Oscars party!

Well, I just haven't been able to keep up with myself, and have woefully fallen behind in keeping you all informed on my life in the fast lane. I will try to take a few trips back into my recent past over the next few days, I promise! But all excuses aside..

It's the Monday after the 77th Academy Awards, and now more than ever, we can truly say "who cares?" All the predicted winners came through with their respective victories, which was dull as can be, but an easy financial windfall for yours truly. That's right, I won my second of two Oscars pools entered, giving me a perfect record in my quest to rob blind people who don't follow entertainment news nearly as fanatically as I do come Oscars night. Seriously, I won this one by a landslide. Incidentally, thanks go to Elenor for throwing a lovely Oscars party and gathering together a nice batch of prey...I mean...company, to help make the evening enjoyable.

To be honest, though, there was one thing sort of surprising about the broadcast. Mickey Rooney's still alive! If you don't believe the general state of surprise that his appearance inspires, check this out! Don't worry Miss Regina King, that's the exact face I make whenever I tell an alcoholic octagenerian that it's good to see he's still kicking! Oops!

Phil goes to the theater!

Given that I spend my days just minutes from the Great White Way (that's Broadway people) you'd think I'd be going to the theater all the time, wouldn't you? Well, prohibitive costs, and a mild feeling of anxiety when surrounded by theater people prevents me from going regularly. We all have our quirks.

The revival of "Hurlyburly" by David Rabe, with its all-star cast, seemed like a good occasion to pay a visit to "the boards." If you haven't heard about it yet, it's basically the "hot ticket" right now, as it's sold out it's entire inital run at a small theater on 42nd Street. As you may be able to tell from the picture I've included, the cast includes Ethan Hawke, Parker Posey, Bobby Cannavale, Wallace Shawn, and Josh Hamilton.

If you've been reading the NY Times lately, you are probably thinking that this is the most quintessential, must-see experience of a lifetime along the lines of giving birth or paying a visit to the MoMA. So with that in mind, I couldn't quite buy into all the hype. It is fun to watch famous people run around a stage acting like they are on coke and various other substances, though. As for the greater meaning about, depending on your take, the "the breakdown of language as a crucial sign of civilization's incipient collapse" or "the fractured consciousnesses of people whose moods are determined by their most recent forms of self-medication", I can't say I consider this the final word.

But if you're interested in checking it out for yourself but are concerened about it being sold out, fear not! It's moving to a larger theater in April for an extended run.

Dogs on the Town

As some of you may know, the Westminster Dog Show is this week in NY. I work a few blocks away from Madison Square Garden, where it is being held, so I was hoping to check out some pampered pups. When a coworker suggested going down to the Hotel Pennsylvania, official hotel of the show, I figured it was a worth a visit. When she ended up not feeling well upon departure, I was not deterred, and went solo.

So, as I get to the hotel lobby, it's basically like any other day in a hotel lobby during a convention, except there are array of perfectly groomed dogs being walked around, sitting on couches, and generally being admired by all passers-by. I didn't want to bother anyone, so I decided to take my lunch at the cafe in the lobby and just sort of observe the scene. Mostly dogs were just being walked in and out, generally ignoring each other and sticking to their owners - these are show dogs after all, the competition is fierce!

Upon finishing my lunch I decided to go talk to one of the owners of a dog that I thought rather cute, but with which I was unfamiliar.

If you've seen Best in Show, you're probably waiting for the zealous pet owner story.

I did what I thought was customary, asking this woman what breed of dog she was, to which she replied a PBGV, which I later learned is short for Petit Basset Griffon Vendeen (pictured above), her name was Friday, and explained it was traditionally a rabbit hunting hound with origins in France. After small talking the woman a bit, with the usual where are you from, is she entered in the show, and so forth, the woman explained that Friday's mother was entered in the show, which I took to mean that Friday wasn't. I then asked how old Friday was, and was told that she was 18 months.

Then, with my general lack of dog show knowledge, I asked "so does that mean Friday is too young to be in contention?" The woman very quickly set me straight by cutting me off and informing me that "Oh no, she's ALREADY a champion. She won her first competition at 13 months." After an awkward "awww...she's a sweetheart" and a farewell, I had the distinct feeling that I had just got served.

At that, I figured I'd offended the stage mom enough, and took it as a sign that I better end this lunch time excursion and head back to work.

Healthy Drinking, the Gates, and Aztecs

Sorry it's been a while since I posted, it's just that I really haven't been going out much the past week. HA HA HA...yeah, didn't think I could say that with a straight face...without further ado...

Thursday, February 10th - Straddling the line between health and debilitating physical states caused by drinking and a lack of sleep can be hard on even the best of us. To keep my body in shape enough to keep going, I find it helpful to make drinking plans for after a little time at the gym. Now, this can have varying results. Sometimes you're fine, but others, like the time I skipped dinner on Zander and Jess's request, and ended up sending angry hate messages from my phone, you're not. So after a good bit at the gym, I met up with Zander, Ryan, and Steven over in Chelsea. We first went to this bar xes, which was having a gay skier night. Ryan was convinced there would be nobody there, but I was pretty sure that because a) gay people do all sorts of random shit, and b) they especially like to do things that are expensive, there would be a slew of them, which there were. Keep in mind, I've never been skiing, so this wasn't exactly my crowd. There's apparently this group called Ski Bums that takes trips together all over the place - feel free to insert a lame jokes involving poles anywhere you'd liked, for now I'm refraining. Anyway, so after mocking and/or insulting about half the room, chatting up the head of the group and telling him that I think that the fact that they all do the AIDS walk in May (their off season) is great, but I just can't see myself ever doing it because it involves getting up early on a Sunday morning, we figured it was best to go to another bar. Now, the problem with going to the gym and then drinking is you can get tired. The problem when I get tired is basically that I stop thinking before speaking, and heaven knows what'll come out of my mouth. For two of the somewhat out of context, but definitely representative comments, go check out Zander's blog from last week. You'll see his link in my Friends listing.

Friday, February 11th - I'll keep this one brief. Basically just met up with Gabby for drinks (this time after a yoga class, a delicate balance, very delicate), vegetarian food and drinking in Williamsburg. I'm actually hating Williamsburg less than I used to...I may owe it a letter of apology.

Sunday, February 13th - What happened to Saturday, you ask? Well, I generally allow myself one day of rest, which is usually Sunday, but this week I took it on Saturday after a friend (not naming names, Lauren) decided she was too tired to go out. But, it was good to rest and save money, so that I could get out on Sunday afternoon.

Which quite a lot of New Yorkers were doing this weekend as it was the first weekend that the Gates were up in Central Park.

Here's the description of the Gates off of Christo and Jean-Claude's website:

"The 16 day duration work of art, free to all, will be a long-to-be-remembered joyous experience for every New Yorker, as a democratic expression that Olmsted invoked when he conceived a “central” park. The luminous moving fabric will underline the organic design of the park, while the rectangular poles will be a reminder fo the geometric grid pattern of the city blocks around the park. The Gates will harmonize with the beauty of Central Park."

Now, I hate to be a spoilsport (ha ha, okay couldn't say that with a straight face either!), but I wasn't really that excited by the whole thing. I mean, in theory it sounds good. It's fun, pointless, just-for-the-hell-of-it art, which is kind of refreshing, right? Well...but in the cynical, marketable Bloomberg NY of the day, it just seems like a tourism drive designed to get people out of their apartments in the middle of February. It's up through February 27, 2005.

So after traipsing about the park, I went up to the Guggenheim to catch their Aztec Empire exhibit on its last day. I wasn't expecting to like the show as much as I did, so you can call this one of those "pleasant surprise" situations. There seemed to have been some debate over the effectiveness of the presentation. Here's the catalogue description of the installation:

"An undulating ribbon wall, evocative of the body of a symbolic serpent, winds its way around the curves of the entire structure, encircling the 435 master artworks of the pre-Hispanic and early colonial periods...Through its design, the exhibition metaphorically brings to life the figure of the Mesoamerican civilizing deity Quetzalcoatl, the feathered serpent."

Now I have to say that, for me, this whole set up really worked. It has a flow to it that you don't often get from art exhibitions, and the black ribbon wall worked well with the objects. I also really appreciated the focus of the objects as "art" and not just historical relics that are supposed to "teach you something." It fit suprisingly well in the Guggenheim, though I'm sure any number of people will disagree with me, and have.

Fun tour guide info: the Aztecs believe that the liver was the repository of the soul, unlike the imperial Westerners in us who prefer the heart. Apparently, and I don't know how advanced their medical knowledge was to determine links between alcohol consumption and the liver, drunkenness was also severely frowned upon in Aztec society. It could even result in having you sacrificed to the gods. Hmmm...sacrifice a few drunks and ward off the end of civilization (well...until the Spanish come along naturally), not a bad idea. Any volunteers?

Update for you Pam fans...

I meant to include this lovely description from the press realease for the Pam: American Icon show. If you're going to be in the New York area, it's running until March 5, 2005 at the Stellan Holm Gallery on 24th Street.

"The exhibition consists of large format color and black and white nude photographs of America’s premiere sex symbol of the turn of the millennium. Originally commissioned by Playboy, these photographs capture Anderson at a peak of larger than life voluptuousness. These are images that capture a primal moment as expressive of its time as Bert Stern’s Marilyn Monroe or Avedon’s Nastasia Kinski with snake."

The only draw that I can see is getting a view of Pam's vagina as close to its actual size as possible, without the risk of contracting Hepatitis C. It's free too, so if you were too much of a miser to fork over the cost of a Playboy, now is your chance to get in on the cheap!

Let me know how it goes...

Weekend lessons: keep your dog on a leash and Pamela Anderson scares me.

Well, it was a pretty crazy start to the month of February, but I'm still standing (barely) and rebounding just in time to recap my weekend.

Friday, February 4th - Left work in time to hit a yoga class (nothing like a little mind, body, heart action before a weekend on the town), and then met up with my friend Lollion and her buddy Sarah. We thought we were just going to be eating vegan fast food then meeting people for drinks at Metropolitan in Williamsburg, but there was something else in store...

So we paid a visit to Food Swings, a vegan fast food joint, where I ordered the Vegan Heart Attack and have never felt healthier doing so. Then we started wandering over to the bar. After a couple of blocks an energetic shar-pei (you know, the wrinkly dogs) was running about, unleashed, with his owner trailing a few paces behind. When the dog and his owner got to the corner, it was time to make a right, at which point the shar-pei, let's call him Max, went bounding across the street. The owner, let's call him Supreme Motherfucker, called out for Max to stop, which loyal Max promptly did. Except he was still in the middle of the street. And a van was careening down the block. And there was ice on the road from the previous night's snowfall. And, I wish I was not being serious, WHAAMMM! the van goes plowing into Max, while we were caught dead in our tracks unable to do a damn thing. So the van stops, Supreme Motherfucker is forced to retrieve Max from underneath and have him walk around. Relief came when Max was able to walk away, but we still have no idea how the shock will affect a fragile shar-pei like Max. I hope he's doing alright.

Okay, contemplating canine mortality doesn't make for a good start to your Friday night, so we just had to make it to the bar and wash away such thoughts with several rounds of drinks and several hours of Erotic Photo Hunt. I'd never met Sarah before, but after confronting death together, we may just have to be life-long friends. Oh, and we kicked ass in Photo Hunt.

Friday's lesson: Keep your dog on a leash, Supreme Motherfucker! That goes for the rest of you out there too!

Saturday, February 5th - Got up to meet fellow art lovers Hannah and Debbie for a round of Chelsea gallery hopping. We're trying to make it a semi-regular joint ritual, as we all have pretty complimentary tastes and love to talk the talk while, well...walking the walk, if you catch my drift. We started with the East Village USA show at the New Museum's temporary space in the Chelsea Art Museum. It's a good, if a bit uneven show of work from the East Village art scene of the 1980s. It's got the names you'd expect (Keith Haring, Jean-Michel Basquiat, Peter Hujar, Nan Goldin, etc.), graffiti art, it's dirty and colorful, and as you can probably guess, feels a little off in the white box world of Chelsea galleries. Definitely worth checking out to take a look back at what NY was like before it went all Giuliani gentrified.

We then hit a bunch of different shows, the highlights being the Petah Coyne show at Galerie Lelong, the Cory Arcangel/beige show at Team Gallery, and the Christian Marclay show at the Paula Cooper Gallery. By far the worst show was the Sarah Lucas show at Barbara Gladstone. Ugggh...after giving the YBA movement a chance, I've decided I just can't be bothered. Try to convince me all you want, but if, in the end, the joke turns out to be on me, I'll be very happy not to have gotten it.

One other noteworthy show is the Pam: American Icon show at the Stellan Holm Gallery. Yes, we're talking Pamela Anderson. In these HUGE prints, Pam cavorts topless and occasionally completely nude. She is not a very tall woman, she has a very narrow waist, and I'm probably not the first to tell you that she's got enormous breasts. I'm sorry, but she just kind of scares me. She's the walking embodiment of 21st century grotesque in an age of plastic surgeons and quack diets.

Saturday's lesson: No getting around it, Pam's scary!

I am not a demographic...okay maybe I am...

Now, in general, I'm fairly opposed to playing the marketing and demographics game, but as we all know, convictions are meant to be tested. So when I was offerred $100 to go to a focus group whose target was "women and gay men in their 20s who drink vodka", I had to say "sign me up!"

You see, in a perfect world drinking would beget drinking, so this seemed like perfection itself. You mean, you honestly want me to go drink vodka on a Thursday night, at which point you'll give me $100 in cash, which I will then use to finance my weekend plans which will at some point include drinking? Where's the catch?

Well...they're marketing little flavored beans, pills, whatever they end up calling it, that you drop into vodka "infusing" the beverage with tastes and aromas like coffee, hazelnut, lemon peel, etc.

Apparently everyone else thought this seemed kind of like flavored roofies, but I was apparently too innocent to make that connection.

Okay, so when it came time to sample these wares, the only flavor they had was hazelnut - a taste I have never, ever appreciated in beverages. Keep it in chocolates, but not in coffee, not even in hot chocolate! Just candies. If you must. So yeah, they basically have me on camera sipping and then gagging, as I tried out their new innovation in the drinking experience.

That's the evil beauty of focus groups, you don't even have to like the product and they still have to pay you for your opinions. I guess one really should never expect soulless bottom-feeding to taste good going down. I just didn't think it would ever taste like hazelnut.

Something fishy about Restaurant Week

For one week a year the "city's most talented chefs" throw open their restaurant doors to the plebian masses clamoring to sample their earthly ambrosia for bargain prices. Well, okay, so it's actually over two weeks, but they don't include the weekend in between. Lunches are $20.12, and dinners $35.00 (beverage, tax and gratuity additional), not really putting them in even the single $ category in Zagat. Oh, and you can only choose from a limited menu.

I guess that's what we call charity around these parts. But perhaps I'm being unfair, it's not meant to be charity. It's actually just a bold marketing ploy. Offer your grub at a lower price point in two of the worst tourism weeks of the year (late January), and have the upwardly mobile, if delusional, social climbing set come along to see you through your annual rough patch.

Speaking of marketing, you may be thinking "$20.12 is kind of an odd choice for a lunch price, isn't it?" Not if you're knee-dip in the P.R. blitz to try to get the Olympics in New York in - come on guys, this one's easy - the year 2012. They had a similar campaign going in London while I was there, which has me disturbed. If you actually care about where the Olympics are going to be in SEVEN years, you really need to start rethinking your life's priorities.

Oh, so where did I go to partake in all this epicurean marketing savvy? Well, yesterday I did double Restaurant Week duty (just for research purposes I assure you) going to Nobu for lunch with good friends Lollion and Zander, and then having a family dinner for my father's birthday at City Lobster & Crab Company. I'd never been to Nobu, and probably should never get into the habit of going, but yes, it really is really good. Given that we had a reservation at noon, I'm sorry to report that there were no celebrity sightings. Continuing the fishy trend, I'm told the lobster is really quite good at City Lobster. Since I'm not really a fan of tearing my entree apart limb by limb, I stuck to something simpler.

Side note to devoted blog readers: The Zander I referred to is, in fact, Still Drunk Zander. I must say, however, that we spent two hours together, in an establishment that DOES serve alcohol, and he drank nothing but...water. That's right kids, even the devil takes a holiday.

Capital "I", Capital "T"

Continuing my rather busy week on the town, Tuesday night found me in possession of one of the "the hottest tickets in town," the Arcade Fire show at Webster Hall.

The evening started, not so strangely, with a return visit to Cubbyhole for a quick round of drinks with friends Hannah and Mike. Then I met with Gabby for a little macrobiotic dinner at Souen. Gabby has been my partner in indie pop/rock crime since the tender age of 15, so of course this was with whom I was going to see the Arcade Fire.

We rolled up to Webster Hall in time to meet my coworker Cindy, her pal Debbie, Gabby's boyfriend Adam, and her roommate Mark to get ready for the indie hipster infusion! Of course, this was at 8:30, which seemed just right in that not to early, not too late sort of timing. If only we'd been right. To kill time we had to chat up the merch tables for a while, admiring their silk-screened posters, glow in the dark t-shirts, and general D.I.Y. stylings. Then we were forced to wait through the steady stream of indie whitenss that descended upon the venue most often known as a destinationfor Ecstasy popping teen-aged suburbanites. The usual order of hooded sweashirts under winter jackets, plastic eyewear, and enough "vintage" clothing to make you consider buying stock in the Salvation Army was prevalent.

But wait...is that a band I see taking the stage? Oh, it's just Philly based Man Man, the first of two opening acts. Now one can argue that you should give them credit for the noise rock fusion art sound to which they're particularly commited. Unfortunately, I've got a fear of commitment, so I took up the opportunity to go outside and find an ATM.

After returning, and waiting out what seemed like three lifetimes and a day, the second opener started. This skinny blond guy carrying nothing but a violin gets on stage and tells us that he's Final Fantasy (real name Owen), he's really honored to be playing with the Arcade Fire, blah blah, and then proceeds to play a few songs. Cindy was actually quite taken in by him, practically volunteering to become young Owen's stage mom. Her first duty as stage mom would have been to let him know that his dress shirt under the red and white t-shirt (Canada's colors, and he hails from Toronto, coincidence?) was just a little bit too band camp for this hip NYC audience.

Finally, at about 11:30 the Arcade Fire took the stage. Now, jaded bewilderment demands you be skeptical of any band that's become quite so capital "I," capital "T" (that's "IT" for you dyslexics out there) as these Montrealers have become over the past few months. Thankfully, they do NOT disappoint. The hype is deserved.

So let's break down the routine of how IT bands make for disastrous audiences. The first few songs were just a warm-up, with the crowd mostly just yapping away and steadily ordering beers from the bar (incidentally Webster Hall has NOT worked out these indie rawk shows yet, do pass on the Courvoisier, indie fans drink beer, so it's best to have it well stocked). Three songs in, it was time for someone to break out the skunk weed.

This part of the night got a little hazy for me, as the scent of skunk weed had me reminiscing about family camping trips when I was young to places like the Smoky Mountains and Old Williamsburg, Va. I recoiled at the memory of driving over roadkill skunks and having the stench linger with you for a good 10 to 15 miles, accusing your brothers of having been the cause of the foul smell. Then I remembered that because I don't smoke pot, I'm particularly susceptible to second hand highs, so I had to pull myself together!

As the went along through their set the drunken frat boy wannabe hipsters were worked into a frenzy. Most inapropriate was a guy wearing his corduroy fisherman hat. You may know him as "where's the party? HERE'S the party!" guy. He comes in many shapes and sizes, but he's often drunk and insists on dancing, stumbling, and then heckling the band that he actually really likes. What a character!

They played till after 1am, I believe even coming back for a second encore. Unfortunately, I had to hightail it home so you'll have to ask someone else about that. All these week night plans, we have to rest some time, don't we?

Where have all the lesbian bars gone?

A casual evening of beers at the Cubbyhole in the West Village last night got me thinking about a topic I've broached many a time with many a person. Why are there so few lesbian bars in this city?

Cubbyhole has historically been considered a lesbian bar, but really has developed into a mixed, mostly queer neighborhood bar. I'm not a big fan of the place on the weekends, as it can get really crowded given the cramped quarters. However, for a relaxed weekday conversation with friends, it really can't be beat. Generally, if there are more than three or four people in the bar one of them will be a lesbian, but don't always count on it.

Come on ladies! Are you really so tied to your nesting, knitting, house repairs, and cats? Let's get out there, open up a few new bars, and then actually keep them in business! If you just took some of the money you throw U-Haul's way and put it towards drinking establishments, the world would be a better place.

Until then, I'll see you at Cubbyhole.