In 1979 I was going out with a blonde model from Buffalo. She came home late one night. Her excuse was Arthur Weinstein. The name was familiar, since I was was working at Hurrah, which he had owned before selling out to Robert Boyngon. I ran into Arthur on 2nd Avenue. The goodlooking nightclub impressario was with Scottie Taylor. A bartender at Studio 54. They looked non-violent. It didn’t matter. I was hot. I wanted to say something about his moves on my girl, but Arthur beat me to the punch.

“I was with your girlfriend last night.” The lean six-footer admitted his guilt. he spoke from the side of his mouth like he didn’t want anyone else to hear what he said.

“Yeah, she said you were.” I convicted him of adultery, even though my girlfriend and I weren’t married.

“And you think something happened?” The expression on my face was easier to read than a cartoon’s dialogue balloon. “What woman’s going to tell her boyfriend she just slept with someone. None. Not one. Your girlfriend and I drank. You can believe me or not. It’s up to you.”

His logic was flawless and I invited him and Scottie over to my East 10th Street apartment to smoke a joint. My girlfriend was out with a tennis player at Studio 54. She said it was work related.

“Do yourself a favor. Don’t ask so many questions.” Arthur told me on the way to the Reggae Lounge on Canal Street. “This is New York. None of us are angels.”

He was more right than wrong and I worked for him at the Jefferson and the Continental. They were the best years of an era of errors. None of us were saints, but Arthur came close if you didn’t look to hard and that was easy for me, since my eyesight is terrible.

Almost blind when it comes to love.