Hey, whaddya know! Here's us with Duran Duran. No, really!
Okay, well, maybe not. Honestly, the Missus & I landed a last-minute invite to a "private listening party" for the forthcoming album by Les Hommes Duran. How could we not go? As it turned out, "private" has a variety of meanings. Held at a far-flung space way the hell over on West 28th Street and 11th Avenue (but a stone's throw from the site of the original Tunnel club), this particular shindig was as intimate as the Superbowl. Still, we braved the crowds, long lines and huffy publicists and found ourselves in an expansive loft space packed to the rafters with music industry impressarios, imperious fashionistas, thickly-gelled Eurotrash, waifish models and the like. In a way, it was sort've like stepping back in time to the era of the big 80's niteclub....only with more cellphones. We couldn't have been inside for more than a minute before Peggy grabbed my elbow. "Simon LeBon is RIGHT THERE!" Sure enough, the Wild Boy himself was making his way through the throng, looking somewhat disinterested in the proceedings. I have to say, for a guy whose heyday has long since passed, Simon looks pretty damn good. He's certainly lookin' better than, say, Bono and Michael Stipe. Within a moment, though, he was gone. I looked around for familiar faces -- possibly a comrade from my office, but found only a balding Mickey Dolenz of the Monkees (seriously) and --- ooh! -- an ex-girlfriend from about twelve years ago. Cleary, it was time for a drink! 
After several sweaty minutes, Peg and I managed to secure ourselves some beverages and repaired to the back of the room to survey the festivities. How many other people here, we wondered, had concerns about getting home in time to relieve a babysitter? Someone mentioned a roof deck, so we made our way upstairs and were treated to a lovely view of midtown and some fresh air -- bumping into a baseball-hatted Moby en route. By this point, they were actually playing the new record, but all you could make out was the bass line and the occaisional sounding of the afore-mentioned Mr. LeBon's signature bleat. Ageless Duran bass player/heartthrob, John Taylor suddenly appeared before us, unfortunately flanked by a gaggle of hangers-on. I couldn't stop myself from exclaiming, "holy crap, John Taylor!," to which he politely said "hi" before bumming a smoke off of one of his attending sychophants. Three years ago, Peggy and I spotted John in a Parisian coffee shop, and my wife was genuinely star-struck (herself being a long-recovering Durannie). I brazenly interupted his cafe au lait with an autograph request (much to the pronounced disdain of his two-tone-haired date), and he couldn't have been more of a stand-up gent about it. I didn't want to bug him twice in a decade, so we let the man go. We saw Moby splitting, so we figured that was our cue as well.
Sated, buzzed and blissfully reminded of those late nights out before we had kids, Peg and I returned to those dark Chelsea streets and went home to our sleeping children.
ADDENDUM: The official Duran Duran site just pubbed pics from the party. It's not wildly different, but.....
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