JT and the Ferraro Twins Say: Take Tomorrow Off

For some inexplicable reason, my name has virally snaked across the vast Internet serversphere and onto mailing lists for some of "New York's "hottest clubs." Pacha. Crobar. Minestrone (OK, made that one up).

I don't know how this could've happened. I am so far outside the demographic orbit of these establishments as to live in a parallel universe embellished not by strobe lights, 747-takeoff-level hip-hop, Ecstacy vending machines, and beautiful androids named Ivinka and Helmut, but by stacks of books with titles such as "Eros and Civilization" and bottles of ibuprofen.

The party planners -- young pups who are either patricians trying to forge make-believe careers as party entrepreneurs, Eurotrashites looking to subtract meaning from their lives, or Wall Street drones who seek salvation from their six-figure servitude -- promise in their almost daily missives immediate entree to these fantasy palaces, the catch being that we, the initiates, should be so grateful to be on BZ's or Tomcat's or Rich Fine's list that we will gladly pay the equivalent of a month's rent for a bottle of Cristal to try to impress a Belarusian fashion refugee.

My latest solicitation, from an entity called JT Talent and Casting, just arrived. It was an invitation to "THE ANNUAL INDEPENDENCE DAY EVE ROOF TOP PARTY LEGENDARY MONDAYS on July 3, hosted by two Italian-American sports stars and New York Rangers, the Ferraro twins."

Ignoring the fact that the Ferraro twins were two of the biggest busts in NHL history, I continued reading the ad, which featured cut-out profiles of the twins wearing turtlenecks and looking like GQ cover boys, an illustration of an exotic dancer writhing in barbiturated rapture, and the words, "No work next day."

This caught my eye. Either JT Talent and Casting presumed that its audience was so dumb/strung out that it couldn't calculate the day following July 3 was July 4...OR: They had acquired the power to give all attendees the day off.

"Sorry, boss, I can't make it tomorrow. JT gave me the day off."
"Work? No can do. Speak to JT."

And who knows -- maybe JT's corporate penetration is even deeper. "Mr. Faversham, sir, JT says give me a raise."

Of course, JT can do nothing for the worker who arrives on July 5th to find an irate manager waving a pink slip big enough to be a float in the Pride Parade. (The most they might be able to offer is a job as a doorman, but then you'd have to supplant Rudy Ray and Butch, both of whom were part of the planet Pluto until it was struck by a comet 1oo, ooo light years ago.)

But that's not JT's problem. Their motto: Liver free or die.