Tuesday, September 30, 2008

Guess Who's Coming to Dinner


There comes a time in the dating cycle when you have to meet the parents. For most people, this represents a big step worth preparing for. Maybe you wear something a little nicer than normal; if you're a guy, perhaps you shave; or some simply brush up on current events in anticipation of mature conversation.

Well, I want to know what the guy who dined next to us tonight with his girlfriend and her parents did for their first meeting.

Allow me to set the scene for you. We're at Gotham, one of Manhattan's best restaurants. This is an establishment where the servers are not content to simply brush the crumbs off your table with a butter knife before bringing out your entrees - oh, no. Any droplets from, say, foie gras jus that can't be brushed aside, are actually covered with an additional table cloth - to shield you from the shame of the mess you've made. Brilliant.

About an hour into our meal, a girl - maybe 21 - walks in with her parents. I'd guess they live in Gramercy Park, as they're too loose for Uptown, but too white and wealthy for anything much edgier. Mom looks like Talbots sponsors her closet; Dad looks like only repeated viewings of the movie American Beauty (and subsequent daydreams about being Kevin Spacey's character) keep him lucid enough to maintain his really boring job on Wall St. Their daughter is experimenting with a soft goth look. It's a little '90s, like when Drew Barrymore had overplucked her eyebrows and was wearing dark lipstick.

20 minutes later, in walks Shaggy - on a bad day. Shaggy has allowed the sides of his goatee to grow out long and pointy. And he looks like the type of guy who would have gone to Lilith Fair back in the day (if he were old enough), where he'd pretend to be really into women's lib so that he could pick up the chicks who weren't lesbians.

Shaggy is greeted by his actual name (which I shall henceforth refer to him as) , "Charlie," with a great deal of excitement from...Dad. Clearly, this is not their first meeting. But yet, I can't figure out why Dad can possibly be excited that this guy is dating his daughter. Then I consider my aforementioned inkling that Dad hearts Kevin Spacey in American Beauty. And it becomes clear - Dad is getting his weed from Charlie.

Upon closer examination, I realize that Charlie has brought a book with him to the restaurant. Ah, an intellect! I wonder what he's reading...so I lean in a little closer.

Oh...My...God.

You know how when you were younger, you learned to make your own book cover? Maybe you made it out of a paper bag. Really cool kids would rip the original covers off their text books completely for this purpose. Well, Charlie had fashioned his own book cover - only it features a naked woman sprawled out like the latest issue of "Dirty Girls Who'll Do Anything" magazine. It's sitting on the table - right next to the salted butter.

Now, just in case you're thinking that somehow, no one else at his table noticed the book...

After five minutes pass, Charlie gets up to go to the restroom. He takes his book with him. Yeah, I don't know either. As he leaves, Mom and Dad comment on this, chuckling. Like, "Oh, that Charlie - he just loves to read!" Shortly thereafter, Charlie returns with the book in hand, and again places it face up on the table.

W-T-F.

Dad is joking with Charlie, urging him to drink more wine...Mom is asleep with her eyes open...Girl just sits across from Charlie, occasionally saying something uninteresting.

Could it be that some parents are so desperate to marry off their daughters, they'll take anything that comes along? Are expectations really that low? Is the truth that the Girl could do no better?

We left before these questions could be answered. So I'm going to maintain good faith and wish Girl and Charlie a happy future together. Maybe love is blind after all...and illiterate.

Monday, September 29, 2008

Going Postal


As many of you know, I studied Urban Planning in college. And while, no, I'm obviously not putting that academia to use professionally, I still find it fascinating. I love public transit and green space and mixed-use dwellings; and something as simple as a beautiful boulevard makes my eyes twinkle. So now that I find myself in New York - the city of all cities - you can imagine I've been looking around to see how they keep the gears greased on this well-oiled machine. And the answer is...

They don't.

I am flabbergasted every day by the inefficiencies of a city that should...just KNOW better. And I can only conclude that New York's refusal to make improvements that even the most junior of cities have long implemented is a reflection of New Yorkers' obstinance and inability to admit that somewhere else, there is a better way.

Case #1 - MTA (The Bus):

I never thought I'd actually ride the bus in New York. It seemed like such an unnecessarily ghetto alternative to the brilliant subway system, and besides...way too complicated to learn. But after just a few days, it became apparent that the bus is actually pretty essential, and very easy to use. It's the most effective way to cross town, since the subway basically just runs north-south. And unlike San Francisco's Muni, the buses run very frequently and the lines actually make sense. For example, the M86 actually runs along 86th street - what a concept - whereas San Francisco's 1-California runs along California west of Steiner, but on Sacramento and then Clay east of that street! Poor SF tourists.

In fact, the only thing about the bus that isn't great and actually totally sucks is the loading system. Here's where San Francisco gets it right (although we lose tons of money this way): You have a pass? Get on the bus - even through the back doors if it's really crowded. Getting off the bus? Only use the back doors. It's simple and it's quick. But not in New York, my friend. You will only get on the bus through the front doors - don't even think about another entry. And when you do get on, you will dip your pass into a machine, magnetic stripe pointing down and to the right (yes, numerous people will screw this up). That is because everyone's pass - a Metrocard - can cover them for totally different time periods and/or dollar amounts. So simply flashing it to the driver doesn't indicate to him or her whether or not it is valid. How...precise. And oh, we do have to wait for everyone who wants to exit at that particular stop to get off before we can get on.

Repeat this process EVERY BLOCK.

Case #2 - Sanitary Engineering (Garbage):

In most cities I'm familiar with, there is a specific day of the week that garbage is collected for each neighborhood. And while in the old days, we all had our own garbage cans and there was no recylcing, cities countrywide have since begun to provide residents with official garbage and recycling bins. In my mother's neighborhood in LA, for example, she has more city-provided cans than a single home could possibly ever need.

However, in New York, things are...different. Every night, garbage lines the streets of the city - primarily in bags. Only a few blessed buildings have a couple of official receptacles, and those are small. Thus, they overflow with a messy mixture of recyclables and refuse on a daily basis. Gee, I wonder where the rats and the stench come from?

Case #3 - Going Postal (USPS):

Last week, I tried to purchase some stamps - something I haven't done in a really long time, because frankly, I send all of my mail from Google, and have done so for the past six years. On the rare occasion I do need actual stamps, I avoid the post office by getting them as part of my ATM transaction. In fact, the last time I remember going to the post office was to sort out our temporary mail forwarding for this trip, and prior to that, it had to have been many, many months.

Well, apparently, New York ATMs aren't equipped with stamps. (Is this just a Wells Fargo thing? I honestly don't know.) And the news stands only sell single stamps. Finally, desperate to avoid a New York post office at all costs, I even tried going into a Mailboxes Etc. type of establishment, where they had a 50% mark-up on stamps. On principal alone, I could not buy from them. I mean, is it even legal to mark up government goods? It's not even a "fee" like a check-cashing store...oh, never mind.

So I was forced to go to the post office - and it was as bad as I thought it would be. There were no stamp machines, except for a single one that was broken but didn't have a sign indicating such. Apparently, a postal worker had hung a sign on it, but her supervisor made her take it down - because God forbid they should provide people with actual information. I stood in a 1/2-hour line for a 27-second transaction. I actually witnessed people "going postal." No, really.

Why, New York, why? You could take a page out of any city's book on these matters. And if you simultaneously figured out a way to shorten the line at Duane Reade, people might actually smile.

I said "might."

Sunday, September 28, 2008

The Last Week


It's hard to believe, but our last week in New York begins today. Next Saturday, we'll be hitting the road again, this time dropping south (but not nonsense Mississippi/Alabama kinda south) to make our way home.

While I can't say I'm excited to go back to work (come on, you wouldn't be either), I do feel like our time here has been well spent and the expiration date is appropriate. The weather is starting to rear its ugly side (spitting drizzle and blanketing the city in heavy humidity with zero sunshine); my month-long workout pass just ran out, relegating me to a 7-day package; and my unlimited month Metrocard laughed at me when I swiped it today (Really, is it necessary for the reader to say, "Insufficient Funds?" It's not like I bounced a check - geez.)

This week, we'll be squeezing in as much as we can to make the most of our time. Amongst the significant planned activities are:

-Finally catching the documentary "Trouble the Water," about Hurricane Katrina.
-Dining at Gotham Bar & Grill.
-My final spa treatment (sniff).
-A second trip to Di Fara Pizza with a group too large to actually be seated.
-Mary J. Blige featuring Robin Thicke at Radio City Music Hall.

Of course, I'll work in the usual exercise, hair appointment and mani/pedi. But then we'll be packing up, loading another SUV (sorry, Earth), and bidding goodbye to Ben and his friends. Bittersweet, indeed.

As I reflect on the highlights (Barneys!) and lowlights (Pigeon Lady), it's certainly been an amazing 5+ weeks so far, not to mention the 2 weeks that preceeded it. But for any who are wondering what the answer to that lingering question in the back of your head may be...

There's no $@T%$@^$!#) way we're moving here. Ever.

California, here we come!

Saturday, September 27, 2008

And I ALSO Have a Bracelet


Well, well, well. Guess who decided to show up at the debate after all. Turns out participat-ing in the year-in-the-making event probably was a better idea than handing the nation's mic over to your opponent for a solo act, huh dumbass?

With McCain's pathetic little stunt out of the way - which was kind of like Britney Spears' VMA appearance last year: first painfully awkward, then just forgettable - the main event did not disappoint. As expected, McCain took every opportunity to call out Obama's "inexperience," and Obama reminded us all that McCain still doesn't understand the economy and loves the '80s. While Obama was not always velvety smooth, sometimes just muttering, "That's not true, that's not true," he never lost his cookies like McCain, who was actually visibly shaking at times. The truly classic moment, however, came when after McCain shifted into trademark downer gear with the tragic story of a fallen soldier whose bracelet he now wore, Obama rebutted with, "I too have a bracelet..." Oh...my. I half-wondered if the camera would zoom in and reveal LIVESTRONG bracelets on both of their wrists.

Brad and I watched the debate unfold out at a bar in [shudder] Times Square - again. It seems we are in with this 21st Century Democratic Leadership group in New York, and they like to host all of their events in touristy bars. At least it's centrally located?

Now you should have gathered after reading my posts by now that New Yorkers are intense and scary. But the only thing more intense and more scary than a New Yorker is a New Yorker with a cause. Do NOT cross these people. The chairman of the committee, upon getting on the mic to introduce the event and a New York state assemblyman in attendance, actually threatened to shut the TVs off if we didn't hush. Really? Really, you think the best way to further the cause of this group is to prevent us from viewing the debate we came to see? Really, you think you can actually get 500 twenty-and-thirty-something New Yorkers with Obama on the brain, the next hook-up in sight, and a cocktail in hand to be quiet? Bold.

Brad had a work event that ran until 8:00 last night, so unfortunately, we had to meet there. "Unfortunately," because in my attempt to secure a table for us (which did not happen), I arrived around 7:50. With Brad not arriving until 8:30, that left me with 40 insufferable minutes to dodge the left-leaners of Wall St.

7:51 - Walk the floor. Check upstairs, circle the room.
7:53 - Go to the bar, get a drink.
7:57 - Test-sip drink and pay.
7:58 - Re-circle the floor, inquire about empty seats that are saved.
8:00 - Find a good standing spot. Check Blackberry, text Brad.
8:01 - "Hi, are you a member of the organization?"
8:01 and 6 seconds - Foiled.

"Srini" worked for a hedge fund. Surprisingly, he does not like this whole economic meltdown. Srini likes to use lots of big words, like "partisan" and "earmarks." He does not count on my political acumen. Srini is equal parts enthralled and terrified.

Enter "Rick," Srini's friend. Rick also "does investments." I question Rick about the fragility of his job. Rick appears nervous. Thankfully, he has a beer in one hand, and a vodka tonic in the other. When I ask Rick why he has two drinks, he explains he doesn't want to have to wait in line at the bar again so soon. I observe that Rick has only had about three girlish sips of his beer. Okay, Rick.

8:15.

Rick - "If I offered you this drink, would you take it? I mean, as a girl, would you accept a drink from a guy you'd just met, if he was already holding it?"
Me - "No, that's weird. Aside from it probably being tepid by now, I'd have no way of knowing you didn't put something in it."
Rick (to Srini) - "Dude, I TOLD you."

8:20.

Srini - "Is our talk totally boring you?"
Me - (Looking up from Blackberry) "What?"
Srini - "Our conversation - is it boring you?"
Me - "What are you talking about?"
Srini - "Banking, investments, you know, mrmrmahrmmrmrrrrrmmblah..."
Me - "Yeah, that's not interesting. But carry on."

8:22.

Srini - "What do you do?"
Rick - "Are you an actress? Is that a total sterotype?" (Seemingly, Rick did not hear me earlier when I said I GREW UP in LA, but LIVED in San Francisco...with my husband.)
Me - "No, I'm in Ad Sales. At home in SAN FRANCISCO, everyone either works for Google, is in banking, or does consulting."
Srini - "Google...I always hear so much about how great that place is...WAIT, you work at Google?"

(Rick still thinks I live in LA. Meanwhile, Google-talk has Srini very entertained. Excellent, I've just bought time.)

8:30.

Me - (Spotting Brad walk through the door) "BRAD!!!!"
Brad - (Surprised) "Wow."
Me - (To Srini and Rick) - "This is my husband, Brad."
(Obligatory handshakes)

8:31.

(Srini and Rick exit stage left.)

I continued to witness variations of this experience throughout the night. One particular guy didn't seem even the least bit interested in the debate, but understood that by being at the event, he appeared politically active (and therefore attractive) to a girl who'd had two beers. I'm not sure if this guy should be hailed for his game, or the girl hung for her stupidity - but in a 10-minute span of semi-whispers (as not to disturb actual debate watchers), this dude acquired her legitimate phone number and what seemed to be a committment to "meet up later." And then he was out - no doubt debate-party-hopping. Donkey, elephant...he didn't care.

Yes We Can, man. Yes We Can.

Friday, September 26, 2008

Political Exhaustion

Shocker - up late as a result of debate-viewing and associated revelry. I'll have plenty of thoughts on that tomorrow. Please check back!

Thursday, September 25, 2008

Lunatics (A.K.A. The Teddy Bear Incident)


So I was talking to my good friend TP today (who, as a Michigan alum, was none too pleased by yesterday's blog photo), and he had some suggestions for future posts. Since I trust his input (and more importantly - did inadvertently disparage his and his wife's alma mater), I've decided to take his opinion to heart - especially since Manhattan provides such easy bait for this particular subject matter.

Let's begin with today's trip to the spa. As you all know by now, I frequent Exhale Spa on an almost daily basis to exercise. And if you're turning up your nose or making snarky comments to yourself about this, might I remind you it is not my fault the best sculpting and cardio classes in Manhattan happen to take place in a light-filled oasis scented with lavender candles. Anyway, today I indulged myself with a facial and massage as part of a "7-day restorative package." Because sure, having not worked for almost 7 weeks, it seems fitting to restore some things. With a class at 11:00 and treatments at 1:30 and 3:00 respectively, I had a lot of time to observe some of my favorite Manhattan lunatics: The Socialites.

Socialite #1 is about 35-years-old. She moves in a deliberate and percocet-induced stupor. After disrobing completely at her locker (and believe me, not in a stripper-porn kind of way), she moves into the bathroom, where she proceeds to turn on a sink and slowly splash handfuls of water onto her torso. I do a double-take, confused by what I think I'm witnessing. She's still at it, not the least bit troubled by the throngs of women moving around her, wielding yoga mats like weapons. Wow. She is taking a bath. In spite of the fact that she is mere meters from numerous available showers that could surely be as efficient, and certainly more effective...she continues. Very well, that's one less foot disease to be concerned about.

Socialite #2 is about 50-years-old. I first encounter her as I'm sitting in the lounge, enjoying a cup of tea after my massage. It's quiet, and there's no need to change that by talking. But here she comes:

Socialite (dressed like it's 40 degrees out - it's 64) - "Hello."
Me - (Looking up from magazine, swallowing hot tea) "Hi."
(I'm hoping for continued silence)
Socialite (Smacking on gum LOUDLY) - "Mrrmmmhmmm grumble blah mrrrm." (This is all I hear)
(More of her nonsense talk to self continues)
(I'm getting irritated)
(Socialite gets up and runs out)
Me - (Thank God.)
(Socialite returns)
Me - (Shit.)
Socialite - "Did anyone come in and ask for me?"
Me - (WTF?) "No."
(At that moment, a therapist walks in and asks for The Socialite)
Socialite - "Oh HI!!!"
Me - (Please leave.)

Remarkable observed lunacy was suspended until Brad and I went to dinner tonight, at a neighborhood spot called "Popover Cafe." Not coincidentally, they serve popovers, and all sorts of regular foods made with popovers - popover burgers, popover pot pie, popover tuna melts - you get the idea. The restaurant is downright kooky, with it's bizarre design theme that combines french country, post-modern minimalism, and...teddy bears. Teddy bears line the windows, sitting on top of booths. There are plain teddy bears, teddy bears dressed in outfits, expensive Gund teddy bears, cheap Walgreens teddy bears, Build-a-Bear teddy bears...I think I even saw Teddy Ruxpin. It's really weird. But who doesn't love a popover?! So we sit and act like this is a totally normal dining environment.

About 15 minutes after we arrived, a group of three 60-year-olds walked in (two men, one woman). I noticed that the man bringing up the rear of the pack was moving extra slowly, eyeing the windows. After what seemed like an internal deliberation (and the hostess had left), he awkwardly stumbled towards one window and grabbed a teddy bear. He then walked to his table, where his dinner mates were still in the process of seating themselves. He clutched his teddy bear tightly. When his friends finally saw it, they looked pleased. He placed the teddy bear in the fourth seat at their table, and after sitting down just briefly, he got up and moved stealthily towards another window - taking a second bear! He went back to his table and gave the original bear a date, seating them side-by-side. This has officially moved past a little eccentric to totally psycho. And just when I thought he was done, he's up again - lunging over a table full of women towards a third bear! I look back at his table, and the woman is now holding one of the bears, splitting up the bear date. He walks back to his table and sits down, holding this bear tight to his body. And this is how the [6] of them ate their meal.

Now, I'm not one to judge - okay, I am, but I give myself at least 10 seconds before doing so. I observed this group closely and carefully. And I can tell you with certainty not a single one of them was mentally...challenged. I mean, at least not technically. I can also confirm that no one was suffering from some weird overgrown child disease, whereby perhaps a 6-year-old just appeared to be a baby boomer. These were standard issue 60-year-olds, who apparently just loved stuffed toys. Unfortunately, we didn't stick around to see if they returned the teddy bears to their rightful spots - or absconded with them.

Just another day in The City.

Wednesday, September 24, 2008

"Time Out, Time Out!"


Raise your hand if you are sick of this election and feel like the campaigning has dragged out for an inane amount of time. Yeah, exactly. And now John McCain wants to take it to the sidelines to deal with the economy - you know, that thing he said was "fundamentally strong?" Nice try, gramps.

I'm sure this new-found desire of McCain's to focus on the economic crisis has nothing to do with the fact that he has slid in recent voter polls to 43% vs. Obama's 52%, ostensibly because no one trusts the multiple homeowner to understand the ills of those dependent on actual paychecks. And I'm sure his suggestion that Friday's debate be cancelled is completely unrelated to fears that he will be over-matched, and challenged to answer questions he could gloss over before in favor of the war topic.

First of all, please tell me what kind of president is incapable of balancing both market challenges, however extreme, and preparation for a debate - simultaneously? It's like being a college student and asking your history professor to extend the paper deadline because you have an econ midterm the same day. I mean, really, it's not exactly a "one thing at a time" kinda job - so seems like now would be as good a time as any to prove to the American people you can freakin' multi-task.

Second of all, does McCain really think that anyone's dumb enough to see this transparent move as an attempt to take the higher road and put America first? Okay, sadly yes, plenty of people are dumb enough. But these are the same dumb people who respond to commercials suggesting that Obama likened Sarah Palin to a pig - so if I were McCain's campaign manager, I'd make sure we were blanketing tv screens with as many more hyperbolically false anti-Obama ads as possible - not SUSPENDING them!

And third - oh, hell - third, can we just go ahead and hand the presidency to Obama and cut out all the formalities? Because seriously, if he can't win this thing under these circumstances, the election is officially rigged.

I suspect McCain will soon also propose that we push Election Day out from the first Tuesday of November to, say, next June. That should give him enough time to dig in on the economy, wrap it up, put a nice bow on it, and rocket back up in the polls - right? And as an added bonus, it'll give the Palinator more time to learn about important things, like the world and stuff.

Thankfully, in T-minus-29, W will be on-air to lay all of our concerns to rest. I'm so glad we have a president who's totally in control and really knows what he's doing and will make it all okay. It makes this whole 2008 election thing seem like not even that urgent or anything at all.

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

Prime Time


Before I get started, I just want to make sure everyone is aware of the news sweeping America tonight:

Clay Aiken is gay.

I know, it's shocking. The Ellen Degeneres haircut really had me guessing. Now, on to the real scoop.

So we have a situation in our apartment that I've failed to reveal thus far, perhaps because I've been in denial - perhaps because I feel a deep sense of shame. But my heart is heavy with this dark secret, so here it goes...

We only have basic cable.

There, I said it. I'm talking basic to the extent that the "cable" part of it includes just CSPAN and TNT, with CNN only sometimes showing up. So I am very well briefed on politics (just ask me to pronounce Mahmoud Ahmadinejad's name) - but even beyond world affairs and the presidential election - I'm talking the politics of Manhattan's 12th district. And I'm all caught up on back episodes of "Charmed." But I haven't been seduced by VH1's brilliant adult programming or HGTV remodels in nearly 2 months. And poor Brad...ESPN is but a long-ago memory, only occasionally resuscitated via iPhone.

Our prime time tv-viewing has sunk to the depths of "Dancing with the Stars," a show I vowed never to watch, and whose title casts a VERY wide net - now I know why. Ted McGinley (yes - that Ted McGinley who played the neighbor on "Married with Children") is tripping himself across the stage as he impersonates someone impersonating the quick-step. He is oddly confident in his stiff, rhythmless movements, making bug eyes at the crowd. In contrast, Warren Sapp looks like Justin Timberlake. This is so awkward.

Meanwhile, celebrity chef Rocco DiSpirito has just been applauded for how vastly improved he is from last night. Funny, since I was just thinking it's a bit strange that he spent half of the routine sitting in a chair off-stage. Excellent strategy.

Who knew that an apartment would list cable as one of its ammenities given the availability of 10 channels (mind you, at least one of them is in a non-English language)? I'd be upset there's no flat-screen, except why on earth would I want to see Susan Lucci's horrendous botox in high definition??

OH MY GOD. Is this a cruel joke? Is Kim Kardashian really dancing the mambo to a karaoke version of "Baby Got Back?" And is she coyly pretending she doesn't know how to shake her booty? Girlfriend, you had a SEX TAPE. Shut up and move.

Not cool, vacationrentals.com. Not cool at all.

Monday, September 22, 2008

David Blaine (and other associated crazy-ass white person nonsense)


Yesterday, Brad and I cut through Central Park on our way back from the bad shopping experience described in the previous post. We came upon a spot that we were certain only weeks before had been a mini children's amusement park, but now was a vast open space with a stage and cranes and a couple of dudes suspended upside down from them. There were people gathered around watching. And then it hit us - David Blaine.

For those of you who somehow may not know who David Blaine is, he considers himself to be a magician - an illusionist, even. Sadly, people rally around him in support of this ridiculous notion. But the reality is that David Blaine is nothing more than one of our world's most classic idiots - the "crazy-ass white person."

Now before you decry this post as racial, I ask that you consider (in addition to the fact that my husband is white, and I therefore have a pass to say whatever I want about his people) that throughout history, white people have made repeated attempts to demonstrate to the world that they are somehow invincible. Examples include Evel Knievel, who sought to prove that no dare was too devilish for him; Dean Karnazes, who ran 30 miles from San Francisco to Half Moon Bay in the middle of the night, and hasn't stopped running since (no, like, literally); and now David Blaine, whose stunts aren't even interesting - just stupid.

Why must the whites endanger their lives to feel as though they are truly fulfilling them? Whereas the rest of us are content filling each day with such joys as spending time with loved ones and otherwise socializing, eating, exercising, shopping, watching television...the list goes on and on - crazy-ass white people are content only to cheat death, stare it square in the eye, and mock it until it bites them in the ass (RIP, Evel Knievel). Believing only they have unlocked the secret of happiness through nonsense activities, the mere average-intelligent amongst us know that at least one secret of happiness is sustaining life.

David Blaine has been advised that this most recent "stunt" of his - a 60-hour inversion elevated above New York City (mind you, not a magic trick - not an illusion) - may lead to blindness, life-threatening elevated blood pressure, stroke, and of course, when he plummets to the earth if he makes it through the 60 hours, death by falling crash. He seems to believe that "there are ways to override these dangers." Fine, let's pretend I accept that. But even if there are, WHY do you want to try? Really, there are far more interesting and even at least initially fun ways to risk your life (just ask George Michael). I hear heroin is a blast at the start. And fornicating with hookers...quite a rush. But hanging upside down with a catheter for waste disposal and a tube for drinking, for more than 3 days after a one-week starvation? That's just retarded.

But alas, presumably, he'll survive - again. The news will be abuzz - he may even supplant Sarah Palin as the top Google search for a day. And then there will be the Oprah appearance (because as much as I love Oprah, for reasons I don't understand, she loves to indulge the crazy-ass white person). Then, silence. 2-3 years will go by before we have to hear anything about him again, during which he'll be plotting his next boring, inactive, moronic thrill. And - if we're lucky - by then, a new crazy-ass white person will have exploded onto the scene.

Fingers crossed.

Sunday, September 21, 2008

Tight Man-Pants


Why are this man's pants so ill-fitting?

No, seriously. I think we need to dedicate some time to this. See, you probably can't tell by the photo, but these are narrow-weave corduroy pants, circa 1977 - and I'm pretty sure they're cut for a woman. Note the elongated rear and full thighs, complemented by a slight taper at the ankles, beyond which the pants do not reach. The only explanation for this level of catastrophe is gender misappropriation.

I've witnessed a lot of terrible men's fashion in New York. Perhaps you recall my Almost Famous post, which featured a seemingly straight man carrying a purse - moment of silence for that one. But today was special. See, today, Brad and I spent a bit of the afternoon doing some men's shopping. And it seems that the root of this New York male fashion problem is actually the New York stores.

We started out at Bergdorf Goodman, which boasts an entire building of men's clothing. Stuffy and overly formal upon entrance, I quickly ushered Brad to the second floor. Voila! Zegna. Who doesn't love those beautiful cashmere sweaters, perfectly cut trousers and...mink fur-lined car coat? Does that say $7,500? Well, at least the fur is on the inside for warmth, not the outside for "fashion." Oh, how I'd soon be eating those words...

Witness Exhibit B. Up on the third floor, just meters away from the man trying on a gold rope bracelet to match his necklace, it hangs unassumingly amongst a sea of regular jackets. It features a face-engulfing fur collar and enormous fur cuffs that look and feel more like permed hair than any sort of animal. The body of the jacket is a ravaged and distressed brown suede. At $8,000, it's a steal. Brad offered to try it on to show you all, but when I discovered it was locked onto the rack and would require assistance, we decided the shame of anyone thinking we seriously liked this frock was far from worth it.

This scenario played out over and over as we moved through the store, until finally, we found an escape route. "To Barneys," I said. Brad agreed, remembering the luck he had the last time we shopped there.

But sadly, Barneys was plagued with the same problems! Sure, there were no pimp bracelets and permed jackets, but there were $800 sweaters - and not much else.

Sigh...is it possible the most wearable fashion for men in this city may actually lie behind the underwear-clad male Abercrombie model who stood at the store's entrance beckoning passerbys this afternoon? I mean, sure, the tshirts are all stamped with some ridiculously played out phrase or dirty mantra, but I bet you won't find any absurdly weird fashions inside.

The man with the purse...the fella here with the tight pants (which upon second look, perhaps came from Abercrombie when they were doing that whole "throw-back" look)...these are merely victims of a city that doesn't know how to dress its men.

Saturday, September 20, 2008

The Big Apple


Earlier this week, I had a bit of a meltdown about all things Manhattan. Brad took that as a sign that maybe we should get out of the City for a day (I have to say, I didn't really understand why people kept asking/suggesting/beg-ging we leave the City at least one weekend - got it now, folks - thanks.)

Most people had suggested we go to the beach, but we just never got around to it. And seeing as I'm from LA, Brad's from Miami, and P Diddy had accidentally left us off his White Party invite list, we decided to pass on the basis of great enough familiarity with all things sand and sea unless something truly spectacular was going on.

With fall approaching, many others had also suggested apple-picking. (Silence.) Yeah, I didn't really get it either, but found the prospect of dressing in theme and leaving the honking, swearing and defensive walking behind for a day to be very attractive. To Middletown, New York it is!

So this morning, we boarded the bus at the Port Authority Station for a very smooth and easy ride about 45 miles northwest of Manhattan. Everyone was happy; no one was singing badly, raping an instrument, or preaching their version of the gospel for money; and the only stop we made before our destination point actually woke me up with the smell of something familiar but just a little bit off (turns out it was an outlet mall). After a 1-1/2 hour ride and a 10-minute taxi, we landed at Soons Orchard.

Soons Orchard (which also houses a country store) is a delightful place where apples and pumpkins are pressed into everything, gardens shine brightly with flowers, and children frolic in the sunshine. The orchard is staffed by a friendly young woman who educates you on the varieties of apples available, and how to pick them. It's as pleasant and straightforward as it sounds. See a sign at the end of a row of trees? Those apples (named on the sign) are ripe for the pickin'. No sign? No picking. And caution tape, coincidentally, means the same thing here as it means everywhere else.

About 45 minutes into our eastern fall experience, we hear a familiar, squawking cacophony:

NY Lady - "What's wrong with these apples?!?"
Orchard Staffer - "What do you mean?"
NY Man - "These apples are no good, they're a mess!!"
Orchard Staffer - "Where did you pick them from?"
NY Lady - "Right over there!" (assume gesturing)
NY Man - "Yeah, right up there with all the apples!"
Orchard Staffer - "The row with the sign?"
NY Lady - "Near the sign! Gah, pfft, right up THERE!!!"
Orchard Staffer - "If you're pointing to that third row, there is no sign. Those apples are not ready for picking."
NY Man - "You told us we could pick these apples!"
Orchard Staffer - "I told you to pick the apples marked by the signs at the end of the rows - not all of them are ripe - those rows do not have signs, and therefore you are not supposed to pick them."
NY Lady - "Well, what are we supposed to do now?!"
NY Man - "This is ridiculous..."
Orchard Staffer - "That's why we mark the rows."
NY Lady - "Unbelievable! These apples stink!"
Orchard Staffer - "That's because they're not ready to be picked. Would you like another bag for..."
NY Man - "No! We want some good apples!"
Orchard Staffer - "Then you need to remain in the marked rows..."

(This went on for a good 5 minutes or so.)

God damned New Yorkers, here we go again - can't even pick apples without verbally assaulting someone.

But these antics weren't going to ruin my day. Screw that. We came to pick apples and buy pie and maybe some other superfluous apple-infused goodness, and damnit, we're filling up this bag and taking home AT LEAST a boxed pastry!!

Back in Manhattan, the apples still taste sweet.

Thursday, September 18, 2008

The Big Chill


Weather is a funny thing in New York. The meteorologists really take pride in their craft, creating seven-day forecasts with such zany taglines for the days as, "Looks Good," "Still Happy," and "Super!" These positive words don't even fit into the New York ethos, so the weather report seems like a great exercise in irony.

Well this week, lo and behold, there was a cold front moving in. This cold front would take temperatures from the high 70s to the low 70s or even [gasp] high 60s! Now, I'm thinking this is hardly anything to blink about. After all, the first day of fall comes Monday, and we're in a city where snow can fall as early as November. I shrug it off and don't panic.

Fast forward to this morning. I wake up in a hot sweat, kicking the blanket off the bed and muffling a heat-induced cough. I sit up and look around, half-wondering if our apartment is on fire. Then I realize that one half of my body - the half closest to the radiator - is significantly hotter than the other. I lean forward and touch the radiator, then jerk my hand back as it nearly scalds me. I lean back in and hear water bubbling through the pipes. Holy shit, is the HEAT on? I start fumbling around for knobs to turn this death-box off, but nothing. I'm desperate, gasping for air. (Strangely, during all of this, Brad is sound asleep - as is Moby.)

I get up and send an email to our landlords, explaining that there must be something wrong, because it's hotter than a drunk Jamaican in our apartment. Thankfully, I'm heading out anyway - and it doesn't look like Brad and Moby will perish - so I just hope they get back to me soon.

When I step outside, I see that people are dressed like a storm is a-comin'. Sweaters, hats, boots, scarves...one woman even donned gloves. It is maybe 64 degrees out, with a crystal clear blue sky boasting a bright, beautiful sun. I'm wearing a long but lightweight cardigan over a tank top, with jeans. By the time I make it three blocks to the bus, I'm already hot.

When I arrive at my destination (the hair salon), the cold weather is all the talk. The receptionist is wearing a sweater, scarf, leggings and tall boots. My hair-washer lamented that it was "freezing" this morning, and she needs to get a new jacket. Really? Really, you need a new jacket to shield yourself from the frosty 64-degree air? She goes on to say that in this "transitional weather," she gets sick very easily. Transitional? In San Francisco, we call this a perfect day. But apparently, in New York, this is hell. Coincidentally, my stylist complains that in the cold, New Yorkers get “really mean.” Because, you know, otherwise – they’re just so peachy!

Meanwhile, the landlords have emailed me back to explain that they are not surprised to hear the heat came on. See, these are very old buildings - and there's only one furnace from which all of the building's heat is operated. When the temperature drops below a certain point in that furnace room (which no doubt is a dark, cement-floored basement that gets A LOT colder than an actual apartment), it triggers radiator heat for every apartment. But because it's very common for apartment dwellers to get way too hot with this [antiquated] system, it is not uncommon to see windows wide open in the dead of winter.

Al Gore would be so proud.

Back on the bus ride home, I see more signs of the big chill. A woman across from me is not only wearing a scarf, but knitting a new one (and in a bit of a panic, I might add - like it's urgent she increase her supply of winter wearables). And I suspect the next time I go into Central Park, the ice cream carts will have been turned into mitten vendors.

In the meantime, I'm opening the windows, pumping the air conditioner, and dressing for Spring.

Once again…dumbfounded.

Too Sleepy

This New York lifestyle is too much for me...and thus, I'm going to bed. Check back in tomorrow!

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

The Q to Brooklyn


There are many things New York is known for - some deserved, some not; some flattering, some not. Amongst the deserved and flattering:

-Great culture and diversity
-Dogs, everywhere dogs!
-World-class shopping and incredible fashion
-Amazing transportation
-Pizza

Amongst the deserved and not-so-flattering:

-Garbage
-Rats
-Rudeness
-Summertime humidity
-That...accent

Undeserved flattery (a.k.a. the lies New Yorkers perpetuate about themselves):

-First and only in everything
-The only "true" city
-Best all-around cuisine

Undeserved unflattery (a.k.a. the lies everyone else perpetuates about New York):

-There isn't really any...I'm afraid all the bad things people say about New York are actually true...

Today's highlight focuses squarely on one of the great deserved New York flatteries: pizza. And we traveled deep into Brooklyn for it (I'm not talking DUMBO, people - believe me, gentrification hasn't quite hit this part of town yet).

For most of my life, I didn't understand the whole pizza phenomenon. Ever heard of Shakey's? Yeah, so growing up, I loved it because of the great chicken wings you could get with the pizza. What did I know?

So I moved through all of the chains, finally reaching a point after college when I could at least criticize Domino's as "quite terrible," really only because I ate so many medium pizzas by myself freshman year I think my body developed an allergy to it as a life-saving mechanism. And up until this past June when I first experienced New York's delicacy, I enjoyed San Francisco's North Beach Pizza, even stooping so low as to order "barbecue chicken pizza." Only now do I realize how horrifying that is.

Let's flash back to June for a moment. Brad and I came to New York for a few days, and he insisted we make a far trip to Brooklyn for "the best pizza ever." We went with a couple of other guys, and the whole time, I wondered why on earth I was on the world's longest subway ride to get to some place for lunch as the doors opened, to avoid what I'd been told over and over again was a "hellacious line." A line - for pizza? Really? A dough disc covered in cheese and tomato sauce and stuff? Really? When we exited the subway, we were in some random part of town, and the pizzeria on the corner that was apparently our point of destination was even more random. What happened there was a religious experience I won't dwell on, because this is supposed to be about today...not three months ago...but suffice it to say I've been on a mad hunt for the taste of this pizza since then, and tonight was no disappointment.

There were three of us this time, and the scheme was elaborate: meet in Union Square, take the Q out to Avenue J in Brooklyn, and hope for a line on a Wednesday night that would take no more than an hour.

We accomplished that part of the mission, and found ourselves ordering at the counter in no more than 15 minutes. Now we just had to wait for the 70-year-old man to make our pizza (orders are only taken as quickly as he can prepare the pies), with the assistance only of his son...barely.

Now, bear in mind, there are no frills here, and certainly no system. The number of chairs does not accommodate the number and size of tables; there are no receipts upon payment because there is no cash register; drinks come from a fridge at the front of the restaurant that requires the honor system; and there's a bucket at the front door to collect dripping water from the air conditioner. The process of getting your pizza involves standing elbow-to-elbow with others at the counter, all trying to stake claim to whatever comes out of the oven. You order plain? No matter. If a five-topping pie lands on the counter, it might be yours. The owner who's also the chef who's also the waiter cannot be bothered with such details.

But oh, when you finally sit down with the delicious goodness...olive oil pooling over the fresh mozzarella and parmesan...large leaves of basil clipped fresh from the garden in the window sill; crust brick oven-thin but bready enough for those who like a little dough...you don't care that you're eating on a card table that hasn't been wiped down in years; or that it's smoky and your eyes are burning from the coal-fired oven. All you care (and hope) is that you're not going to have to fight over the last piece.

And so it was with full bellies that we got back on the Q to Manhattan, all the while planning our next trip before we head back west.

Thank you, New York.

Tuesday, September 16, 2008

Punk'd?


Some days, I know exactly what I'm going to blog about. For example, the "Break-ing My Silence" post that's since gotten a lot of feedback (thanks!) actually came to me in the middle of the night and prevented me from sleeping. (Yeah, I thought I just hated the conservative right for their ideas - now I can also blame them for my insomnia.) And the one way back about the pantless man in Minnesota? Well, it goes without saying it was pretty clear to me after that incident what I'd be writing about the next day.

Today, I wasn't so sure. It was just a regular day - got up "early," took Moby to daycare, went to a morning yoga class, had some breakfast and read a magazine, spent a while in a bookstore, watched a little Oprah, and wrapped that all up with dinner in Chelsea with a friend of Brad's from high school. It was all lovely, but nothing really lent itself to storytelling.

And then, as I sat with my laptop open, the news delivered a gift to me like an early Christmas.

Following up on Hurricane Ike's devastation, Eyewitness News interviewed some victims in Galveston, Texas. And of course, you expect sobbing and stories of loss and all of the things that drive you to donate to the Red Cross (which of course is a good thing to do). But...well, I guess things really are different in Texas.

As a doberman paced back and forth on the porch of the bed and breakfast in the backdrop, the woman they interviewed pointed to her sign that read, "Trespassers will be SHOT." See, I guess there's a looting problem post-hurricane, as you might expect. And rather than leave their homes and/or businesses in the wake of raw sewage, lacking food and running water, non-existent electricity and power, and roaming alligators (no joke), property owners are standing tall and protecting what's theirs - by shooting at people.

"It's my constitutional right," said the Bed and Breakfast manager. "I'm a licensed gun owner - it's registered." It seems no one explained to Annie Oakley that having a registered firearm doesn't open the door for manslaughter.

A mulleted man told reporters that "some nice, unnamed police officers" had actually provided him with bullets for his guns (yes, plural), and instructed him to "shoot if anyone approached."

Okey-dokey Annie, I stand corrected.

And so might I just take a step back and ask...What the hell is happening to our country?

Police officers, who mind you, are supposed to be the people's protectors, are advising citizens to kill each other; the economy is officially imploding, with leading banks and insurers gone belly-up; O.J. Simpson is on trial - AGAIN; and Sarah Palin is still on the GOP presidential ticket.

Are we being punk'd?

Ashton, you got us good this time.

Monday, September 15, 2008

Om Shanti


I've observed them every day for the past three weeks at Exhale Spa, where I go almost every day to exercise. Whether they're 50-and-60-year-olds in Jackie O suits with shopping bags, 40-year-olds indulging their 3rd-grade daughters with $100 mani/pedis, or 30-year-olds flitting about blindly while they tap away on their Blackberries, the Manhattan socialites do their best to work their way under my skin. And just as I feel it beginning to crawl, I shake it off and remember that I too have no employment responsibilities at the moment; I too have a Blackberry; and I too have carried those same shopping bags.

So what's the big deal?

These women suck, that's what the big deal is. Soaked in money, they look miserable - unable to smile or muster a "hello" to the front desk staff who assist them every single day, heeding their beck and call and not stammering when the wretched complain that it's about 1/2 degree too warm in the yoga studio. Masters of Emily Post and Miss Manners when it comes to how to set the table for an afternoon lunch accompanied by croquet, they are at a loss for words when they cut you off in the narrow hallway or open their locker into you.

They work out in 5-carat diamond rings and full makeup, making the Hollywood set appear downright frumpy; and when it's all over, they stroll through the crowded locker room stark naked, as though preparing for their private portrait sessions. After all, why clothe yourself when you're just going to undress again for the massage you have lined up next?

These women fret not about such banalities as common decency. Exit the bathroom stall and saunter past the sinks without slowing down? Darling, please...I'm in a hurry...besides, I'm about to soak these hands in a paraffin dip for my manicure.

And so I keep my gaze fixed forward, engaging only with the lovelies behind the desk and the impressive class teachers. Perhaps when it's all over, I'll ask them how they do their jobs and why they're not mean and nasty the way I'd probably be. In the meantime, it's just om shanti, baby. Om shanti.

Sunday, September 14, 2008

No Fireworks for Field Goals


I love American sports. Few past-times simul-taneously bring out the best AND worst in people. Fans vacillate in a span of seconds between likening their favorite player to Jesus, and calling his mother names. One second, they're high-fiving their neighbor - the next, they're punching that same stranger in the face. And of course, as the beer intake increases, the unpredictability of the individual grows - making a 2-3 hour sporting event all the more interesting for what's happening off the field vs. on it.

You can always tell who the problem fans at the game are going to be. You simply have to look at what they're wearing. Take the split-pic above. Now, on our left, we have annoying girl. She's come to the Jets/Patriots game wearing 4-inch-heeled platform sandals. See, when she started getting dressed for the event, she remembered that the Jets wear green - so she selected an appropriate shirt. And she knew it was going to be really hot - so she wore some less-appropriate-but-still-passable cut-off jean things. But then she thought, "Wait a second. Now I just look like any other fan dressed for a sporting event. I need to take this to the next level." So she grabbed her hooker heels out of the closet, fresh from last night's clubbing in Times Square. "Now," she thought, "I'm super hot and sexy - AND I love the Jets! YEAH!"

Then we have our friend on the right - we'll call him "Jetbo," because that's what the license plate he's wearing on his back reads. I'll let you chew on that for a moment. Jetbo is the fan who doesn't think about tomorrow when he gets dressed today. That's why Jetbo dyes his hair neon green and wears a metal-pronged dog collar around his neck. He doesn't think ahead to being at work on Monday with a discolored scalp, or scars around his mouth and neck from the point in the game when he jumped up and cheered and the collar stabbed him in the face (no, really).

Unfortunately for both of our fans, the Jets are not good, Brett Favre or not; nor are the Pats remotely bad, even minus Tom Brady. And there is nothing sadder than watching the downward spiral of two hyper-dressed fans as the quarters roll by. No doubt, by the third quarter, annoying girl had kicked off her heels in preparation for a barefoot limp through the parking lot. And Jetbo...well, he was sitting right in front of us, so I can tell you exactly what happened to him. Shortly after the one touchdown the Jets scored, I noticed that Jetbo seemed to have some schmutz on his face - perhaps a lot of ketchup. But upon second look, I realized that ketchup was actually blood! Jetbo was bleeding all around his mouth, and didn't even seem to notice. Oh well, at least he wasn't subjected to more fireworks after a field goal - that really made him mad the first time.

One bus- and train-ride later, we were back in Manhattan - where suddenly, my simple green tank top and black shorts looked a little off. And there were no Jetbos or...well, there were annoying girls...but they'd traded their platform sandals for gladiators, and their beers for dirty martinis.

New Jersey...I hardly knew ya.

Saturday, September 13, 2008

Table for Two, Please


Ah, New York.

You culinary goddess and purveyor of amuse for my bouche. How you tempt with your restaurants that fuse such unlikelies as Cuban and Chinese; and burn deep holes in our pockets with $14 guacamole. To be a host, hostess, waiter or waitress at one of your esteemed institutions must be a near papal honor.

And so he stands before us in classic New York restaurant host attire - black pants and a dress shirt not dressy enough to be stuffy, but not casual enough to look like he's not trying. In response to my request for a table for two, he looks around as though just on the border of perturbed, and lets out a light sigh. "Okay, please just step to the side for one moment." He appears distraught as he tries to figure out just how he is going to seat two parties of two and one party of four, when the only currently available tables are two tables for two and one table for four. Determined, he flits about, crossing the floor several times clutching menus, sometimes collecting a bread basket, other times engaging in a brief but important discussion with a waiter or waitress. He spends ten minutes doing this. He then returns to his station, and one by one, motions each party to its table - one of the three aforementioned available. And he's only the opening act.

After we sit down, we meet the real star of the show. He's dressed like a slightly more expensive version of the host, and sports rectangular glasses as well. He can't smile, nor can he engage you too much and risk appearing interested in...well, anything. He can only stand and recite the day's specials, careful not to express any allegiance towards one over the other. As he takes our orders, he owns the stage - this glorified food court in the Time Warner Center - and practically takes a bow before exiting left. But he won't be back for an encore, because he doesn't actually bring food to the tables. The layers of complexity to his job include taking the orders and passing them on to someone else to execute on the delivery. This segment will only repeat when it is time for dessert.

There are numerous players during the meal - the food deliverer of course, the water refiller, and the check collector, to name a few. And they appear at various points of intermission during the meal - in this case, a one-hour lunch. It's all very carefully orchestrated, and don't you dare doubt its significance. After all, this is why you pay $50 for two sandwiches and tip 20%.

When it's all over, you know you've been taken advantage of. But you shrug it off, noting, "Well, that cheese WAS fabulous," and, "I haven't had hot chocolate that good since I was in Spain." Never mind the fact that in Spain, it cost $1.50 for twice as much as the $5.00 cup here.

But ah - this is New York.

Friday, September 12, 2008

Deprogramming in Process

After two straight days of Sarah Palin interviews, I'm too dizzy with word vomit to string together a post. So I think it's best to take a break and work on deprogramming my brain, whose thoughts are periodically interrupted by the phrase, "I believe that America has to exercise all options in order to stop the terrorists who are hell bent on destroying America and our allies." It's going to be tough, since that was regurgitated 17 times in a mere 15-minute span, but I think I can do it. I just won't blink - and won't second-guess myself.

Thursday, September 11, 2008

Almost Famous


Yikes. Men, don't let this happen to you.

Today's posting is a tribute to fashion. After all, it is Thursday - and that means hair therapy followed by retail therapy. Up to bat: Bergdorf Goodman.

First, a quick lesson. There are four "B's" of shopping in New York, and you attack them in the following order:

-Bloomingdale's
-Barney's
-Bergdorf Goodman
-(Henri) Bendel

I've crossed the first two off my list many times, settling on Barney's as my go-to. But the latter two had remained uncharted territory, until tackling Bergdorf today.

Having done a walk-by yesterday afternoon, I felt fully prepared for entry (read: I'd identified the difference between the men's store on the east corner, and the women's store on the west corner). The revolving doors moved me onto a vast floor of handbags and accessories that looked a lot like...Barney's. Okay, like Barney's, I'm guessing I need to ascend some floors to get into my zone. So I take the escalator up to the second floor, because we all know you never take the elevator the first time you're in a department store - the danger of what you might miss isn't worth it.

HALELUJAH!

Jimmy. Manolo. Christian. Some of the world's finest and most sophisticated men are right here before me - and how handsome they all are! Slingbacks, platforms, round toes, pointy toes, jeweled heels...I'm overwhelmed by the sound of them all calling my name. Hmmm...but I'm certainly not overwhelmed by the sound of anyone else calling to me with, for example, a "Ma'am may I help you?" Stonefaced, all of these salespeople! Never mind them...I just need a cash register to ring this pair of Valentinos up myself - I'll get my own commission. But not yet - as amateur a move as taking the elevator on your first visit is buying the first thing you see that you like.

It's on to the fifth floor, a department not so originally named "5F." Here, I find all of my favorite designers: Diane Von Furstenberg, Robert Rodriquez, Tahari, Vince, James Perse...they only seem to be missing Ya-Ya and David Meister, but they've more than made up for that oversight with racks and racks of beautiful clothing by other stand-outs. Hey, look, Elizabeth Banks is browsing the Vince racks with me - and seems to have picked up the sweater I'm currently wearing. Good choice, Betsy.

But again, despite the countless salespeople, I managed to wander the floor for a solid 1/2 hour before anyone even spoke to me - this has never happened before. I wasn't sure if I should be irritated or thankful on Brad's behalf. Finally, a full 45 minutes into browsing, a man asked if he could start a fitting room for me. It was all downhill from there.

Somehow in the next 1/2 hour, I went back downstairs for the Valentinos, where a near argument with the salesman about my size evolved into a new friendship; got lost on the horrific basement Beauty Level, where over-zealous spritzers tried to push their products on me like crack dealers; and found my way back to 5F with a bag full of fall delights. Oh, and by the way, the more bags I filled up while in the store, the more salespeople befriended me - shoo, people, shoo!

I left Bergdorf not loving it nearly as much as Barney's, but pleased with the contraband nonetheless. As I made my way back down Central Park South to my subway station, I ran into the same paparazzi gathered outside of the Ritz that I saw with my friend TP yesterday (who may now regret not having stuck around). Normally, I'd hang back for a few seconds, and then keep moving - but today, I thought, what the hell - I have absolutely no place to be (and therein lies the beauty of the sabbatical!).

So for the next 20 minutes, I stood outside with a gaggle of photogs, tourists and New Yorkers. We talked amongst ourselves about who it might be, with guesses ranging from Britney Spears to Kareem Abdul-Jabaar(???). And then I saw him - Ken Paves. "Oh, it's Jessica Simpson!" I declared. The woman in front of me asks how I know this. Oh, honey...

Anyway, Jessica sauntered through the doors 5 minutes behind Ken, looking REALLY gorgeous. That clip-on Jessica and Ken hair sure does look good up close - damn! She smiled for photographers screaming her name, signed some autographs for fans, and was all-around sweet like bubble gum.

Up next: a ban on my American Express card.

Wednesday, September 10, 2008

Breaking My Silence


It's been almost two weeks since John McCain named his running mate, and nearly one week since both conventions wrapped up. I've sat tight and let the dust settle before observing and commenting on America's response. And now, I think it's fair to say - people in this country are even dumber than I thought.

Of the previously undecided voters polled after the RNC closed its curtain last Thursday, 14% have sided with Obama - and another 20% have put a stake in the ground for McCain. Fully 60% remain undecided.

Now, I could go off on a tirade about how much I disagree with the new McCain backers, but I'm not going to. My real problem is with the 60% who somehow still don't know - as if the candidates are actually close in their views and approaches. These are the people who, when you ask them what they think about absolutely anything, and they say, "I don't know, whatever," really are not kidding. Apparently, 100 years in Iraq isn't a whole lot different to them from 14 more months before withdrawal; and apparently, it remains to be seen as far as they're concerned if the economy is humming along fine or in the tank after all. I mean, it's all just so grey between these two candidates, who really can decide?

The rest of this post is dedicated to Sarah Palin - the gun-slinging pageant girl with the "Diana Prince-Wonder Woman" glasses and mop on top of her head. I've remained silent for long enough - and now you've been warned.

The overwhelming concensus seems to be that McCain chose this woman based on her gender and potential ability to convert Hillary voters. But come on, McCain's not an idiot. He didn't really think Hillary supporters would jump the liberal ship for a right-wing conservative. He did, however, correctly surmise that the masses would go nuts for a "spunky little lady" who's attractive enough to distract voters from actual issues. McCain played the lowest common denominator "hot" card - read: she has breasts.

We've all known a Sarah Palin. She was the one in high school who loved hanging with the guys, couldn't get along with a single girl, talked up her interest in things like sports and cars (and depending on the region of the country, guns and hunting), hid behind her glasses in front of the parents and teachers, but put out just enough for the boys to keep her around. Those boys just got older and now wear suits.

The Palin camp is screaming indignations about sexism. In their latest pathetic cry, they claim that when Obama used the well-known adage "lipstick on a pig" to describe Republican policies, he was referring to...Sarah Palin. Enough already! We're going to flip the script for a moment.

Let's put a 44-year-old man in her place, next to John McCain. Have him be fresh off his stint as mayor of a town with less than 7,000 people (Palo Alto has ~60,000), and 1-1/2 years into his gubernatorial reign for the state of Alaska - which, by the way, has fewer people than the city of San Francisco. Now put him on the podium last Wednesday, making a speech in which he belittled the opposing presidential candidate's history as a community organizer for one of the country's largest and most complex cities. How loudly would the country be singing this loser's praises?

It's bullshit.

Aside from having recently held a post that isn't much different from being student body president at a large public school, we don't even have her life experience or academic credentials to look to. Having just obtained her passport a year ago for a family trip to Italy, Moby is practically better traveled than this woman - I'm going to guess he's at least been to more states!

And University of Idaho? Please. She couldn't even get a job at Google with that on her resume, and I'm thinking it's a hell of a lot harder to be second to the Commander in Chief than to sell advertising. If you're applying for the second biggest job in the country, I think it's reasonable for me to expect that you went to a top-tier school, or at least graduated from a top-tier PROGRAM. According to U.S. News and World Report's 2008 college issue, University of Idaho does not even receive an actual ranking. It's "Tier 3," a category shared by University of Hawaii-Manoa and University of La Verne, as examples. In Fall of 2007, University of Idaho accepted 77% of all applicants. Yeah, that's almost everyone. That means practically your entire high school graduating class was good to go according to University of Idaho - and mind you, it's now actually HARDER to get into college than it used to be.

I don't give a damn that she's a woman. I don't care that she has 5 kids. And her love of hockey is of zero consequence. She's AVERAGE - an average person with dangerous ideas that quite obviously don't even break through in her own house. And it takes more than AVERAGE to do the job she's seeking. I'm not an elitist for feeling that way - I'm a REALIST.

Don't support Sarah Palin because she's a woman. Don't support Barrack Obama because he's black. Support someone based on what they've said and shown they will do. And if you disagree with my pick, that's your choice - just don't disagree with it because you're mistaking the election of President and Vice President of the United States for the selection of your Homecoming King and Queen.

Tuesday, September 9, 2008

The Great Pigeon Massacre


New York has a lot of pigeons - maybe as many pigeons as they have rats. And like every city, there's a bit of a love-hate relationship between the people and the pigeons. Some folks enjoy sitting in the park, surrounding themselves with pigeons by feeding them breadcrumbs and other scraps. Others take a wide berth as they walk down the sidewalk past them, probably thinking they're pretty gross.

I happen to be in that second camp. I don't like pigeons, and I can't imagine how people want to sit with them, much less let them land on them like that crazy man in Florence. At the same time, however, I recognize they're not going to kill me. Worst case, I get shit on - and (knock on wood) that hasn't happened to me yet.

Try telling that to Psycho New Yorker #264352.

Psycho New Yorker #264352 is a mean, nutty, 60+ woman who lives somewhere on the Upper West Side. She was last spotted walking east on 82nd St. between Amsterdam and Broadway. She wears a scowl and a long peasant skirt, and probably responds to the name "Geraldine."

As I'm heading west with Moby around 5:30 p.m. (fresh from daycare) down 82nd, approaching Amsterdam, I stumble upon a gathering of such aforementioned pigeons, snacking on some New York afterbirth. Ew - I don't like it, but I'm already in the middle of a busy intersection with a flashing red hand, and there's not a whole lot I can do about it. Moby, on the other hand, is thrilled. Like some of those pigeon-loving humans, he'd happily dive into the group, thrilled to take them all on - and so he does. Not surprisingly, the pigeons disperse into the air in a flapping, rabid "woosh."

Well, this is just too much for Psycho New Yorker #264352 to bear. Looking right at me, she lets out a loud, angry yell - because, you know, New York is so otherwise perfectly clean and free of nasty things like rats, garbage and pigeons, she's probably never witnessed anything like this before.

I calmly respond that I really can't prevent him (Moby) from making a sudden move towards pigeons. But Psycho New Yorker #264352 has a solution:

"Why don't you cross the street?!!!?!"

Sure, I'll move to the back of the bus while I'm at it, sister.

And then the budding Psycho New Yorker in me yells back, "Because they fly on BOTH sides of the street!!!"

In a confounding response, Psycho New Yorker #264352 grumbles back, "Yeah, right!"

By now, I'd met the eyes of a Wall St. type who managed a smirk. Oh yay, I've made a New Yorker smile!

And Moby and I marched on proudly, recognizing at that very instant the irony of simultaneously sending one person into rage and another into happiness.

Monday, September 8, 2008

Fashion Citations


First, a moment of silence for Fashion Week...

At work, I have not one - but two- tablets of fashion citations that were given to me by colleagues. I've only handed one out, and even then, it was kind of a joke. Really, the friend I gave it to knew she had violated a code of fashion ethics with her horrible boots - I was merely doing her a favor by speeding up the hopeful process of purging them from her closet.

Boy, do I wish I had those citations with me now.

For the past 2+ weeks, I have overlooked bad New York fashion in the name of "unique style." I have seen cowboy boots worn with sundresses; bras fully exposed; shorts cut like underwear...I have seen tshirts that read, "You Shook Me All Night Long," as well as, "I Hope You Like Animals - 'Cause I'm a Beast." (That last one was actually spotted TWICE.) People are even inking themselves unfashionably. How's this for a bad tat: W O R D, stamped in 50-point block font on the inside of a man's forearm. Seriously. And yet, every time, I have written these violations off as merely zany acts.

And then the photo above happened.

This woman - a mother pushing her baby in his stroller - was out in broad daylight dressed like Elizabeth Berkeley in Showgirls, minus the big hair, makeup and clear heels. That black thing she wore wasn't a dress - it was a slip. And it revealed her bad, strangely cut not-a-thong-and-not-a-boy-short underwear. Having problems seeing the crime? Just tip your monitor a bit...or better yet, click on the picture to enlarge it.

You don't get dressed in the morning and not notice your dress is completely sheer and your business is out for all to see. Just like you don't get dressed for yoga and not remember that leg warmers went out of style with Debbie Allen, Leroy and Cocoa. And surely, you do not go to your Core Fusion class wearing black stretch jeans, thinking that no one will notice they aren't really workout pants. Fair enough that you don't want to spend $90 for Lululemon pants, but for the love of God, go to Target and get yourself some legitimate exercise wear.

You don't do these things anywhere - except for New York. Call it "couture." Call it "vintage." Call it "fringe." Too bad no one is willing to call it out for what it really is: UGLY.

Sunday, September 7, 2008

Excuse Me


It's a phrase that could revolution-ize the lives of New Yorkers - two words that could forever change the landscape of their environment - a simple interjection with the power to minimize stints in therapy and prolong life expectancy:

"Excuse me."

Such a simple concept has gone absent from this great city. And the irony isn't lost on this one, considering the spacial challenges of every experience here, from grocery shopping to mere walking down the street.

Of course, New Yorkers have come up with what they deem an acceptable substitute for basic politeness:

The Stare-Down.

Let's take it to Zabar's, Manhattan's favorite overpriced grocer, shall we? As you stand in front of the organic blueberries, it begins with a simple feeling that you are being watched. Then you hear the breathing - and feel the hairs on someone else's arms standing up. You turn around, and to your surprise, you find an angry-looking man/woman/child/yuppy/artist/criminal over your shoulder, alternatively glaring at you and the products you're perusing. Your initial reaction is to jump out of the way. But after you do that a couple of times, you realize something doesn't make sense. What, what, WHAT is it? Oh yeah...you had no way of knowing they were there to begin with because they didn't say, "EXCUSE ME!"

And so now, you're standing aimlessly in the aisle, people silently bumping into you from every direction, and you're glaring back in the direction of the crazy who shoved you aside to begin with. But by now, they've gotten their items and moved on. And now YOU, by the way, look like the insane one.

Some variation of this experience plays out over and over again. Whether they are patrons or employees, you're offended in ways you can't describe. Perhaps it's the bread guy who claims you said, "Roach," when you requested, "Brioche" - which, Zabar's, is NOT spelled B-R-O-I-C-H-E! Or it could be the checkout girl who aimlessly points towards the hand cart collector when you unload your things onto the conveyor belt - then gives you the stink eye when you ask what the hell she's asking you to do.

There are a couple of ways to approach this mass problem, since we have almost one month remaining here. One thought is to start an "Excuse Me" campaign, complete with signs, diagrams, and dictionary definitions to enable those who really just don't understand. But another thought is just to begin mowing people over and scowling at them as they lie lifeless on the ground in my wake of ill-manners.

Option 2. Oh, and excuse me.

Saturday, September 6, 2008

Tropical Storm Hanna


As a native Californian, I just don't get summer rain. Rain should come between the months of November and April, and it should be accompanied by cold weather so that one can dress appropriately for the conditions. It should not, for example, have been 90 degrees the day before heavy rain - creating a damp and disgusting air filth that makes for wardrobe malfunctions such as stinky flip-flops.

But no. Here we are, experiencing "the first tropical storm in years," thanks to Hanna. And it struck with sudden might late last night, as we found ourselves on the side of the bridge that wasn't home: Brooklyn.

We met up with our friend Toby, whom we haven't seen since our wedding 6 years ago! He and his wife live in DUMBO, a neighborhood I've now strangely been to three different times because a client (west elm) is located there.

Brooklyn is a nice change of pace from Manhattan. It still has plenty of restaurants, shopping and nightlife, but without the aggressiveness you find across the bridge. Illustrating the difference between the two boroughs, our bartender at the restaurant we dined at last night liberally topped off my drink - after I told him I wouldn't be having another. In Manhattan, that would have been the "refill" we're now all too familiar with. Likewise, at a second restaurant Toby promised would serve us delicious pie, the doorman gave us a whole one - for FREE - because they were closed for a wedding reception. (Big ups to Toby for being a baller at the pie place.)

However, some things remain the same between the two places. For example, as we went down to a lovely park that lies along the East River for a picture-perfect view of the Brooklyn Bridge with the City as its backdrop, Toby warned us the rats like to scurry along the beachy rocks at night. Oh, and across the paths. And in the grass. And...UGHHHHH, Ben's whole extended family lives over here!

We wrapped up the night at a bar/lounge where someone definitely not famous was hosting a definitely not exclusive "industry" event upstairs. Hooches did definitely abound.

Today, we spent the rainy day at the Museum of Natural History, which we unsuccessfully tried to explore last weekend. Everyone buys things at this museum, but I'm not really sure what they're buying because unlike an art museum, there are no prints for sale - no overpriced stemware - no tshirts to make you appear intellectual. As best I can tell, they can only be purchasing fake fossils, which is really weird.

As for tonight, we're riding out the storm - which in the last minute, was just upgraded to include a Tornado Watch. Terrific.

Friday, September 5, 2008

Check Back in Tomorrow

Late, rainy night coming back from Brooklyn, which I'll update you on tomorrow. Sleepy time.

Thursday, September 4, 2008

Model Behavior


Thursdays have officially become my "me" day - you know, as opposed to all the other days of the week when I'm stamping out world hunger. Today, that meant another visit to the hair salon, and a trip downtown to meet Brad for lunch - in the Google NYC building. That was bizarre - because instead of going to the 4th floor as I've done many times to head up to Google, I went to the 3rd floor, where the Acumen Fund is located - and where Brad works.

There are notable differences between the Acumen Fund office and the Google office:

1) Lack of dudes walking around wearing headsets and swinging golf clubs.
2) A kitchen with no actual food products.
3) Shared bathrooms that are located in the hallway and require a key (sometimes, you're just going to have to hold it).

After mingling for a bit, we headed to lunch at Pastis, where the best steak sandwich on earth resides (and, coincidentally, a "refill" is actually a free additional beverage!). And as we sat there, it hit me - this part of town is FULL of models. Everywhere you look, there's a tall, skinny chick wearing expensive-looking layers of crap on a 90-degree day that feels like 100 degrees. Their arms nearly break as they carry giant tote bags that hold their portfolios. Frankly, I have no idea what they're doing in Pastis, since that's an actual dining establishment - and as I discovered later in the day, they all drink their meals at Starbucks.

Post-lunch, I made my way down Washington to 14th to spend some time with my good friends Diane (von Furstenberg) and Scoop - and then wave at, but not actually talk to, Stella (McCartney). As I'm walking along the quiet street, I hear, "Model! Model!" I keep walking, thinking, "Yes, yes, they're everywhere...sigh." Then again, "Model!" I turn around to spot someone, and I just see the guy calling out. He looks at me - I look at him. "Are you?" he asks. Realizing his implication at this point, and finding great humor in his enthusiasm and lack of subtlety, I placate him and nod. What comes out of his mouth next is priceless:

"Naomi Campbell?!"

I can't roll with this one - she's a violent, assistant-beating, cell phone-throwing, community service-mandated lunatic. I shake my head. And then, seemingly in an effort to prevent me from developing a complex about the mix-up, he reassuringly yells, "Gettin' there!"

I'll take that.

Tuesday, September 2, 2008

Rules Are Meant To Be Broken


New Yorkers are a fickle bunch. If you don't communicate with them just right, do something exactly as they know it to be done, or demonstrate for even a moment that you may be from somewhere else where things are...different...you will hear about it.

Take the "Curb Your Dog" signs that populate our neighborhood. See, the Upper West Side (and Upper East Side) are two of the only areas in Manhattan where you'll find an abundance of trees. And boy, are the New Yorkers proud of these trees. At the roots of the trees, they often plant pretty flowers or other miracles of nature, and surround them with miniature wrought iron gates. And then the trees scream at you with their signs: "Curb Your Dog!" Sometimes they add, "$100 Fine for Pet Litter!" And then further, "It's the Law!" For God's sake, why are they so angry? Don't they know dogs have been lifting their legs on trees for hundreds of years, and yet, they're still standing? But to avoid the wrath of an angry New Yorker, every day, Moby and I scoot down our block and save all leg-lifting for the park. Thank God it's right there. And if he does accidentally lift too early, I look around maniacally to see if we've been spotted.

Now mind you, Brad and I have debated the definitions of "curbing your dog" and "pet litter." Does it stand to reason that they must be referring to solids only? I mean, how do you really drain your dog off the curb? Gah, too confusing.

I find all of this particularly odd in a city that clearly values dogs over humans. As I sat in Starbucks yesterday, a man proudly marched in with his dog on leash - a Shiba Inu. It's a 25-35-pound dog, but it's a dog. And Starbucks is a dining establishment of sorts. I buried my head in my hands as I waited for the staff to rain down words of fury on him...but nothing. No one really even looked up from their coffee. Certainly, no barista was bothered enough to stop steaming milk. Okay, so I guess the signs should really read, "Curb Your Dog Before Bringing Him Into Starbucks."

Let's talk more about Starbucks. It seems that the locals have even managed to Manhattanize this chain - from Seattle, mind you. I walk up to the counter. "Grande chai, please." Now, I've been ordering this beverage from Starbucks for many years. My order's never changed. And Starbucks has never changed it, either. It's always been a chai, and there have always just been three sizes: tall, grande and venti. You could go to Estonia and place this order just fine, so surely, it shouldn't mystify anyone in New York. Wrong. The brainy barista behind the cash register looks at me and mumbles something totally incoherent. I stare back at her. "Sorry?" I ask. She stares back at me and mumbles some more nonsense. Silence. WTF??? I think for a moment. Did she ask for my name? That would make sense, seeing as there are 20 people in here waiting for drinks. But no, that's definitely not what she asked me for - and besides, I know from previous Manhattan Starbucks experiences that they don't call out your name to collect your drink - no, don't be silly. They simply yell out the orders, and a bunch of you dive towards the pick-up counter and knock each other out Lord of the Flies style.

So we're still staring at each other. Finally, she puts her hand on her hip and cocks her head to one side: "Latte??" Is THAT what this is about? She wants to know if I want a chai LATTE? Isn't that the only chai I can get here? Why the hell would I come to Starbucks for them to give me a grande size of boiling water and a chai-flavored tea bag?? Yes, genius, I want a God damned chai latte. GRANDE.

But at least Starbucks allows me to sit down in their establishment to enjoy my drink. The bakery I went to prior to Starbucks - we'll call them Pain de Quotidien, or "Le Assholes" for short - didn't even let my butt touch the seat of the chair before telling me their tables were for guests ordering in only, not those who had ordered at the counter for carry-out. Hold on. Isn't it all the same food? So if I don't want to wait for a waiter or waitress to come, take my order, and bring me exactly what I could get myself from the counter...I can't sit here? It's 11:30 in the morning on a Tuesday! Who ELSE is sitting here? I mean, fine, kick me out if Charlize Theron needs my table, but for now...shut it.

Even subsitute yoga instructor "Rocker Jesus" had demands. "Accept the pose. No, ACCEPT it. RECEIVE it. Don't DO it. RECEIVE it." Yeah, well thanks to all that RECEIVING of the poses I did, I had to spend an extra $30 on a massage at the nail salon today. Damn you, Rocker Jesus.

Namaste.