Thursday, March 31, 2005
One Good Apple
Speeding down the west side of Manhattan island in an NYC taxi cab, from my uber-chic Hudson Hotel in Midtown to Papadou in the hipper than thou Meatpacking District, I felt like I was taking a whirl in a virtual reality machine. I was in a moving vehicle that jostled me from left to right as in whizzed in and out of traffic like a Rally X video game, so I was like popcorn poppin' in the kettle. And looking out the window, scenes from the Big Apple went by like 8mm reels on a projector. From Hell's Kitchen to Chelsea, there were bars -- dive bars, glamourous bars, bars with an attitude, cosy bars and Irish bars. There were little restaurants so cute you wanted to take a picture, slap on a stamp and send it as a postcard -- J-pop funky pan-Asian places, genuine Italian places, black coffee diner places, new school eclectic-fusion places and the kind of place that'll stay open for you at 5am with an egg and pepper sandwich.
And I'm thinking -- as I always do when I visit New York City -- I'm thinking about how alive and vibrant this place is. There's always something to do at any time, even if that something to do was putting a fresh coat of graffiti on a dumpster. And people are truly trendy, but that's because it works... Papadou, that French bistro with a heated garden that we went to to celebrate Rox's birthday was small and your elbows touched your neighbour's but it was so cool that the waiter wore a loosely tight striped shirt with sleeves that ended where his biceps began and Rachel Weisz sat at the next table. The waiter spilled water all over Rox -- but that's a good thing, that's special, it was her birthday. We got a free bottle of champagne for Rox's troubles, and that's a better thing.
And then we went down a block to Spice Market for drinks. Now, this is the type of glamourous New York City bar I'm talking about, and if we had this in Chicago, it'd be overrun with Trixies and River West wannabes. In New York, however, it was a low lit place with intricate Oriental woodwork and translucent silk curtains lingered over cul de sacs. Waiters wore sharply cut Chinese suits and female patrons wore slivers of cloth. Of course, no one drank beer and the cheapest cocktail was $11. I always get a mojito if it's on the menu and in this lifetime, I've paid an average of $7-8 for a good mojito. At Spice Market, it was $12 for a dash of bloody red orange. Strong.
Perhaps that was why I woke up the next morning with bloodshot eyes and spent 10 minutes trying to flush the tinge out with eyedrops before I went to meet my boss and my client and my spokesperson. Red or no red, as I woke up that morning, the first image that flashed across my vista was the mise-en-scene of the night before: Rox the birthday girl flushed with alcohol and lots of happiness and contentment, I hope, cradling her sleepydoo head in her hands; Kat with her head back and laughing, ginger margarita in hand; Kimus in that so-cute new haircut with the Pocahontas bangs, smiling peaceably; Serena grinning from ear to ear because she always does and that's what you love most about her.
Money shot. And really, what more do you ask for?
And I'm thinking -- as I always do when I visit New York City -- I'm thinking about how alive and vibrant this place is. There's always something to do at any time, even if that something to do was putting a fresh coat of graffiti on a dumpster. And people are truly trendy, but that's because it works... Papadou, that French bistro with a heated garden that we went to to celebrate Rox's birthday was small and your elbows touched your neighbour's but it was so cool that the waiter wore a loosely tight striped shirt with sleeves that ended where his biceps began and Rachel Weisz sat at the next table. The waiter spilled water all over Rox -- but that's a good thing, that's special, it was her birthday. We got a free bottle of champagne for Rox's troubles, and that's a better thing.
And then we went down a block to Spice Market for drinks. Now, this is the type of glamourous New York City bar I'm talking about, and if we had this in Chicago, it'd be overrun with Trixies and River West wannabes. In New York, however, it was a low lit place with intricate Oriental woodwork and translucent silk curtains lingered over cul de sacs. Waiters wore sharply cut Chinese suits and female patrons wore slivers of cloth. Of course, no one drank beer and the cheapest cocktail was $11. I always get a mojito if it's on the menu and in this lifetime, I've paid an average of $7-8 for a good mojito. At Spice Market, it was $12 for a dash of bloody red orange. Strong.
Perhaps that was why I woke up the next morning with bloodshot eyes and spent 10 minutes trying to flush the tinge out with eyedrops before I went to meet my boss and my client and my spokesperson. Red or no red, as I woke up that morning, the first image that flashed across my vista was the mise-en-scene of the night before: Rox the birthday girl flushed with alcohol and lots of happiness and contentment, I hope, cradling her sleepydoo head in her hands; Kat with her head back and laughing, ginger margarita in hand; Kimus in that so-cute new haircut with the Pocahontas bangs, smiling peaceably; Serena grinning from ear to ear because she always does and that's what you love most about her.
Money shot. And really, what more do you ask for?
Monday, March 07, 2005
2/3
I don't know how the hell May did it, but she worked some Excel magic and concluded that we spend about 65.1% of our lives playing softball -- the most time spent on any one activity. What a lovely thought!!!
In other news, my "real age" according to www.RealAge.com is 23.6, making me 4.3 years younger than my real age of 27.9. OK, that's cool.
In other news, my "real age" according to www.RealAge.com is 23.6, making me 4.3 years younger than my real age of 27.9. OK, that's cool.
