"Do you get your choice?" I ask.
"How'd you get up here?" bellows my buddy Mike.
"How do you rate?" asks our pal Susan.
I shrug and tell them I'm with Posh, which carries a lot of clout. I couldn't get a foot in the door of a joint like this were it not for Posh and her substantial army of friends and co-conspirators.
So, we're at Table 23, with Brad and Lisa, Bill and Nancy, Will and Linda. Seth and Tillie are here too. I don't know them as well, but they are a lovely younger couple, at least she is. Seth, who is not as lovely but pretty funny, claims to have run the 40-yard dash in 4.3 as a college football player. To put that into perspective, Superman ran a 4.4.
"My kids don't even want to play football," he says.
It is almost 10 now, well past my bedtime. A sensational Newport Beach band takes the stage and everyone dances, except me. I am shyer than I'd like to be and dance as if falling from a plane.
Besides, the dance floor is jammed, packed with moms and dads glad for a glamorous night out, including several hoochie mamas (think Peg Bundy or Patti LaBelle) who threaten to dance right out of their revealing dresses. They dance like Viking warriors. They dance like sailors tossed at sea.
And the month ain't over yet.
Next Saturday, we have something else, followed by something else the next week, including more banquet salmon, a little undercooked.
It's March . . . it's madness.