Of Ferraris and forty year old Frogs

Last Thursday (or synthetic Friday as its known on wall street thanks to the "Good Friday" after it), a friend of mine took me to the preopen cocktail at the the New York Auto show. And it was a rather wierd event in some sense. I mean it was a car show and had all the nice cars - the newest beamer, the Porshe GT4 and an entire range of Astons, with their red leather seats (what are we Italians?!). But what really surprised me was the social scene there.

To start with they had a sixty year old at the turn table (Now, it might not be politically correct to complain about that, but who cares about political correctness anyway?), and the music he played would have reminded my grandparents of their childhood days. And then there was the bar, and of course it didn't serve any beer. So, what was going on here?

To understand, one only needed to look around. The only people who could actually buy the half million dollar Ferraris were the grey haired fifth avenue advertisers - the sort that attend the wife swapping parties on Thursdays. That's of course if you don't count the odd sheikh who had made his wad selling oil to the Chinese. The rest of us could only look at what we couldn't own - and the car companies knew that. Unfortunately for me and many other young men there, so did the young ladies. 

Even so, I did manage to chat up a nice little russian girl. She even let me buy her a drink. I was beginning to get quite pleased with myself, when Duncan came along, and everything went wrong. The girl now completely ignored me seemingly to talk with a old fat bald man, with a beard. I was about to shout over the top of my voice - "he has a wife across the river; a mistress in Marselles; and two kids". But, I soon realized the young lady probably didn't care about all of that. Except, maybe for the little competition in France.

So dejected, I took another fill and looked around. And what I noticed this time was a third species. The botoxed beauties with their reupholstered breasts, trying to eye their next prey. I think the american vernacular for this sort is the cougar, and now I know why. Frankly there was no point being there anymore. So I made my way out, and went to bed, alone.