So I have a favorite new bar in the city, and I love, love it.  It’s amazing.  Anyhow, on a Friday night a couple weeks back I was supposed to meet some friends at My New Favorite Bar.  I was running late because one after-work drink turned into about 7 (in this market, barely a surprise), when I got a text from my friend saying there was a private party at the bar that night, but not to worry, they managed to secure my name at the door.  However, she had one condition — I had to dress “se*y”.  I obviously thought she was being funny, and told her to forget it and that I was just going to come in my work clothes, but then she called me and insisted in person.  (With a slight giggle in her voice). 

Fine.

So I show up, and instead of the usual dapper doorman alone, that night he was accompanied by a very attractive woman wielding a clipboard, checking off names with a huge smile.  “Must be some party!” I thought to myself, and walked in.  It didn’t seem too out of the ordinary at first, very attractive women, but this is New York.  Then a woman walked by … her top ended below her breasts, which were totally bare, totally huge, and decorated with – er – strategically placed red stars.  “Um.  Where am I?”  Then I looked around in a bit more detail. Lots of good looking women, lots of cleaving, and lots of giggling. 

I finally met the organizer.  The conversation went something like this: 

Me: “Hi, so what is the deal with this party?” 

She: “Well, like, we started it in LA and San Francisco and, like, it’s a Beautiful People party where, like, people are beautiful and they like to dress se*y and be se*y.  It’s great, you’re se*y.” 

Me: “Oh, that’s … interesting.  How did you get the idea for it?” 

She: “Well, like, my friends and I got sick of going to bars and meeting guys that just, like, wanted to sleep with us, and where people were not beautiful and se*y.  So we decided to have our own party, where the girls are unpretentious and, like, open to alternative lifestyles and where they invite the guys, so you know they, like, don’t just want to just sleep with you.” 

Brilliant!  Have another martini, luv. 

Just then, a friend of hers walked up and I overheard her saying “this party is the reason I work out for the rest of the year!” … I slowly dipped back and wandered off to take a bathroom break.  (More for the break then the bathroom).  Except I waited.  And waited.  Until two girls finally came out of the stall.  Suddenly didn’t really have to go anymore.  Walked back to my friends who were talking to a girl that kept falling on us.  Literally.  Falling on us.  It was time to go.  We politely thanked the organizer (who gave us guest passes for the next event) and walked out. 

Premature, for sure (things were clearly just getting warmed up) but I am just-not-ready. 

From there, we went to another new discovery on my part, the late-night, open 24-hour, China-town dive.  Next to us was a couple that looked like they walked out of a white-snake video (no kidding, leather pants, long hair, and all).  Two tables away sat an older, balding, slightly-overweight man, who just looked like he stopped by for a bite or 18 of msg, and next to him was a table of cops.  The best part, covering all the walls were signed pictures of “celebrities”.  Except none of us could recognize a single one. 

It’s amazing.  And they sell t-shirts.

Finally, decided to call it a night.  The cab dropped me off at the end of my street at like 3am, and I had to navigate through a small crowd of about 7 people in full-out circus costumes, and a man … on 9ft stilts.  WTF?

Yup.  This is New York.

This is what I overheard a mother telling her 6-year old daughter on the train to my Southampton share in response to her daughter’s query “Mommy, do the so-and-so’s have a lot of money”?  That should have maybe tipped me off that I was not in Kansas (or rather Muskoka) anymore.  At 6 years old, the only thing I knew about money was that I needed it to buy Lik-M-Aid at the local Mac’s.  The only thing I knew about investment banking was, well, ZERO!  Regardless, someone should inform dear mummy about the credit crunch.

I guess it didn’t help that one of the first places we stumbled into that night (totally accidentally btw) was called Nello Summertime.  To say it was EURO would be a total understatement.  We ordered a round of drinks (a beer, a g’n't, and a martini) and it cost $83 before tax and tip.  After that, the $47 lobster bisque soup seemed almost a deal.  That pretty much sums up why the table next to us was filled with 18-year old Russian girls in basically see-through black tank dresses and hardcore black eyeliner, scanning the room and waiting for one of the 65-year-old men with slicked back hair, seersucker suits and a roving eye to join them … and pick up the tab, of course.  In retrospect, that night was a deal for the entertainment value alone.

The thing that struck me as most odd though, was that many people don’t go to the beach.  I mean, the place would not exist if it was not gorgeously situated at the very edge of America, but still, some people never go to the ocean!!  Bi-zarre.  Instead, they shop at the Saks on Main St., sit primly dressed at cafes and bars, or hang out by their pools.  wtf?  It’s the equivalent of going to cottage country in Ontario and never hanging out on the dock.  Crazy talk, I say.  But that also means natural selection at its best goes on beach-side: lips are less puffy and the guys wear shorts that go all the way to their knees.

I was also briefly privy to the gay scene in town.  My friend somehow coerced me into a quick stop at a house owned by the top Corcoran real estate broker in Manhattan.  It was me, 7 gay guys, and about 14 bottles of rosé wine covering the tabletop.  (There was also the token hot import from Kazakhstan who got invited up by the owner for the weekend, only to find himself summarily discharged from the house the next day because he kept hitting on everyone he was being introduced to).  Literally, Bentley to Bus in less than 24 hours.  No mercy.  Hilarious.  Anyhow, I was already annoyed that they were all much prettier then me and far more smartly dressed, but the last straw was when they got up and decided to have a “walk off” to see who could do the better catwalk.  I wasn’t even invited to join in.  Needless to say, we left right after that.

Our house was more my speed … guys manning the BBQ, girls lighting the tikki torches, and everyone bringing back the college years with drinking games.  It turns out that I am a born natural at Flip Cup!  Who knew?  I anchored like nobody’s business.  And just in time for the World’s Largest Flip Cup Tournament being held at a bar in Tribeca in October.

Random Aside: Once you’ve been blogged, is reality TV the only next logical step?  I suppose it’s ok to completely mis-quote someone, so long as you throw “cool” in front of their name?? As if that weren’t enough, I was stopped on my street and did an impromptu interview (on camera) about living in Tribeca … apparently, I rambled on about my favorite coffee shop and the opening of the Whole Foods on film for a PERSONAL project that is not going to show up ANYWHERE, “we promise”.

Since, I’ve been desperately trying to wash off the “Moron” tattoo stamped across my forehead.

With apologies for the gratuitous vulgarity, I have to be egomaniacal for a minute. If this man earned an Emmy (actually two), then surely I have the snuff to win an Academy Award. Damn finance career…

The Genart film festival has just wrapped up, and I was fortunate enough to have been able to attend a bunch of the events as I have friends that are much cooler then I am. The first night was the opening press party held at the Diesel store in SoHo. There was a full bar set up next to the jeans rack, and some pple were trying on sunglasses. Guess if you’re a celebrity, the adage “you spill you buy” does not apply.

I, having nothing to wear, quickly bought a bright red Marc Jacobs dress for the event. Wearing said dress, this older guy comes up to me and compliments me on it. Turns out, he does the celebrity interviews and movie reviews for New York 1, CNN, etc.  Anyhow, though a tad inappropriate, he was entertaining in the most arrogant of ways. (“I don’t do pictures”). He proposed we play a game where we get to ask each other any question we want, we just have to answer honestly. Before we started, he warned me that he won two Emmy’s as a celebrity interviewer. Cheekily (surprise surprise) I told him he never interviewed me.

His first question: “Do you have any tattoos?” … wtf? You won an Emmy for that!! … *yawn* … I rebutted with “Is there anyone is this room that you secretly despise and why?”. I think that’s when he decided I was entertaining. But you think he’d learn! His next question, same theme, was something inappropriate about undergarments. Same theme, I asked him which celebrity (out of all he has interviewed) did he hate the most. Without hesitating, his answer was Sharon Stone. Me 2, Emmy Boy 0.

I also met some rocker/musician/wanna-be actor fellows. Everything about them was wild … hair, glasses, clothes, jewelry, the tight white jeans … why they wanted to talk to us I have NO idea. But we have since all became fast friends. Favorite line: he called me “an angel in a devil’s dress…” (I’m sure that’s a lyric in some rock anthem). But I didn’t care.

After the opening night party, we did two movie premieres and after parties. All great fun. Random aside: one night we had a sponsor car drive us to the event and drop us off out front (well, sort of). Some funny friends of ours decided to print out our photos, stand next to the red carpet, and when we came out of the car started waving our photos around wildly, shouting for our autographs…. HI-LARIOUS! (And totally embarrassing). The photographers all whipped around as in “who is it??” only to be severely confused (and disappointed). I might have some pictures, but will admit to nothing.

Bottom line Genart = cool events.

Last night, I got invited to a Filmaid gala with my good friend that works in fashion. He came over the night before to “design” my outfit for me. I needed notes to get dressed the next day. I had to put on a dress backwards (so that I had a totally open back), then put a shirt he designed on top of the dress with lots of ties, and finished with this massive, intricate necklace made of jewels and yarn that was a sort of choker, but also hung down my bare back.

Anyhow, I stuck out. People stared. Even Christy Turlington, who we basically stood next to all night. I’m taller. She is (obviously) wayyy hotter. She wins. Some older, Managing Partner at an entertainment law also commented on how he noticed my necklace as soon as I came in … he gave me his card, and kept telling me I had to email him … this of course is after he was name dropping like mad … “I ran smack into Barry Diller while riding on a bike in Nantucket and swerving around a hedge.” ?? Anyhow, I will Google him later. My friend said he already did and claims the guy has the parts to be the next bachelor. Hmmm … maybe I stand a chance …

Rather, it’s a relatively famous NYC hotspot. Made famous for both it’s celebrity sightings and, of course, it’s burlesque show. (Not to mention recent news reports of violent assaults on women leaving the premises in the wee hours of the morning). But I digress …

Back to thinking inside ‘The Box’. The event was a private ‘Genart’ event, hosted by Hennessy, dubbed a cognac and chocolate tasting event. And taste we did! Only Hennessy cognac served at the bar, and chocolates in blends of both cinnamon and caipirinha being offered around. Can I just say, my kind of event!

The female servers were dressed as angels. The outfits were over the top, from the fake white eyelashes to the silver shoes. They were walking around with glasses of ‘Hennessy Paradis’ … I’m going to have trouble drinking any other cognac from now on. A-mazing.

The male servers were, not surprisingly, dressed as devils, painted head to toe in red paint, and wearing little else. They were offering the chocolates. They would also gather in packs and swarm tightly around you, hunch over, and stare at you for uncomfortably long periods. Then they’d come in and take a good, close “sniff”. It was a bit awkward. But they were professionals. Nary a one broke character, despite my best efforts to be a comedian. (And come on, I can be damn funny).

The most interesting part though, was the burlesque show. Modern-New York-burlesque to be more accurate. Unfortunately, I can’t provide all the details in this venue, but here’s a bit of line-up. First was a mannequin and a women … the women looking like an exact replica of the mannequin. Let’s just say there was a dance, both ended up disrobed, and then they ended up in a very compromising position. (Yes, a plastic mannequin). Then came a fire-performer. Wild outfit, wild music, wild dancing, as he ran fire over his whole, mostly undressed body. He then proceeded to eat the fire. Don’t know how else to describe it. Another favorite was a 70-year-old Texan rope lasso-er. Three sizes of rope, lots of lassos, and even some skipping, twirling, and a good ‘ole Western thumping. Loved it. Also loved the Batman-and-Robin rope gymnasts. Two fellas in skin-tights, twirling around one another <again, insert very compromising positioning here>, finally bringing an end to the age old question of were-they-weren’t-they once and for all. The closing performance is one I unfortunately can’t describe here at all. Come visit me, and I’ll give you all the details … or better yet, we can go and see it live )

That’s a quick summary. Solid credit for diversity. Only in New York could people make a living from this!

Random aside. The ad that’s been running on the trading floor tv’s for the past 5 days in preparation for V-day is titled “Show Her you Know Her”. How? Well, obviously, by buying a teddy bear that best matches the personality of your hunny … an angel, a devil, a teacher, a random teddy bear in a nightie. The best part? You can buy the matching outfit! Real size. <pause for awkward and dramatic effect> Who needs their woman-IN-a-teddy, when they can have their women-AND-a-teddy!

Americans are weird.

Happy Valentine’s Day everyone!

Just wanted to send you a quick note to say Merry Christmas, and hope that you all have a fantastic New Year. Or rather, a New Year that is at least less dangerous then the one my friend Amy and I will be embarking on!

So I may have sent some of you the recent string of news articles about the wild monkey outbreak in New Delhi. Not only have they attacked and bitten small children, but the mayor of a town was also killed (yes I said that) when they ran him off a balcony. New Delhi officials have hired larger, more menacing monkeys in an attempt to scare off the smaller attackers, but no one is really optimistic that will work. Especially not me. Moreover, 1) out of the million shots I took, I neglected to ask for a rabies shot and 2) Amy is a wee one and I’m afraid I might lose her! That would devastate me. (I’ve grown attached).

The latest though, was my introduction to the interesting world of Indian air travel. Yesterday, I booked an online flight within India from Delhi to Jaipur, a 45 minute flight that would somehow take 5 hours by train. (And there is only one train a day, which of course we miss). Anyhow, I did some research on Indian airlines, and found a number of them where you could book flights online. So I did! I found the English website, paid for it with my credit card (verified by visa, etc. etc.), and wrote down the official looking confirmation number. Then I noticed the button that says “pick seats” … I LOVE picking my seats. So I eagerly click on it and, as per usual, a map of the plane shows up, with all the seats taken and available. I open it up. Out of the 180 seats on this “plane” … 100% of the seats are EMPTY!

The WHOLE F-ING PLANE!

Well, now except for seats 1A and 1B for Amy and Me … I was in tears I was laughing so hard.

WTF?

Vegas odds say either no one in India has internet, or there is zero chance that flight is taking off. Which means Amy and I best get comfortable on camel back, cause that’s the only way it looks like we’re going to be getting to Jaipur. Brings “Happy” New Year a whole new meaning …

So as many of you know, I live in Tribeca. Most New Yorkers will tell you this is a pretty yuppie place to live, with a healthy mixture of artists, models/actors, and Wall St. types, all who dress well, pose a lot and eat at hip restaurants. Apparently though, my particular street is an anomaly. On one side of my building is the Knitting Factory – a pretty famous music bar where a multitude of bands play indie, jazz, improv music, there are films, poetry readings, performance art and dance. That usually draws an interesting crowd every night of the week, but the clientele is generally well behaved. They may look odd at times, but they are there for the art.

Then there is the bar/hip-hop dance club across the street from my building. It’s only open two nights a week (Friday and Saturday), but it really packs a punch. There is a long line-up that starts around midnight and I routinely hear loud music emanating from what I think is a basement but can’t confirm because the windows are always covered and it looks like an abandoned floor. Anyhow, last Friday night, as per the norm, there were loud noises at 4am, but this time it was so loud I couldn’t even sleep through it. So I get out of bed, and immediately realize this is not just post-club crowd noise. No. I look out the window and there is a full-out mob scene going on. There are about 150 people on the street outside the club, mostly men, and a few of them shouting and shoving. Some scantily clad women are on the outskirts calling out to their men, but to no avail. People start swarming and then … the kicker … gunshots! Yup. “Bang, bang, bang” … three in a row. It crossed my mind that I should probably get my face out of the window, but I was too fascinated.

At least 8 cop cruisers showed up, four lined up in front of the club, and the others blocking the street off from traffic. A number of other cops appeared on foot wielding batons, and barricades were set up on the street as cops tried to clear the crowd out. It took an oddly long time.

I didn’t see anyone get shot, but I felt like I was watching a 50-cent movie. (The rapper, not the price). Moreover, no mention of it on the morning news!

Anyhow, that’s the news from my new ‘hood (Jarvis St. is suddenly looking downright pleasant-ville-esqe).

PS – Tomorrow I check out Harlem … volunteering at food pantry for Thanksgiving. Totally think I’m ready for it now.

PPS – Please, please don’t tell my mom.

We all remember the scene in Pretty Woman. He with the slight smirk … she with the polka dot dress and wide-brimmed hat. Indeed, some believe the precise moment the tycoon fell in love with the call girl was when he saw her giddily stomping on divots on the Polo field. My fate was not so sealed.

Me … at a Polo match in Connecticut on Saturday for the Harriman Cup, the annual match up between the University of Virginia and Yale University alumni. I was told there’d be some Polo and a tailgate party. (Please keep in mind people, I grew up in Alberta where tailgating has a special meaning).

Tailgating my a**.

First off, I thanked my lucky stars I looked at the website and opted not to wear jeans. I would have been grossly underdressed. All the women (young and old), in true form, were in designer dresses, designer purses, designer sunglasses, and designer shoes. Some even added a designer hat, and I saw one even chomping on a designer cigar. Interesting. For the men, preppy was an understatement. A potpourri of pastel shirts, plaid pants, khakis adorned with small animal prints, blue crested jackets, slicked hair, and of course, a wide smile showing off the so-square-it’s-almost-cube jaw. Was it any surprise they were named Chip, and Mutton? (Yes, Mutton).

The “tailgating” was obviously a very loosely defined term. What first tipped me off was the table-clothed tables, adorned with a professionally catered lunch, complete with a variety of cheeses, fruits and even a fresh bread basket. As people where choosing between the seafood salad or the quiche, they could admire the decorative fall pumpkins, corn, and strategically placed bales of hay wrapped in colorful ribbons. Then there were the “Bars”. We’re talking a full on Bar set up with mixes, fixes and, oddly, red bull. One table even had a blender! (No idea what it was plugged into??) The drink of choice was champagne. Veuve Clicquot was everywhere … sipped out of a champagne flute, of course. And no table would be complete without a fresh cut centerpiece and candelabra … for appropriate mood lighting, I imagine.

The funniest thing was it started to rain for about an hour in the middle of the game. Up went the Ferrari roofs and Goldman Sachs umbrellas. The leopard print pillows were also tossed into cars to avoid getting wet. Yet somehow … mysteriously … despite the sudden rain, no other girl was walking around with sopping wet hair except …you guessed it … me. WTF? They must sell some special pomade in Greenwich that makes hair impermeable to rain.

The day was topped off with a performance by the “Whiffenpoofs” … Yale’s famous Acapella band. Personally, I didn’t think the penguin suits and white satin gloves were too much. (Link attached: http://www.yale.edu/whiffenpoofs/).

Since I moved, I have largely restricted my activities to the island of Manhattan. For no reason in particular, you see; it just seemed the most natural course of action, given the sheer amount of stuff to do here. But the time finally came for me to get rid of my tunnel vision by … at the risk of sounding totally nerdy … taking a tunnel.

Now, there’s a lot of talk about Williamsburg as the new hip, trendy, “it” spot in Brooklyn. And it’s true, many designers, artists, and so-hip-it-hurts types live and hang here. But this was not my introduction. No. I went to a place called Greenpoint. Greenpoint has for years been a first landing spot for the bulk of Polish immigrants to the area, but it is since also being shared by new Puerto Rican immigrants. So, as you can imagine, lots of delis, and young boys in moustaches … both blond- and black-haired!

The scene: a surprise birthday that a graphic designer boyfriend was throwing for his karaoke-loving girlfriend in his commercial loft space that he lives in. So it’s pretty big even by Toronto standards, and the guy obviously loves his gf so much that he rented and set up a right-proper Karaoke stage, including a projector, stand up microphone, and enough room for all the leg-kicks you want. It was a slow start, but once the “Surprise” part was over, the singing began in earnest.

I felt pretty hip for about … oh … 15 minutes. Which is about when the lights turned on. Manhattan this was not! I looked around at the other guest, most of which comprised of graphic design students that all went to SVU (School of Visual arts – apparently pretty prestigious), and ivy-league trust fund kids that evidently decided to rebel against all things parental. Let’s just say I kinda stuck out in my Banana Republic top and Rock jeans … everyone else looked like they stepped out of the Cosby show set. The kicker was when three girls walked in, and I had to do a double-take to convince myself that I did not just see Chrissy, Janet, and Terry from Three’s Company. I’m not even kidding. “Janet” had the high-waisted dark blue pants, that were a couple of inches too short and belled at the bottom … “Chrissy” had the cotton, almost terry-cloth like short-shorts that curved up on the side with a pony-tail … it was pretty unreal. Then this one guy walked in and stood at the back of the room watching the performances. I thought he was a homeless guy that wandered in off the street. He had these faded, tight jeans cut off at the knees, a t-shirt, and carrying a backpack. His hair was dark brown, shoulder-length, and a touch greasy. He also had this small, dark moustache (a little old-school-German-looking if you know what I mean). Well, turns out his parents are some kind of loaded, and he owns an entire building in DUMBO (Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass — a neighborhood in Brooklyn that was sketchy until the models moved in and is now said to be the next SoHo — or so the story goes). So I guess he wasn’t homeless after all.

Again. Me. Banana Republic top. Imagine. (I’m still cringing).

Next, imagine the pressure when it came to song selection!! I knew I couldn’t bust out Fergie-ferg, but was not familiar enough with the Pixies, etc. that seems pretty popular among this art set. So I took a deep breath and decided for a short diddy by Simon and Garfunkel … Cecilia for those of you that know it. Yup, even fell onto my knees for dramatic effect. (Listen, I had to redeem myself somehow!) Some people actually talked to me after that, so it must not have been that horrific. (Thank g-o-d I didn’t tell them I worked at a bank. Social suicide for sure).

I’ll be spending the weekend shopping. And NOT at Saks.

Random quote heard on the trading floor: “We’ve only been married two weeks and my wife is already nagging me nonstop about having a baby … maybe I’ll have one just to shut her up ….”

Latest pick-up attempt: “I’m a professional wrestler … you can see me on channel 24 on Saturdays … “

I now work on the trading floor of a big investment bank. I always had images in my mind of what it would be like, and for the most part I have been right. There are lots of conversations of sports, cars, and, um, balls. Oh, and lots and lots of cussing. (Rather creative cussing I might add). There’s also a sprinkling of admins that giggle a lot and wear low cut tops and barely there skirts. They are working too, I suppose.

But there are some things I was unprepared for. For example Gino New Yorkers and Tuna. There is a legit Gino-New Yorker that sits right behind me. In addition to overhearing conversations about how he goes mid-town to pick up ‘chicks’ and do ‘lots of shots’, he also fancies himself quite the body builder. He surfs bodybuilder websites, talks about work-out regimes, and … wait for it … eats tuna!! Not so bad, you may say. Until he pulls a can of tuna out at 9am (before I’ve had my coffee) and smells up the whole area. Vile does not even begin to describe it. Especially when he pulls out another can at 4pm.

Mercury poisoning = natural selection.

But all in all, it’s largely what you’d expect. The other day, there was a full out shout-fest between two bond traders. Now, you have to picture this to get the full effect. One guy, let’s call him ‘tan-suit dude’, is tall, has very shiny, very slicked back hair, and has some kind of facial hair that is in a line and appears well groomed. Anyhow, he and some other guy are barking at one another so loud that the whole trading floor begins to quiet down. All the activity was going on behind me, so I got to experience the effect of ‘gopher-head’ in front of me. This is the phenomenon of everyone in front of me on the trading floor popping their heads up to check out the action. I laughed at both events.

But it gets worse. Much worse.

So I left work yesterday (note that it was a Thursday) and was trying to hail a cab *impossible* in the financial district. At that point, I was approached by 3 guys that offered to share a cab with me and drop me off at my destination while they continued uptown. (They were leaving one bar, and headed to another). Who are they? Well, I recognized one right away … Tan Suit Guy! So they come up and want to share a cab. One of the shorter guys pipes in that they’ll pay! Wow – my lucky day – maybe I’ll save 5 bucks. So all three start talking at me simultaneously, and they figure out that I work at the same firm. Well, they are just stunned by the news and demand to know why I have not marched myself over to introduce myself to them yet. Tan Suit Guy even informs me that his is “head of a desk”. I try not to roll my eyes and smile accordingly. Then, one of the guys realizes that he left his keys at the bar, so he disappears, the other guy (a Montrealer as it turns out) spontaneously gets an idea and runs in the opposite direction leaving me alone with Tan Suit Guy. I start to panic, but (thankfully) he decides to go find his friend.

Whew.

Until 3 minutes later … A stretch black limo pulls up next to me and a head pokes out (Mr. Montreal’s mission fulfilled) and the three musketeers (reunited) say they will drop me off at my destination. With no cabs in sight, I bite my tongue and get in. I am going only about 5 blocks, but I had my laptop and was in heels. I know … I was weak. Then Mr. Montreal realizes he may not have cash on him! The horror … so he asks if it’s okay if I get out early so they don’t have to turn off the main street. I don’t even wait for the follow-up, I just jump out of the car (which I was in for no joke officially less than one full minute) and continue on my merry – alone! – way.

That was close.

I get in the next morning and keep my head firmly down, trying not to look in the direction of Tan Suit Guy et. al. I know that if spotted chatting with them it would be bad news at some point or another. Anyhow, I was golden until around 2pm when I decided to visit the vending machine. Crap. Run right smack dab into Tan Suit Dude … and right in front of his co-workers. “Hello!” he says, ” how are you?”  Then he proceeds to show me his group, and I confirm that that is indeed where I hear all the noise from. Then he leans into me with a big grin and says …

… wait for it …

“So how did you like the 22-foot stretch” …

My stomach is still turning.

I held back a choke, let out a tiny flat smile and said “for the 22 seconds, it was indeed interesting”. Then walked off.

Just.  Disturbing.

Hello from New York!

I’m still in no-mans-land, in terms of living arrangements, etc. but hopefully more of that will be sorted out this weekend.  In any event, one quick story from the weekend that some of you might find, if not only bizarre, but perhaps a bit entertaining …

So this past weekend (my first in New York), my friend and her sister came to visit me. One of the nights we met up with a girl that my friend knows from work. Anyhow, this “friend-of-my-friend” happens to be chums with some rogue Kennedy kid … who was all of maybe 24 years old … has been publicly arrested a couple of times … lives in this ridiculous condo that I’m sure his salary is not paying for … has to explain to his grandmother why he cannot drive the family Bentley to work as a first year i-banking analyst …. and who happens to be best friends with (of all people) Mariah Carey’s brother. So sure enough, we all end up going out together. Naturally, since we’re with these quasi-celebs, we end up at some “exclusive” or “members only” bar or whatever where only bottle service flies, and champagne by the magnum is ordered … but only after mid-night.

Random celebrity sighting – Mickey Rourke – Dude looks like he lived a rough life. (And plastic surgery totally confirmed). He’s shorter than you’d expect, older than you’d expect, but at least as buff as you’d expect. He also (very strangely) had some 300lbs bouncer with a braided pony-tail rubbing his lower back. It was weird.

Meanwhile, at the table next to us, a gaggle of very good-looking girls were dancing on a table (naturally). And again, naturally, one was so drunk she quickly fell right off the table on onto her face. The one hot guy that was with this gaggle of girls quickly scooped her up, brought her to the couch he was sitting on, and paid some attention to her. I think that made her feel better. Other entertaining sightings of the night included a model in the bathroom that worked at the bar b*tching to her boyfriend that she was double booked for shoots the next day, all the while balancing her legs on the sink where I needed to wash my hands and smoking a cigarette. And who says models aren’t multi-talented!!! Another hammered girl, who I spotted while en route to said washroom, was calling some guy on her cell for a booty call. On my way back from the washroom, she had her face firmly planted against the wall and was making some noise that sounded much like she was crying. I guess he said “no”. Both the washroom attendant and I were bewildered.

I decided to cut out “early” at 2am, but apparently the others, with Mariah Carey’s brother and rogue Kennedy kid in tow, took a hailed limo (of course) back to Mariah Carey’s brother’s place, where he not only had a turn-table set up in the middle of his living room, but also served pink champagne to the ladies. Obviously. Regular crystal just won’t do sometimes – Diddy be damned.

Just hilarious.

More updates from NYC-land to come…