The Friars, for those who have never been, is a private club for old comics. Giant portraits of Milton Berle, Frank Sinatra, Martha Raye and Shecky Green adorn all available wall space. The smell of cigar smoke is overwhelming. The average age of the members is seventy. The club is twenty years older than Old School. The beige and old leather decor add an odd, and sometimes disorienting, atmosphere. The carpet is as dizzy as a Vegas casino.
I got home last night at 12:30am which is way past Bob's and my bedtime. He was anxiously waiting by the door, beyond happy to see me, and he immediately went into the bedroom and assumed his position. We cuddled and watched "American Idol" (so far I love Kimberly and the big black guy in the funny suit), then "The Shield" and finally, as our lullaby, "Murder, She Said" with Margaret Rutherford.
But it is good to be out of the house, around other people and feeling functional. Nice.