Brunch for One

This morning I hastened to leave Anya's as I picked up my bag that I'd left there the night before. While I love her company, and her sun soaked apartment with potatoes boiling on the stove, and gossip girl playing in the background, I still yearned to be somewhere... dining by myself.

Ten minutes later, in a wooded restaurant around the corner, I sit at the bar awash with Miles Davis. A lady beside me spreads her paper and ordered eggs, a lady behind me takes out her novel and sips her coffee. Brunch for one all round please.

Outside the crisp cool air reminds me of those sunny but cold Toowoomba days. My coat is on the back of my chair, my scarf still around my neck. I feel very lucky. The change of season can only truly be embraced once you stop and observe it -  preferably quietly, over a cup of tea and a plate of eggs benedict.

Photo credit: My Cup of Tea

Fashion's Night Out #2

Is it too late to blog about Fashion’s Night Out?... Good.

It was pretty rad - and not because of the fashion, but because there was a man in the Louis Vitton store window licking a LV handbag - slowly and sensually.

It was 10pm when I got there, and I watched him for a good ten minutes. Had he been licking the handbag since 7pm? I wish I’d arrived there earlier!

The rest of the night was really just an insane battling of crowds. EXCEPT for Sarah Silverman's performance at the Mac Makeup store in Soho at 8pm. It was worth the wait (I lined up for over an hour). She signed a free copy of her awesome book The Bedwetter, and also sang a song where the only lyric in the refrain was ‘cunt.’ Bless her!

Here's some more pics:

 Manic crowds outside Bergdorf Goodman

Dolls of designers at Barney's

If you could get inside the LV store, men were dancing on the staircase. 

Desert!

It was a good night, but a little overwhelming to try and plan. With a gazillion celebrities and at least an hours wait to see just one, you really have to chose your favorite and be satisfied with that. By 9:30pm most of the free drinks have dried up and the crowds on the streets are a nightmare. But it's kind of awesome to have this kind of crazed atmosphere that doesn't revolve around a sporting event. Go fashion!

Cocktails and Suicide

Last month I caught up with an old friend (Pat) at a rooftop bar over cocktails and… a suicide.

(new rooftop bar in Hell's Kitchen)

Pat and I had met eight years ago in our early twenties, teaching English in China. She was mourning the death of a close friend in a drowning accident, and I was mourning the completion of a three year business degree that I had no desire to use. There we found ourselves working for a dodgy Chinaman, eating boiled chicken’s feet and being treated like celebrities, all because of the colour of our skin. When we try and tell other about the craziness that goes on in China, they don't seem to care.

“I forget I can talk to you about this stuff,” Pat said. I sipped my martini staring out at the lights of Manhattan and thinking about skinned goats, when a large dark object fell from above and over the edge of the deck. It was about the size of a miniature grand piano, which I vainly hoped it was, but when people rushed over to the edge of the glass, they confirmed it was a person.

We were too short to see over the ledge, but the tall guy next to us said they had landed on the road in front of a cab – that had stopped just in time.  People across the road were frozen in their tracks. Most got on their phones to call 911, and within two minutes we could hear and see sirens heading towards the hotel. On the rooftop, we all became instant buddies bonded by tragedy. We talked to one another about what we’d seen, and made facial expressions that read “eeek” and “how sad.”

The horrible thing was, when we looked up, we could clearly see where they would have jumped from. The penthouse was only one floor above, and set about 5 meters back, overlooking all the action in the bar. How long had they stood up there? How terrible that no one had seen them. Also, how did they propel them selves far enough to clear the bar area?

After a while my morbid curiosity won out against my fear of gore, and I asked one of the staff members near me if I could stand on the chair to have a  look at the body.

“No. You’re not allowed,” he said, moving the chair away. Fair enough.

We waited before going downstairs, where staff ushered us out the side door. Police tape now surrounded the hotel, and in the distance flashing lights reflected off the white sheet that covered the body.

***

Later that night, in a different borough and after many a bar / much saki / vodka from teacups and random acts of dancing, we remembered the roof-top.

“You know 16 floors is not very high,” said Pat. “If  you’re going to go, why not go skydiving and just not pull the shoot. That’s what I’d do.” 

That was not a lie. Pat is a living poster child for a Pepsi-max commercial. As long as I’ve known her, she has always lived life "to the max." She's practically a full-time snowboarder, and since China she’s: studied film, been married, divorced, lived in Canada, NewZealand and Paris, and she’s younger than me. Currently she has a crush on her tattoo artist who designed a giant quill feather dripping in ink that spans her right rib cage and ends at her pelvic bone. (It actually looks rather elegant.)

Even that night, in the sushi restaurant which was empty and dead, she’d pointed to every single picture on the menu page and ordered one of each.

“I love picture menus!” she exclaimed, pointing to a picture of a saki flask. 

It seems kind-of ironic that I took a someone so full of life to bar where another person decided to end theirs.  But I'm glad I was with her, as we were able to turn the night around. Next year she plans to move  here to study again. This time - jewellery design.

Boom!

Guess who’s never buying another handbag again… in her life.

Regardless that it was on sale, it still feels ridiculously expensive. So much so, that I’m embarrassed that I bought it. But obviously not embarrassed enough not to blog about it. Hmmm. Perhaps because if you know how long and far I’ve looked for a bag, you’d see why I either had to buy it, or cut off my left ear to keep sane.

Feelings post purchase:

-       Guilt.  What about the starving people in the world who would kill to eat a good looking handbag like this. Why don’t I do the right thing and send it to them? But seriously, valuing this over important things like health insurance cannot be wise.

-       Delight! It looks and feels good, and I know it will last. Investment piece!

-       Dissonance. Of course it’s not perfect. I would have liked it to have segments inside, a thicker shoulder strap - and more compartments all round. (I can feel a rant coming.)

-       Sick... to my stomach, when lying in bed that night. I could have bought 3 Broadway tickets for Ada's nurses instead of this handbag. Selfish, selfish selfish!

-       Stress. After the water-proof spray was applied, the color looked like a burnt orange, rather than tan.

-       Relief. The next morning two ladies at the hairdresser, hair dye still in hair, got out of their chairs, bent down and worshipped my bag. The outside validation helped.

I do realize that when it comes to shopping, I am my own worst enemy and need to chillax.

I did have some help finding this bag. I emailed the lovely Jane Flanagan at the wonderful blog: ill seen, ill said -because I had a great bag on her website. She was very helpful in recommended a tonne of bags and where to find them – including the one I just bought. (Thanks Jane!)

New Yorkba

It seems like where ever I go these days, I run into someone I know. “Well then move the hell out of Toowoomba!” I hear you say. Well I did, and now I’m in one of the most densely populated places in the world (if you don’t count all of Asia, and many other cities around the world), and I expect to feel anonymous, and not worry about being a big daggy tourist when you have a bunch of Aussie girl-friends come visit. Yeaaaah! Which is where I’ve been of late. (There, and also being absolutely cained at work.)

NYC certainly turned on it's charm for the Brissy ladies. Thanks to the genius website – onlocations vacations (thanks Liz!), we snuck into the premier party of a new Kevin Klien movie, which also stars Katie Holmes and John C. Reilly (only Kevin showed up.)

Here’s the trick to getting past the door girls on the carpet with the list: Get there early. Too early for them to have their list out.  Then simply walk past them like you’re part of it all. We were lucky and because we weren’t even expecting to get in, our night just kept getting better.

“How much are the cocktails?” I asked, eyeing the list as we casually approached the bar.

“Why, they’re complimentary.” said the bar man, turning a blind eye to our poka-tourist faces.

“We’ll take 5.”

And really, that’s how the night went on. We gave our selves fake job titles in production, in case anyone asked (which makes no sense, seeing as we all work in post,) and for some reason the waitresses just loved us. The head wait-lady kept coming up to our table, which at all times had two full martini glasses in-front of each girl, to ask if we’d like another. She even gave us a round of absinth cocktails.

Needless to say, we got trashed, and the food kept coming, and we got our photos taken by papratzi, met Magda (Mirnda’s nurse from Sex and the City, who called us a table of hot ladies), saw a runner up from America’s next top model, and one of us – who’s favourite movie is Life As a House, managed to touch Kevin Kline’s jacket.

All of this - on their first night here, and the next day was even more New York! We got to see rats in the subway – and a squirrel in the park! 

Then on the girl's last day, we saw Justin Timberlake walking down 5^th Ave, as he filmed his new movie - Friends With Benefits. 

It was cool, but he had nothing compared to the appeal of squirrels. 

God – those squirrels! How do they move so quick?! And what’s with the long bushy tails! Why are they so rad?

We had a lot of fun, and I’m exhausted, but I can’t stop going out. They've given me summer fever, and the world is shrinking every day. 

I remember watching SATC and thinking - that's such crap that people can just run into people they know like that on the street. And then one of my Brissy girls -  while strolling through the West Village, ran into a boy she kissed on a dance floor in the East Village, 2 nights prior. Rock on Yorkvegas! 

Squirrels! 

J.Crew Tail

Today I popped into J.Crew after a manic day at work, hoping to find something/anything that would fit the "casual chic" dress code of a film soirée tomorrow night. (work thing.)

It was only ten minutes before close, and once inside, the door man came up to me with an apologetic face. I stopped him and said: "I know, I know - you guys close in 10 minutes - I'll be quick!"
"No mam," he said hesitantly. "There's toilet paper coming out your pants."

I prayed it was just stuck to the bottom of my shoe, but when I turned around I saw a good foot and a half of it hanging out the top of my skinny black pants like a long tail. (!!?!)

I quickly stuffed it in my handbag, like that was a perfectly normal place to put toilet paper.
"Thank you," I managed in a surprisingly dignified voice, as I continued to browse the racks.

I had just walked two blocks down Fifth Avenue and crossed at the lights to get here. As my dear friend  Liz would call it - Fashion Road-kill.

Up Late Adventures #5

Saturday night, Anya and I went on a 'dance-a-thon' in the East Village and accidentally got let into a bar called ‘The Box’ thinking it was ‘Homesweet Home.’

After handing over my taxi fare home for a vodka cranberry, we looked around and realized it was no ordinary place. We were  surround by tall beautiful women and a few lucky men. The curtain went up on a small stage and three girls in a bath towels emerged from a thick fog. With a shake of their head, their towels flew off (their heads) to reveal long perfectly tousled locks which flicked around as they danced. A man was then chosen from the audience, the curtain closed, and when it reopened, he on his back with the three girls on top pretending to hump him.

The curtain closed again and the host dressed in a sequined red bra and fishnets told us we were all on cocaine. The curtain re-opened and there was a large muscular woman tied with ducktape to a chair, with a bag over her head. The Duck tape was wrapped around and around her body, cutting into her breasts, and delicately pinning her penis to her upper thigh.

She struggled like a wild animal to burst out of the tape, before standing up to reveal a beer bottle lodged up her rectum. She removed it and danced around oddly like a drunk gorilla doing an impersonation of The Hulk, before ramming the beer bottle back up her butt for the grand finale. For some reason I recorded this on my camera. Perhaps it will come in handy one day when my grandchildren think I’m boring.

The next act was rather tame in comparison. 2 people using cross-bows to shoot apples off each other’s heads.

I have to say I thoroughly enjoyed the show, although the highlight of the evening was back on the Piano’s dance floor, when a boy asked me if I was a professional dancer. (!!) (We were having an impromptu dance off.)

“I can’t match your moves” he panted.

“Damn straight” I said, touching the floor, then shoving a beer bottle up my butt.

Kidding! It was a vodka cranberry.

Seriously though, the tiny crowded piano’s dance floor is where it’s at. That’s where it’s my turn to perform! 

Star Struck

When this woman walked into my office on Monday I nearly fell off my chair. I had watched her interview on Andrew Denton's Enough Rope, and loved it so much that I re-read the transcript. I've seen her on Oprah, listened to her on Ted Talks and put her on my "I'd love to be like her when I'm older" list.

She's awesome because she's a feminist who loves men, a philanthropist, an amazing novelist and an incredibly passionate human being.

I told her that I loved her interview on Denton, and then later she stopped by my desk to chat. (!!!!!)  She shook my hand and told me she hopes I do become a writer - I may have gushed that I hope to be half the woman she is. (I have no shame.)

The girl from the company who had booked her interview slipped me Isabel's latest book (Island Beneath the Sea: A Novel) and I was so overwhelmed by the unexpected generosity of the afternoon that I cried.

Verbally Yours

When American exchange students stayed on Campus at the University of Queensland, Australia, I was utterly fascinated – especially by the women - the way they would voice every thought that entered their head.

“God, I’m having the worst hair day.”

“I was going to go jogging this morning, but then I decided to work on my assignment for another hour, and now I don't know what I feel like doing.”

My friends and I would hear them talking as they passed outside our window. “It’s like a constant stream of verbal diarrhoea” we’d muse in agreement.

Now that I’m emersed in this highly vocal culture, I am indifferent towards it and even admirable to the extent that I can participate.

Gone is the uptight filter that would sort thoughts that I should keep to my self and those I should air.

“What the hell!” I’ll yell to myself at the smallest of things: perhaps I noticed it was later than I thought or; my coffee tastes weird. And others will respond in turn.

It feels good to lay everything out on the table. “This is me. This is what I’m thinking. What are your thoughts?” is the true beauty of a culture that embraces freedom of speech in its most literal sense.

Of course there are obvious draw backs… and that’s what ipods are for. As for perks? Well, there’s this website – Overheard in New York.

It seems that unlike the American exchange student at uni, I can assimilate to other cultures with ease: In China I happily munched on boiled chicken’s feet and began littering within months of arrival; In New York I watched Avatar 3D and joined the audience in applause on three separate occasions, and; In Australia I will readily go back to walking silently down the street until large enough quantities of alcohol are consumed so that I can let it all out and applaud or glass people as necessary.

Peace.

New York Cityscapes

I wish I had a digital slr camera so so much. But even with out it, the textures of New Yorks buildings are hard to mess up.

Upper East Side

Lower East Side

View form Anya's looking from Union Square to Lower Manhattan

Appartments on 14th st, near Union Square

Upper West Side

Upper West Side - View from Ada's

It makes art direction a redundant job in this city.

On The Streets of NY

A boy gives a girl a flower...

He says: 'Here have a flower'
She says: 'Smelly boy,' but she smiles and takes it anyway.
He says: 'I really like you're new perm.'
She says: 'Thanks. I'd give anything to have your natural curls. Do you use product?'
He says: 'A little bit. What are you doing tonight?'
She says: ' Watching re-runs of The Wire. You should come over. We could order some pizza, Mom gave me her credit card.'
He says: 'Done. I could do with a night in. Works been absolutely horrendous this week.'
She says: 'Tell me about it,' she rolls her eyes. 'I'll see you 8.' She tucks the flower in the front pocket of her denim dress and wonders away.

And that's how it's done in New York. 

Sexy-Exchange

It's hard to explain just how sexy and in-your face these Armarni Exchange billboards were. I'm hoping these pictures will help describe:

These were taken form the 'High-Line' walk in the Meatpackers district.

Snakes on a Train

When this girl sat down next to two unsuspecting passengers on the uptown #1 train one evening, they didn't notice... at first. But 2 seconds later, when the snake caught their eye - their survival instincts kicked in. They practically flew out of the train! Horrified expressions on their faces! Poor things. The others sitting in this shot had some time to get used to it. One of them even let it slither all over them.

No Distracting This Doggy

See this doggy? Look at the dedication and attention in his expression and posture. When I saw him on 96th st, looking up at his owner like a poised statue, I just had to take a pic. It's that kind of focus and attention I want possess when I'm learning new tricks. I think this dog could teach me a thing or two about concentration. Good on ya doggy!

Subway Penis

Recently, I sat at a dinner party with 6 New York women, discussing the first time we ever saw ‘subway penis.’

Mine was 2 weeks ago. I was innocently walking down the stairs to the L-train platform, when a homeless man standing less than an arms length away, unzipped and whipped it out. Thank god I was travelling at a speedy trajectory and had passed him before I could see what he was going to do with it.

It’s not an uncommon discussion to have. Most of my improv classmates have seen homeless men whacking-off in the subway. It seems to be unavoidable. What's your subway penis story?

Rain Heart

The first weekend back in NY it poured down rain. And by down, I mean horizontal, thanks to gale-force-winds. 

Usually I love the rain.  (A fact that has made growing up in a drought stricken country a rather trying experience.) In Australia if it rains, it’s beautiful - and I just drive everywhere. In New York, you walk everywhere, and you get wet. And your hair looks like crap. 

Having left my last umbrella on a boat in the Whitsundays less than a week ago I was reluctant to get another so soon. But after a damp trip to the laundromat, and the grocery store - that are literally across the street from Ada’s, I stopped at a pharmacy and got one... an expensive one - recommended by a customer.

“I’ve had this one for six months now,” she said patting it against her crinkled hands. Hmmm. Either she hadn’t left her apartment since September, or this umbrella had magical powers. I picked up a bright blue one instead of my usual black, trying desperately not to think about all the other expensive umbrellas I’d bought in the past year that I would never see again. This time would be different!

I was heading to the mac store to drool over alternatives to my dying laptop. I jumped on the subway, and started making notes about a crazy man who made a spectacle of himself last night. I’d barely finished my second paragraph, when the train stopped at my destination. So quick! I scrambled to close my book and put my pen in my bag, while grabbing my laptop bag and novel. Just as the door’s shut and the train sped away I realized what I had done. I felt around for my magical umbrella in my bag for much longer than was necessary, trying to stay in denial and praying for a miracle. Idiot! I thought. It was on the train. That was definitely a record. I walked up the stairs to a newsstand, and bought another one for five bucks.

Outside, the wind promptly turned it inside out, snapping three of it’s spokes and rendering it useless. No! I’m not giving up on you yet, damn it! I pleaded. I held it at right angles to my face. Yes! It made quiet a decent face shield.

The mac store entrance way is an enormous glass cube - which is particularly spectacular to stand in when it rains. Awesome. I will have to build one of these giant rain boxes into my imaginary future dream house. I pictured my self alone, wearing nothing but a Snuggie, watching the rain stream down the glass. Cant wait!

Just then a handsome male apple consultant offered to put my umbrella in a narrow bag. He had beautiful blue sparkly eyes, which smiled at me as I struggled to collapse it.

“Here, let me help” he said, also unable to budge it’s mangled spokes into submission.

“Would you like me just to throw it out?” he laughed.

“Yes please.” I said, smiling back.

He’d look good in a Snuggie.

Later, completely drenched, when buying my third umbrella for the day I pondered the convenience of droughts. Had I been taking our perfect Queensland weather for granted all these years? Or did I secretly like these weekly hurricanes that cost me money but gave some drama to my life.

I opened up my new shield then reached into a bucket of blue paint and slapped down half my face.

The answer was suddenly clear. I grinned up at the sky, did a pirouette and yelled "You can take my umbrella, Yorky, but you’ll never take my freedom!"

Back To It

I wrote this in transit back to NY:

My holiday to Australia for visa reasons, has given me the equivalent feeling of receiving a never ending massage: Chats over hot tea and desert with family and dear friends T-bird & Gem in Melbourne; Meeting a close friend’s baby, who was born just after I left for New York, and who’s cheery nature seems so familiar to me, that our bond is immediate. (Genetics must have more to do with personality than I thought.); Driving my car on the freeway; Falling in love with a grey cat named “Genghis” (spelling?) who attacked my foot in the middle of the night, after watching me sleep for a couple of hours. Four whole days in the Whitsunday’s on a boat with my parents, a ride in Sal’s new car, a night at the pub with my favorite Edger’s and; Coffee with Chelsea before my flight back. And not one fight with mum. Horary!

It has all restored my senses, left me a tad of sunburnt, and almost heeled my lingering cough.

Now I must brace for my trip back to New York. Back to Ada and the guilt I now feel around her carer’s for having a job that pays a lot more than they will ever earn, despite being a lot easier than looking after someone with Alzheimers. Back to the fun task of looking for an apartment in a city where renting a shoebox to live in makes affording shoes to put in it impossible. Back to what feels like a daily struggle to survive the unruly weather, the crowds of people and the over whelming feeling of trying to ‘make it’ in New York.

I feel trite to complain, because I should feel lucky. Plus there is an element of excitement that balances out my anxiety. What if I write something fantastic? What if I meet someone special? What if I see a celebrity on the street, and they ask me to be their confidant on their upcoming holiday in Italy, so I can complete my life’s goal.

I refuse to get sucked into the daily grind of work, and stop dreaming. I like some degree of risk, uncertainly, struggle at this time in my life. I do want to live an extraordinary existence. And I do still ache for adventure.

BigCity HardSpirit

Saturday evening, I was walking down into the subway when a bunch of people stood on the stairs, blocking my way as they took pictures of the train across the platform.

I barreled through them, my inner monologue raging “God-damed  tourists, haven’t you ever seen a f*king train before.”

I looked at the train, and then realized there was someone on the tracks underneath it. All I could see was a man’s twisted hand, emerging from a navy hoody. He was definitely dead.

Then a train pulled up on my side of the platform, and like most people there, the thought  “If I don’t jump on this train, it could be hours before they let another train into this station”. And with that, we got on - silently taking a seat next to people unaware of what lay less than 5 meters away.

I tried to grasp what I had just seen, and why I didn’t feel… anything. I told my Newyork friends about it, and they agreed that when crazy shit happens we often don’t register. It could be shock or self preservation. They then went on to tell their own tales from 9/11 and other events that have warranted unexpected human reactions in themselves.

The next day, at the same station I looked for evidence of the man’s death. A tiny red X marked in electrical tape smaller than my hand lay where his body had been. I wondered if this is how ants feel, when we kill one, and then watch as the other ants survey it, passing a message down the ant line, and then continue about their antly duties in a slightly new direction.

Then a train pulled up on top of the mark, and I went to class.

Sandwich City

American’s must come to other countries and go “WTF - you call this a sandwich?”

Seriously, they may know nothing about coffee, but they sure know how to build a sandwich, and that’s saying something, because I usually loathe the humble ‘sanger’.

In New York, you order a turkey sub, and expect enough shaved bird to give you leftovers for dinner, and christmas next year. How people are expected to fit these things in their mouths, I know not. And just how many cans of tuna do they have to open to fill a tuna melt?

Mind-blowing, really. Here's one from Katz Deli:

mmm!

You Know You're an Aussie in NY when... #8

You watch new Aussie’s fresh of the boat, trying to tip at a bar.

American’s buy a drink, and smack a $1 note on the bench. The bar tender may not take it for a good 5 minutes, so it just sits there, untouched, to be collected eventually when things are quiet.

This is highly disconcerting for us Aussies. It appears the bar tender did not notice the precious dollar we are trying to give them, and now they want us to leave it on the bar for someone else to take. Which is exactly what would happen if you left a dollar on the bar in Australia. “Look! A dollar!” Yoink.

So instead, we hold our tip up in the air and wave it at the disappearing bar tender, as if to say:

“Look – here, a dollar! I’m leaving this for you. Come get it before someone takes it, or I change my mind.”

As the bar tender continues to ignores us, we have no choice but to place it on the counter, and rather than leave, we stay and wait to catch their eye again. We then point to the note and nod, so they know we are not leaving without them seeing us tip. We’d hate them to think we were doing a good old-fashioned “Aussie Runner.” 

Americans are so trusting in that way. They know nothing of our convict past, and treat us like we’re all adults. ;)