel, with just 100 rooms. The Karma at check in was good, and I enjoyed an upgrade.