The club is one of those residences-turned-into-clubs that lines Gramercy Park, the kind with busts and mooseheads and dark wood and threadbare rugs and bedraggled club chairs. The kind of place where the ladies' room is equipped with a sanitary napkin disposal bag dispenser. (The Choice of Discreet Ladies Everywhere!)

The only other time I've been to this club was for some sort of nonprofit charity fundraiser event. A friend was on the board of directors, as I recall, and mentioned, jokingly, that there was a password to gain entrance to the party: Balls and all.

See, these are the kinds of friends I have. They serve on nonprofit boards and make jokes about deep anal.

So when we got to the coatcheck of the club that particular evening, it became clear that while I had gotten the joke, my companion had not. Needless to say, the attendant looked a little wan for the rest of the night.

There was no balls-and-all last night. (I'll let you make your own joke there.) I wondered if I would see, as referenced in the memoir, "a sea of big-teethed Kennedys," but there were only a couple. Oh, and Norman Mailer's stoned son was there. As were a number of distinguished men of a certain age, all of whom looked like they might be actors, or Kennedys, or just drunks wearing cravats. One knocked me out of the way so he could wipe his hands on the tablecloth.

I ate a lot of jumbo shrimp, but it was not a thrilling occasion otherwise. I did get to touch a Kennedy, though. How many women have lived to say that?

Back at the homestead, N was pacing back and forth in front of the TV. He had already donned his Cardinals t-shirt. "Why are you wearing that?" I said.

"Because they need me to," he responded.

As you may have heard, things didn't turn out so well.

As an epilogue, Reeves managed to channel his grief into a review of the new Constantines record. So at least something good came out of this tragedy.