Green food didn’t mean green beer and no. 5. Guacamole, salads, shiny granny smiths courtesy of Power Foods filled the lobby of Avalon (formerly slimelight). Paper shamrocks, rockers, lots of photographers flooded the “No cameras permitted in the club” venue for photographer Patrick McMullen’s Annual St. Patrick’s Day Party. Mr. North, an Irish band, rocked the house… the place was jammed with beautiful people, peppered with ugly oldies that must be important…just not to me. Overall, it was one of those nights where I should have a crazy story to tell, but the truth is, I would have done better at home, in bed, reading Middleseex. View photos from the party >>
It was chilling enough approaching The Women’s National Republican Club, never mind the idea that a building with this name even exists. Then go ahead and add some snow, pile on the slush. Architect Rem Koolhaas believes in the idea of societal improvement. The quick pulse of global change energizes him, leaving him confident and optimistic. Why, for the love of god, was the launch for his new “book” Content (hosted by Jeff Koons) housed at the Republican Club, a club chockablock with Christie Todd Whitman look-a-likes? Hemlines never rise above the calf; ankles are crossed, just like the women. Can you smell the Pledge, and yes, that is a portrait of Nancy Regan. I didn’t “get it.” Any of it. When Koolhaas addressed the audience of cheese-cube-popping-personnel, I made certain to grab a good look at the steely man. His nose was a wedge of sharp cheese, and everything about him was gray, even his eyes. I studied him to ensure I wouldn’t end up spitting out a shoelace if I put my foot in my mouth later in the evening by speaking my mind, “Yeah, this is all a bit too affected, wouldn’t you say? I mean, really, what’s up with this pseudo political architecture zine? Just do me a favor will you? You’re tall. Let me know when you see the Spanikopita lady? Enough with the Satay sticks already, right?” Thankfully, the only words passed between us were please and thank you, the before and the after extended as he signed the Prada advertisement, Page 1 of his book. However, the opportunity yielded offline chats with Jen, Dahlia, Rion, Michael, Tony, Rob, Phobe, and of course Matt Caldecutt, who was my ticket to ride. The most interesting groove of my evening was meeting bloggers in person. “Oh my, I know you. You just commented on my site today!” Indeed I had, and today all I want to do is download Tony’s tunes. More on this event: Tien Mao on Rem Koolhaas Dahlia on Rem Koolhaas Book Launch Tony on A Huge Portrait of Nancy Regan Filled My Dreams Last Night Ron on The Fast-Paced Life of the Litterateur
Friday eve I hit The Hotel Gansevoort, camera in hand. Scope New York, the international art fair, landed on the roof. Lines were the theme, and we’re not talking drawings. Lines of patrons in the cold hoping to squeeze through the immense revolving door, lines for the elevator, lines for the bathroom (not IN the bathroom), and long winding lines for the booze. Half-naked women clad in clear plastic clothes handed out cum shots, which tasted of diluted sugar, not chicken soup. These women reminded me of a passage that has to be written somewhere in some instructional love book, “How to please him every time–wrap it in Sarran Wrap.” or something lame like that. Plastic clothes should remain on hangers, should be yellow, and worn only with duck shoes and accompanying umbrella. Tsk, tsk. Take a look. I was just informed by a dear friend that Photographer Patrick McMullen kept touching my hair saying, “You must come to my St. Patty’s Day Party with that red hair.” Why do people always have the need to touch my hair… and now I’m beginning to remember, I had to keep telling him I wasn’t Irish. “So what, no one will know.” This is true. I always make out with the adult beverages on that holiday. So look forward to that post. Yum.
This morning I opted for black, all black, even my socks. And when I crossed the street for the subway, you called to me to kiss you good-bye. I hadn’t realized you weren’t coming with me. And once I did finally cross the street after our good-byes, I leaned on the lamp post and watched you. I kept hoping you’d turn around to look back at me. Even when I knew you wouldn’t be turning around, I watched your head and your black shoulders disappear. I was so full of love and want for you; in that moment I loved you as my own, like watching a child walk to school. I wanted to keep you safe and kiss your head. I wanted so much for us and for you…all in such a small moment. It’s the last time I saw you, and in a way, it’s as if I knew it would be.
Now I know I’ve made it big. I’m in the latest Daily Candy Weekend Guide. Well, okay, I’m not. The hotel where I am the photographer is… same difference. Click here to view my art. And ahem, I designed the site featured in Daily Candy… so I’ll be sipping, slurping, and spilling some champagne tonight.
I wish you were here, in my dark, for my head and for my heart. I love the taste of miss, the smell of want. I wish tonight I could preserve you, fold you into me like a small square note. You are my cup of tea before bed, my favorite socks, all of my down.
Great Summer Camp. If you are 8 to 16 and need to lose weight try Kingsmont. Have fun and lose weight. Great food, no hunger.
A Sex and The City tour bus unloads streams of people palming cupcakes. Touristas skipped indulging in seconds at Magnolia Bakery. That’s one trick to forgo the hooked line circling back to Bank St. But it feels like spring and smells like winter, so who cares about the lines. The cupcake bouncer cares. Although she doesn’t lift or work out to keep her bouncer title, she’s got a set a lungs to keep the troops in line. “Fights have broken out before, ya know.” Oh, I believe it. Inside are the expected trays of cupcakes, jars of sprinkles, tubs of sugar flowers, bowls of nonpareils. Gobs of pastel icings. Women in bandanas smear it on thick and are heavy-handed with the goods. Old-fashioned jars of enormous cookies make even the lactose-intolerant crave milk. To skip beyond the line, you needn’t show up in a limo or with a gaggle of girls. Name-dropping won’t work. Unless the name is Banana Pudding. If you tell the bouncer you’re there for other treats, beyond the cupcakes, you can saunter right in… let them think you greased her. Click here to view all the pics.
The life of Pi is not an option. I’ve seen it abandoned on too many bookshelves. The Da Vinci Code? No merci. I already tried Jonathan Franzen’s The Corrections. Double no with cream. It’s up there with scrap booking and carpools: book clubbing it. It doesn’t happen in Manhattan; it’s left to suburban women without Starbucks littered on their every corner. Okay, that’s not true, “Fourbucks” is everywhere. Well the buck stops there. 15 of my girlfriends and I are beginning our book club this month (we’ll meet to discuss books in Manhattan over hors d’ oeuvres and cokctails.) I managed to rally up the ladies, but now, of course, it’s time to choose our first book. And researching books online is a bit overwhelming, like picking a restaurant on citysearch.com. There’s a beauty shot, a lovely review, then “here’s what others thought of it.” Books are very personal, almost like buying perfume. I think we need 3 choices, and then we’ll vote. Any ideas?
I spent a summer interning for a Supreme Court justice. She was old, her hands translucent as onionskin, and she told me to think. “I mean really.” I watched closed family court trials in Kew Gardens, criminal cases in Jamaica, and sorted estate papers for an attorney on Fifth Avenue. A man micro waved his baby. The D.A. told me all he did was deal with scum all day. I wasn’t going to be that type. Corporate law, M & A, Entertainment… it’s neat and clean… manicured fingernails. I was certain I would be a lawyer based on the smart-ass, never-mess-with-Stephanie thing I had going on. Teachers tell you. Your parents tell you. Everyone thinks because you’re quick and sass you should be a lawyer. The freedom music swells. Lawyers push papers, spend most of their days trying to find billable hours; some of them go home to sob, dreading Monday. Surprisingly most of my closest friends are now lawyers: my college roommate, my ex-boyfriend, my cocktail chiclet partners (there are at least 5 of them). Some of them hate it. HATE IT. Others are optimistic. I’m certain many law school students are there because they’re uncertain about life. Everyone always told them; everyone can’t be wrong. Cut biscuits. Learning, studying, libraries, essays. I could lick it up, like salt off a palm before the shot and lime. I excelled. So what stopped me from joining the ranks of the confused? A doctor’s appointment… “Okay, now you’re feeling a cotton swab. Just taking some of the cells.” Oh, God. “It might pinch a little, is that okay? You’re going to feel this. Okay, now I’m staining the cervix with acid; it might sting.” Oh, god. “Okay now you’ll feel that 10 seconds of severe cramping I told you about. Are you ready?” Just do it already. Don’t tell me about it. Get this over with. “Yeah.” “Now, you’ll feel quite a few pinches. Those are the biopsies.” Quite a few? Oh my God, that means that there are a lot of abnormal cells. “Okay, here’s the first.” I felt my arms stiffen, pressing into my chest. “You’ll feel a pinch— ready?” I heard a snapping sound, a clip, like a lock of hair out of the way and the sides of the blades clicking back together. It was as if something hard was just snipped away. My legs jumped like they do just as I’m falling asleep at night—quick, involuntary. “Okay, now another.” Oh my god, that was the worst part, like clipping off a fingernail too low, snap. “Now, I’m going to put on this black medicine to stop the bleeding. Your discharge will look like tobacco for the next few days. Okay, you’re all done.” I was shaking, and I wanted to cry. He moved the electronic table to a seated position asking me not to get up too fast. “Are you okay? Dizzy?” No! I’m fine. Get the fcuk out and let me put my pants on. Let me get out. Hurry up and leave already! Get out of here. “I’m fine.” He left, and I was able to finally stand, the groin towel fell, damp with my sweat. Before I sat on the chair with all of my things, I slipped a few pieces of tissue in my underwear and put on my socks. I started gulping in air; I was too nervous to stand. I had to get my pants on before the nurses came in. I was hot and nervous and the next thing I knew, I was back on the table with two nurses, one on each side of me, one taking my blood pressure and the other waving an ammonia packet in my nose. I thought of gray chopped meat that had passed its expiration date. “Her pressure is 75 over 40.” I knew that was low. The nurse that had just taken my blood pressure began to wipe my face with damp gauze. I kept thinking of the fact that she was taking off my make-up and I worried that my skin would look uneven. They asked me how I was feeling, but I wanted to be silent. There was no use for language. I didn’t care to explain to anyone what I just went through or how I felt about anything. I lost interest in speech, nodded my head, and went mute. That cancer scare was as real as a Buick. In retrospect, it was my oars. I turned around, said no thank you to law and decided to do anything creative. Yes, we know, even accountants can be “creative.” I’m talking getting your hands in it, glue, markers, and colors. Thank the governing forces, okay God, that I was fine, cancer-free. I wouldn’t be the writer, photographer, art director…
My day has been beats of modulated movement. A progression of chords moving to a harmonic close–a sense of resolution. Cadence. Maybe it’s the dandruff weather in the city today, but I miss college. At school, I never had to abide bad weather; underground tunnels weaved through streets, beneath buildings, like something out of The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe. I tunneled to class, then broke through, up stairs, and sat buried in a coat, glutting a lecture, observing the plump flakes float, hanging in the air like smoke. I absorbed time until it was severed with a bell. Everyone can be culled. Now that I’m out longer than I was in, my brain is beginning to limp. My photography and writing classes help, but I need to feed on some philosophy or literary theory. I need a deep pore cleaner for my literary brain. Something with the word super or extra in it. There is a remedy for this of course. Poetry. Kicking back with some Anne Sexton or Sharon Olds is the perfect night. I’m beginning to think I’m really a loser. The past few nights, all I’ve done is gone home to write fiction, to jot down lists of lines with edge. I need some help. Sexton and Olds are my collaborative muse. Ladies, you’re gorgeous. I remember –Anne Sexton– By the first of August the invisible beetles began to snore and the grass was as tough as hemp and was no color — no more than the sand was a color and we had worn our bare feet bare since the twentieth of June and there were times we forgot to wind up your alarm clock and some nights we took our gin warm and neat from old jelly glasses while the sun blew out of sight like a red picture hat and one day I tied my hair back with a ribbon and you said that I looked almost like a puritan lady and what I remember best is that the door to your room was the door to mine.
I might have been the president of the science club when I was in high school, but I did not eat hot lunch. I can hear it even now, “Ew, gross, he’s eating hot lunch.” Meatballs and overcooked spaghetti, oooh and garlic bread—bring it on. Hot lunch envy. What’s up, though, with those tiny juices? The nugget of a drink, like a mini box of milk, but it’s got an apple smiling at you. Ah, portion control. Well done. When I’m a mom, I’m going to google good ideas for kids’ lunches. Carrots? Pahleeze.