"Is it a question of bad faith or of another fundamental attitude?  And can one live this new aspect of being?  In particular will freedom by taking itself for an end escape all situations?  Or on the contrary will it remain situated?  Or will it situate itself so much the more precisely and the more individually as it projects itself further in anguish as a conditioned freedom and accepts more fully its responsibility as an existent by whom the world come into being.  All these questions, which refer us to a  pure and no an accessory reflection, can find their reply only on the ethical plane.  We shall devote to them a future work."
--Jean-Paul Sartre, Being and Nothingness, 1956

I, miracle of miracles, was able to slip in with press credentials.  The Grand Hyatt is colossal, a labyrinthine structure filled with confusing mirrors and shiny brass.  I cannot count the number of times that I nearly crashed into a wall or found myself staring stupidly at a dead end in stupid expectation that the room continued.   

The gathering was fantastic, an amalgam of business sorts, their typically curvaceous wives, booze industry sorts, and a grab-bag of press people, sots, and nouveau riche beauties.  My hair freshly cut, I was coifed and ready to go in my lime-green sports coat.

Reality suspended- for over three hours I bestrode the Grand Ballroom, gobbling up Manhattan's best cuisine and drinking all the free beer, wine and cocktails I could. While my editor, a reticent sort, amiably shook hands and handled the business, I gorged and was hit on repeatedly.  I recall thinking I was in Heaven upon meeting a six foot tall redhead who tended some posh bar on Wall Street.  Oh, the possibilities...

Later I found myself in the post-event party for all the hard-working volunteers who amde the event such a blast.  The Crystal Fountain, a party area a floor beneath the Grand Ballroom, was jammed with the restaurant, booze and charity people who had made the whole event such a blast.  There was free booze and food.  Palm trees loomed above. I eschewed the cheese, meat and fruit, and settled on chocolate chip cookies and gin and delighted in looking out the second floor window on 42nd and Lexington.  While tanking Mezzaluna vodka and ginger ale I was suddenly confronted with a wide shouldered drunken corporate woman who looked upon me as a wolf does a sheep.  She asked me why I was scribbling in a small notebook.  I tried to explain but her eyes glazed over and she turned away but then asked for my card.  I obliged, ordered two more drinks for myself and began stretching my back.  No use ending up injured if she comes back for me, I reasoned.

The marble fountain spat many streams and the revelers took to climbing it and stomping about it.  A woman spilling sex appeared before me.  Her zippered rear shook in front of me, her thick red-brown hung disheveled and lewdly over her heat-flushed, hazelnut face.  Her 4 inch heels hit the floor and her tan belly slipped from beneath her tanktop as the speakers blared, "Heaven knows, it's not the way it should be; Heaven knows..."

I agreed, and soon fled into the night.