Getting It Done

Following Wednesday’s “Way Out” bash marked Thursday’s first Out Lounge party of the season (and at a new location - Club Touch), and I have to say I’m surprised the entire Western side of Manhattan didn’t plunge underground because of all the extra weight of 34,509 homos piled on top of each other, impatiently clamoring at the door & both of their understaffed (yet chic, touch-sensitive and luminescent) bars. The theme was all Vegas, and the feathers, boas, and surprisingly hot (yet female) performers were slutting it up with the ‘mos until the cheap vodka wells ran dry. I even got a card from a cross-dresser advertising “her” “promotions” which in New York City means anything from weddings to crystal meth. It’s really anybody’s guess when you get it at an open bar.

Which leads me to my next point.

Why is it that the gays like to party so much? The liquor companies have definitely caught on, and they’re practically pouring their profits down our throat just to get the slightest brand recognition. I’m being honest when I tell you that I can’t even remember the sponsor of half the events I’ve been to, but I thank them every time I’ve only had $4 to last me through the night, so it works out in the end…kinda. Moral of the story: Disappoint your parents, be discriminated against, never be able to marry, and you’ll drink for free until you die. It’s awesome.

Soon thereafter I whisked my unsuspecting straight friend over to D’Or lounge in the Dream Hotel where a young pr exec was hosting her 24th birthday party. The girl was 24 and there’s little doubt in my mind she had the open bar comped, space comped, and photographer at cost. Gotta love public relations, people. I can’t say I’m not seething with jealousy, but the event really was gorgeous; the basement lounge glowing from gold uplights and antique mirrors amid Richie Rich’s radiant “natural” blonde hair and some Countess (from that retarded “Real Housewives of NYC” show) being fawned over by aspiring socialites.

Not too much planned yet this week, but it’s only Monday…I’ll keep ya posted.

So I found myself (after a hasty last-minute pseudo-invite involving a little truth-stretching and smooth-talking) at Thom Bar last night in 60 Thompson, that breathtakingly beautiful hotel in Soho, attending a follow-up event to The Observer’s high-profile real estate expo just two weeks ago, which I also attended (due to the free mimosas calling my name) over at the Puck Building. Not that I’m in the market for a $650,000 one-bedroom apartment, but still…

Needless to say, the glamorous space was packed with sexy real estate execs, even sexier bartenders and one adorable (and newly single, though straight) owner/publisher, Mr. Jared Kushner.  I politely introduced myself, since we’ve been emailing back and forth for months without ever actually meeting (after I brazenly called and asked to speak with him, and he - to my great disbelief - actually took my call) so I figured it was only the right thing to do.  He’s a dashing fellow, I’ll give him that, but he kind of looks like he’s 12 and has the charm to match… which is endearing, mind you, but as the owner/publisher of one of the most influential papers in New York, even though I’ll be the first one advocating against ageism, it just seems a little weird.

I just returned from the WayOut event sponsored by Genre magazine (and by Genre magazine I mean V2 Vodka) where a VIP bracelet buys you all of a stupid seat on a couch.  The area is loosely monitored by a beautifully ditzy boy, constantly glancing down to ensure its vague exclusivity in between scoping out fresh meat en route to the bar.  It was held at HK (as per usual lately) and I swear that every time I go there that place looks completely different.  Although their first attempt (from what I saw at the opening party) had a painful amount of Miami-esque flare, they’ve toned it down and gave it a shot of mojo to make it more palatable up here in New York, with subdued house music, sexy lighting, candles and our “special” VIP lounge.

Tomorrow’s a busy day, though, so I should probably cut this short.  Work all day, networking happy hour from 6-7, Out party at 8, PR/birthday party at D’Or in the Dream Hotel - all before going home.  Guess I should be starting right about now to help my odds of looking presentable in the morning, but not without:

Overheard on 210th St & Bainbridge Ave -

15-year-old girl to group of friends: I be takin’ AP English this year, yo. I the only one in that motherfucker that don’t be lookin’ like they be deliverin’ yo’ egg rolls when they ain’ts in school an’ shit.

Just a few words: Run to see Gypsy starring the legendary Patti Lupone. Truth be told, she’s an awkward-looking woman, but she wears this part like a custom-made suit and owns the stage as only she can. I just had the odd pleasure of seeing the movie starring Bette Midler AFTER already seeing the broadway show, and I’m still not sure which one was better. But there are enough rave reviews out there of Miss Lupone’s stunning performance confirming this opinion, so I’ll move on for now…

Last Tuesday I found myself at a soiree highlighting Soho’s “24 Prince” restaurant in all its glam. Even walking to the damn event I noticed my posture shift as everyone passing me was more gorgeous than the last. Gucci, Prada, Louis Vuitton and Jimmy Choo absolutely smother the streets down there, and I love it. Though I’ve always said the Upper West Side is for me, I had to rethink my position that night and consider the possibility of finding a home someday in the fab-glam streets of Soho.

Anyway, the event was to promote the restaurant’s 2 year anniversary and their chef’s stint on Bravo’s “Top Chef” by passing around tray after tray of increasingly delicious nibbles while serving tasty house wines. My favorite was the white truffle popcorn, surpassing only the gorgonzola-dolloped filet mignon on toast points out of the numerous scrumptious offerings. Having found a nook near the kitchen door (a trusty trick o’ the trade at these events supposed to replace a heavy dinner) I casually attacked the servers with every new tray they procured, trying desperately to act like I hadn’t just devoured the previous server’s tray of the exact same thing. There are events you go to and think “well that was nice, but I’ll never go there again” and then there are the events where you go to and they’re so full of people, yet the space is so inviting and food so wonderful that you wish you could clear it out for a private party right then and there. This was that kind of place. Free wine, delicacies, and jaw-dropping eye candy lured me back to actually pay for dinner and drinks, as there’s no doubt in my mind that their sumptuous menu is worth every penny.

A little while passed before we had to bow out to attend National Jean Company’s fashion show, where I smooth-talked my way in front of a 300-person line into a max-capacity Slate Plus lounge in the Flatiron district. Again, grabbing a few (free) cocktails at the bar, I once again smooth-talked my way into the lesser of the two VIP areas (you take what you can get with a press pass and no name on any list) but without foregoing a fabulous view from the end of the runway. The show was resplendent, despite not having any male models (a big downer in my book) and on the way out I snickered quietly at those hoards of unfortunate souls just then gaining admittance into the event, inconveniently when the free vodka ran dry and the show ended, while bemoaning their obvious D-list status.

On another note, to continue my trend of cutting and pasting overheardinny.com quips, I had one of my own today when, upon looking outside and realizing it was one of the nicer days we’ve had lately, I decided to break out my dusty crocs from the back of my shoe closet. It was daring, but I threw caution to the wind and slipped into last year’s craze, my feet thanking me for the breath of fresh air. As I walked down Broadway to return some movies at Blockbuster, however, I strutted comfortably in my forgotten kicks past a homeless man who yelled mockingly from his perch on the sidewalk: “Hey, you! We’re gonna have to sit down sometime and discuss those shoes, man.”

What could I say? I’ve always lived by the principle that you sacrifice comfort for beauty, and the one day I didn’t, a toothless bum on the street reminded me of it. The crocs go back where they belong…at home in Woodstock.

Until next time (and in the spirit of Soho) -

Overheard on Spring St & 6th Ave:

Yuppie girl #1: So he said he couldn’t date me.
Yuppie girl #2: Why?
Yuppie girl #1: He said he likes to date normal girls.
Yuppie girl #2: What?!
Yuppie girl #1: Yeah, like who likes normal girls?

Alright alright, I’m going to be lame and merely re-post what has already been posted elsewhere, but I can’t help myself:

 Hot girl #1: It’s the guy on the end of the train.
Hot girl #2: Wow. It’s amazing the human body can smell like that and still be alive.

–Coney Island-bound F train

 Guy: Ladies and gentlemen, can I have your attention for a second, please? [All the straphangers look at him.] Thank you for your attention. [Gets off the train.]

–6 train

Big guy: My grandmother is a science teacher, my father is a math teacher, and my brother is going to be a professor.
Little chick: And you want to be an actor — what a disappointment.
Big guy: Well, if the acting thing doesn’t work out, I’ll be a gym teacher, because those who can’t do, teach. And those who can’t teach, teach gym.

–Olive Garden, Times Square

Customer: Maybe you should just quit your job.
Employee: Maybe you should just shut the fuck up!

–PATH train, 125th St

 Bus driver, about traffic jam: Ladies and gentlemen, Fifth Avenue will be the next stop. We will be arriving in seven to ten days. [Minutes later] Attention! The waiter will be around shortly to take your dinner orders. The next crosstown movie will be Gone with the Wind.

–M79 bus

Professor: Did I tell you guys I’m going to be a father? I’m going to be a father.
Class: Awww!
Professor: I had a little accident. Now I have to get married.

–NYU classroom

Conductor: 207th Street. Last stop. Everyone wake up and get the fuck off my train; I want to go home. Thanks for riding MTA.

–Uptown A train, 207th St

And last but not least:

Woman: This is the second time I been to New York, though, ’cause last time my girl was like, “Do you like the nightlife?” and I said, “Yeah,” and she was like, “Then you gotta get to the city, bitch,” and I got arrested for smoking a blunt on someone’s brownstone.
Man: That’s terrible.
Woman: Oh no, I mean, it was like the second time I got arrested, you know, so it was like no big deal.
Man: What happened the first time?
Girl: Oh, that was just a misunderstanding. I was like 14, and I was wit’ ma man, and we was having words–like, we was having a disagreement–and I stabbed him, is all. It was just a misunderstanding.

–Chinatown bus

12 words you’d never expect to hear out of your best friend’s mouth. 

Granted, there was no crotch-grabbing or jockstraps, but there he was.  Yes, he looked good, but a fact is a fact.  The man is in a new real estate marketing partnership with yet another good-looking fellow (who rumor has it is quite the accomplished porn star from years gone by) and with their combined physiques are hoping to attract the elite homosexuals with their dashing good looks highlighted by professional (cough - photoshopped - cough) headshots.  The scary thing is, it might just work. 

In other news, I continued the unrelated girly event galavanting with a trip to Elizabeth Arden’s flagship store on fifth avenue last Friday.  A friend’s company was having a little soiree (read: free wine) so I thought I’d go and check it out, get a little tipsy, and maybe a gift bag or two to save until I can pawn them off as lavish Christmas presents.  Surrounded by aging women trying desperately to look younger by maxing out their credit cards, I drank myself into oblivion, saw my friend get a stunning makeover for free (while the stylist not-so-discreetly gathered up all twelve of the products he used to make her look red-carpet-ready to have them handy should she care to purchase them) and hoovered some cheese, crackers and delicious smoked salmon finger sandwiches. 

We stumbled through the famed Red Door entrance back onto fifth and headed over to Guest House in the meatpacking district for a little open bar soiree of their own.  It truly is a miracle how much free booze one can get in this city if you know the right people (or at the very least, have an email address specifically to hand out to promoters like candy).  An hour of house music, dizzying wallpaper and bridge & tunnel (though I hate that term, but it was stark and apparent) human debris left us both ready to call it a night, which meant go home and keep partying for a good 4 more hours.

Saturday was complete with Suite, Sahara Davenport resplendent in all ”her” glory, high-kicking it to Beyonce and God knows who else.  They had a mango margarita special so needless to say I was in dancing it up with complete strangers and getting groped by a drag queen whose energy even Michael Musto quipped should be bottled up for sale.  A good friend of mine had just been offered an incredible job opportunity, as have I (if you haven’t been keeping up) so the free shots came a-flowing.

This week is gearing up to be a riot, with a benefit at Splash on Wednesday (for what, I have no idea…does it matter?) and my Scottish one night stand-cum-houseguest arriving that evening.  Details to follow…

The journey of journeys is over, and some stability has been thrust back into my life at long last.  I just received my offer letter from an amazing company who does the visual marketing for Calvin Klein, DKNY, Sephora and Godiva, just to name a few.  It’s more money than I expected, better benefits than I expected, and 80% out of an office which is unbeatable.  There’s nothing worse (disclaimer: sorry for all of you out there sitting on your ass all day staring at a computer) than being cooped inside a New York City office all day, enviously watching the life out on the streets and wishing you were part of it. 

In other news, I went to a Spring Fashion Event at the National Jean Company on the upper east side.  Catering exclusively to women, I brought along a female companion with impeccable taste for the free wine and gourmet cupcakes while perusing the $400 tank tops.  Not much to speak of - they were giving free makeovers for women, which did me no good - but I’ll never pass up an event with free wine.  Never.

So…sorry guys, but as of now I’m occupationally called for, and hopefully will be for a few years to come.  $1 million in the bank by the time I’m 30, everyone.  You hear that?  30.  6 years away.  Let the race begin.

But first, a little overheardinnewyork:

Guy: I guess I’d rather be bulimic than anorexic.
Girl: Oh, why?
Guy: Well, I guess it’s the more satisfying eating disorder, cause you can taste yourself getting skinnier every time you vomit!

–40th & Park

In the midst of reading New York Magazine’s hilarious Approval Matrix, I looked up the other day to scan the contents of my rapidly filling subway car.  My eyes darted back and forth, weaving a zigzag across what appeared to be an entire train full of the color black.  Scarves, shoes, gloves, hats, pants, purses, you name it.  Everyone (everyone) was wearing black, and it looked great!  There’s something about that color (value, hue, whatever) that is not only slimming, but curiously indicative of New York. 

 What is it?  Are we all perpetually depressed?  Do we unconsciously match our wardrobes with the drab gray sidewalks and steel of the subway railings?  Do we plan for the overcast concrete haze and opt for the “power suit” every day just to keep from feeling inferior?  I would always watch Will & Grace with a tinge of disapproval when I started noticing that every character would consistently wear black like it was their religion, but now I’m not so sure.   There’s a surprising amount of truth in it, and I’m clueless as to why.

Although I’m sure in more tropical environments (i.e. anywhere else) the clothing palettes are saturated with oranges, reds, yellows and fuschias, there’s something about the perception of black here that’s different in other cities.  Does it symbolize power?  Wealth?  Status?  Granted, the fact that you’re here walking these streets already solidifies those perceptions (gotta love that about Manhattan) but there has to be more to it.  Is it our weather?  And if so, do people in England where it rains non-stop addictively throw on black ponchos and overcoats every day as well? 

Any thoughts are more than welcome.  I’ll just keep sitting here in my black shoes, black pants, white & blue striped shirt and black v-neck.   When work is over I’ll throw my black satchel over my shoulder and head bla…I mean back…uptown.

To close with my current fav. from overheardinny:

Hipster guy: Well, it’s not like I’m into men, but there aren’t really any girls around right now… It’s convenient! At least I’m getting laid!

–In front of Metropolitan Bar, Williamsburg

Hobo, in false British accent: Of all the dimensions in the universe, I had to end up in this one! New York — filthy, dirty, grimy. Greatest city in the world? Bah! I could have been fighting dragons with Merlin, but no! I had to end up here!

–6 train  (courtesy of www.overheardinny.com)

I was stepping onto the number 1 train last Friday going uptown to my apartment, and the familiar scent of a homeless bum occupying a whole bench to himself hit my nostrils something awful.  Only it wasn’t just one, it was two.  Lucky for me, the one sitting closest was scarfing down a McDonald’s cheeseburger like his life depended on it, though considering how he looked, it just might have.

It was around 2 am and after just witnessing a trashy Harlem-bound ho and her boyfriend grinding their hips against a stair railing while their baby slept peacefully across the top of their shopping cart (yes, you read that correctly) I was not in the mood to deal with any other mortifying sights, so you can understand my dismay when smelling the putrid aroma on the train.  I sat down, the doors closed, and all of a sudden, out of one of the bum’s pile of found/stolen goods blares “Let’s Get It On” by Marvin Gaye.  I couldn’t make this up if I tried, people.

His friend starts mumbling incoherently, and apparently it was a joke because I’ve never seen two stoned homeless guys laugh harder in my life.  The one grooving to his speaker starts shouting: “Ain’t no otha like anotha brotha” over, and over, and over, and over.  Spitting, shrieking and laughing so hard that tiny, chewed pieces of his McDonald’s burger are flying onto the subway floor from his mouth and landing dangerously close to my suede loafers. 

Sometimes on a particularly rough day I’ll think to myself, “man, homeless people have it made” but I wonder why they still insist on shlepping around a city like New York, fighting the bitter cold, biting winds and the most jaded crowd in America.  Hop a freight train down to Miami, will you!!??  Stop bothering all of us busy, apathetic New Yorkers, begging for change on every other street corner. 

Here’s a hint:  the more of you there are, the less change each one of you will get!  Spread the hell out! 

Who’s with me?

Well, I officially have a Dr. Mom.  After 3 hellish years of sleepless nights and exhaustive reading, the miracle that is my mother finally defended her dissertation and passed.  Now we can all rest easy…especially my poor dad.

This makes two in the family.  My brother Rob, who has his doctorate in Coastal Ecology, and my mom who now has her doctorate in Educational Leadership…then there’s me, who’s working on putting together a portfolio to get into the fall semester of Columbia’s graduate program in Strategic Communication.  If there’s anyone out there reading this who has some advice on how to get in, please feel free to pass it along.  Ivy league’s are pretty picky, and though I’m qualified to get in, they have about a 20% acceptance rate, therefore greatly diminishing my chances when put up against some of the brightest minds in the world.

In other news, my book proposal has finally been completed!!!  Two months of sweat, tears, staying up until sunrise, hours of research and tons of revision (including one awful experience of losing about 5 pages of solid material right before emailing it to my editor) and it’s done.  The life and times of James Brown is forever ingrained in my head, and although it was incredibly interesting and eye-opening to write a book proposal about his crazy-ass tales of drugs, wives and misfortunes, it was equally as frustrating.  Never having written a story for story’s sake - merely for professors and, well, you -  I struggled to grasp the concept of breathing life into a story and really putting yourself into every situation you’re trying to vividly describe.  Writing truly is harder than it seems, people.  I mean, this blogging crap isn’t, but writing as a profession is a painfully solitary process, and my social life has surely taken a brief nosedive.

I’m now acting as the “Marketing & Hospitality Coordinator” for a new off-Broadway play called “Secrets of a Soccer Mom” under the umbrella of Richard Frankel Productions (The Producers, Hairspray, Young Frankenstein, etc.) and although it sounds as if primarily for the 50-plus, menopausal crowd, it’s actually a really cute show that almost anybody can relate to.  Whether you’re a parent or teacher, have been in an Elementary school ever (let’s hope so) or sat through a kid’s soccer game, you’re bound to find it amusing.  Maybe I’m just programmed to say that, but I enjoyed and am now telling all my friends to come see it (for selfish reasons, obviously).

In other theater news as of late, I’ve been lucky to see “Passing Strange,” “Sunday in the Park with George” & “I Love You, You’re Perfect, Now Change” in the last few weeks since posting a blog.  Along with about 4 productions of “Secrets of a Soccer Mom” mind you.  Yes, I’ve been busy.  I’ll take them one at a time…

Passing Strange - headlined by a non-singer named Stew (which is glaringly obvious as soon as he opens his mouth) this show chronicles his life growing up in California & subsequently the ol’ “bird flying the coop” drama, following the main character through European trysts with a load of funny, poignant and sometimes painfully repetitive rock/blues songs.  All in all good theater, though I’d only give it a 70% approval, regardless of the NY Times review.

Sunday in the Park with George - I have to start with my ultimate fondness for anything Sondheim, so let’s get that straight.  However, sometimes I have to say the man needed a good copy editor to delete some unnecessary scenes and songs that only make an otherwise superb show drag on relentlessly.  The set was very basic, but the brilliant direction used projections of Seurat’s paintings to create some visually stunning backdrops, ending the show with the famous painting “Afternoon on the Island of the Grand Jatte” perfectly recreated by the cast and bringing the audience to tears.

I Love You, You’re Perfect, Now Change - As always, it was hilarious.  One of my favorite small (cast of 4, band of 2) shows highlighting the differences between men and women, relationships between parents & kids, husbands & wives, etc… I read a review that probably captures it best by describing it as “Seinfeld the Musical” - and though it will probably be on for awhile (I think we’re 12 years into it already) it’s one you don’t want to miss.

That’s all for now.  Patti Lupone in Gypsy is tomorrow night’s entertainment, so keep posted…if you care.

I really think I would. Wouldn’t you?

For all you aspiring/pseudo/beginner/enlightened yogis out there, when you really assess the pros and cons of a good yoga class, does it or does it not outweigh the carnal pleasures of raw, animalistic sex? Irrespective of whether it’s with a significant other or a stranger from a bar, there’s something about a great yoga class that has all the natural benefits of great sex – the focused, relaxed feeling right afterward (minus the craving for a smoke), concentration on your own body, it’s abilities and limits, respecting the space of others around you, pushing yourself beyond your everyday physical limitations – yet doesn’t involve the predictably tragic aftermath of a “who calls who first” debacle.

You can schedule it for whenever you need it most, you get to choose who guides you through your class (how & which style you’re feeling up for) and the best part about it is there are people who are both better and worse than you all around you, so you’ll never look like an idiot! With sex, there’s always the chance you’ll get proper drunk in a bar somewhere and then you wake up the next morning thinking “I’m sure I was alright, but fuck…I know I’m better than that, dammit! Why did I have to get so bloody hammered?”

W ell if you hadn’t noticed, it’s Valentine’s Day - the one night you’re supposed to spend with the one you love and I’m blogging about yoga on my sofa.

Alliteration comes so easy when you’re lonely.

That being said, I’ve got to put myself together and meet Michael Musto downtown for a drink at Splash. I’ll inevitably come back alone….the new Ian sort of sucks at hitting on strangers.

Hope cupid hits all of you lovebird motherfuckers in the ass

“Watch for good times to retreat into yourself. Frequently meditate on how good God is to you.”
- Thomas a Kempis (c.1380-1471)