From what I have read, Soho House is some sort of exclusive place. It must not be that exclusive because they've let me in twice this week.
If you had told the teenage me that someday I'd be going to fashion week, doing all of the allegedly glamorous things that such a trip entails, she would have scoffed (and been a bit impressed in spite of herself). Appropriately enough, the fashions reference the early 90s. Right now I'm at a party and trying to decide whether to take the path that leads to glamour, money, prestige. And oddly enough, I prefer a quieter path that is no longer available to me. So this is what's left by default.
It is strange to reach places that many people want to reach. Interviewing people from the teevee. Seeing fashion before it hits the runway. I am grateful for the opportunities I've had and continue to have. I don't take any of this for granted. But if I have learned anything over the last few months, it's that when you reach a certain status, there's another status to reach right after it. It never ends, and nobody ever wins. Or if you do, you become Anna Wintour. I do not want to become Anna Wintour. Somewhere in the past, a very young Anna Wintour would not have wanted to become the modern Anna Wintour.
After this, I will try to see Frank. Then I will try to see Stefan, who is blanketed by beautiful women and literary and smart and nice enough to me.
--
Update: Mission See Frank was a success. Walks, drinks, and good times were had. Mission See Stefan was a failure. Nothing was had. I apologize if none of this makes any sense but I'm typing it on my phone and I'm going on about four hours of sleep.
If you had told the teenage me that someday I'd be going to fashion week, doing all of the allegedly glamorous things that such a trip entails, she would have scoffed (and been a bit impressed in spite of herself). Appropriately enough, the fashions reference the early 90s. Right now I'm at a party and trying to decide whether to take the path that leads to glamour, money, prestige. And oddly enough, I prefer a quieter path that is no longer available to me. So this is what's left by default.
It is strange to reach places that many people want to reach. Interviewing people from the teevee. Seeing fashion before it hits the runway. I am grateful for the opportunities I've had and continue to have. I don't take any of this for granted. But if I have learned anything over the last few months, it's that when you reach a certain status, there's another status to reach right after it. It never ends, and nobody ever wins. Or if you do, you become Anna Wintour. I do not want to become Anna Wintour. Somewhere in the past, a very young Anna Wintour would not have wanted to become the modern Anna Wintour.
After this, I will try to see Frank. Then I will try to see Stefan, who is blanketed by beautiful women and literary and smart and nice enough to me.
--
Update: Mission See Frank was a success. Walks, drinks, and good times were had. Mission See Stefan was a failure. Nothing was had. I apologize if none of this makes any sense but I'm typing it on my phone and I'm going on about four hours of sleep.
Labels: new york
Cool Hand Luke and I had plans to hit up this arepas cafe, but by the time we made it down to the East Village, the place had stopped taking names for tables. So we walked around in the cold, crisp air in search of another place to eat. Mexican? Maybe. Thai? Not feeling it. We snaked through the streets discussing my ophidiophobia. (He thinks it can be cured; I disagree.) Then we saw an interesting-looking restaurant, glanced at its menu, and saw that it was another arepas place. We decided it was a sign.
I'd never had Venezuelan food, but it's pretty straightforward. The menu consisted of tapas, arepas (stuffed cornmeal patties), and meat and fish dishes topped off with a light drizzle of crude oil. Our server had a birdlike energy, all angles in her gait and back-and-forth eye movements. She recommended the tofu arepa, but I feel like most Venezuelans don't eat tofu, so I went with beans and whatever. We ordered too much food, agreed that it was decent but needed tomatoes or something else to balance its dryness, and drank red wine (CHL) and sangria (me).
The restaurant closed at midnight but the music kept playing, and a few people began to dance. Their sense of movement was natural, their rhythm inspiring. I enjoyed watching them. Then CHL said two words that struck fear into my heart: let's dance. Oh no!
It's not that I don't like to dance. Quite the opposite. Do it all the time at home. The problem is that I am absolutely horrible at it. I explained this and hoped that we could do The Chair. It's the hot new dance move. You sit down and wait for the server to bring the check. It's huge in Venezuela!
"Oh, come on," CHL said. And with no real defense or valid excuse to save me, I was pulled out of my seat. The other dancers were doing some hip-wiggling thing that the nuns back in grade school would have surely disapproved of.
In an attempt to be a good sport, I decided to give it a whirl. I asked myself, "WWPSIDDD?"* I then realized that the answer, too, would involve hip-wiggling. I couldn't do that. That's how you throw out a hip! So I pulled out my usual thumbs-in-the-air, torso-twisting moves. It looked almost as impressive as this. "Why don't you let me lead," CHL offered.
So he led. I tried to follow. It didn't go well. I spun the wrong way, nearly flung myself into the bar, and wondered if a second sangria might have helped me forget this embarrassment in the morning. "I need those numbered feet," I muttered. We laughed. Eventually I started getting the hang of it, or at least I stopped being completely inept. I may even have had a good time.
While dipping down and spinning around, my mind went back to dancing with my father. He used to take my hands in his, and I'd put my little feet on top of his shoes. He'd get a little sparkle in his eye while moving us around and making me laugh. I was sad when I grew too big for that, but as I let myself be led in the restaurant, a small part of that feeling came back. And better yet, I was able to share stories of that memory, of my father, while smiling. I think my dad would be happy to see me dancing. Even—no, especially—when I didn't think I could.
* (What would Patrick Swayze in Dirty Dancing do?)
I'd never had Venezuelan food, but it's pretty straightforward. The menu consisted of tapas, arepas (stuffed cornmeal patties), and meat and fish dishes topped off with a light drizzle of crude oil. Our server had a birdlike energy, all angles in her gait and back-and-forth eye movements. She recommended the tofu arepa, but I feel like most Venezuelans don't eat tofu, so I went with beans and whatever. We ordered too much food, agreed that it was decent but needed tomatoes or something else to balance its dryness, and drank red wine (CHL) and sangria (me).
The restaurant closed at midnight but the music kept playing, and a few people began to dance. Their sense of movement was natural, their rhythm inspiring. I enjoyed watching them. Then CHL said two words that struck fear into my heart: let's dance. Oh no!
It's not that I don't like to dance. Quite the opposite. Do it all the time at home. The problem is that I am absolutely horrible at it. I explained this and hoped that we could do The Chair. It's the hot new dance move. You sit down and wait for the server to bring the check. It's huge in Venezuela!
"Oh, come on," CHL said. And with no real defense or valid excuse to save me, I was pulled out of my seat. The other dancers were doing some hip-wiggling thing that the nuns back in grade school would have surely disapproved of.
In an attempt to be a good sport, I decided to give it a whirl. I asked myself, "WWPSIDDD?"* I then realized that the answer, too, would involve hip-wiggling. I couldn't do that. That's how you throw out a hip! So I pulled out my usual thumbs-in-the-air, torso-twisting moves. It looked almost as impressive as this. "Why don't you let me lead," CHL offered.
So he led. I tried to follow. It didn't go well. I spun the wrong way, nearly flung myself into the bar, and wondered if a second sangria might have helped me forget this embarrassment in the morning. "I need those numbered feet," I muttered. We laughed. Eventually I started getting the hang of it, or at least I stopped being completely inept. I may even have had a good time.
While dipping down and spinning around, my mind went back to dancing with my father. He used to take my hands in his, and I'd put my little feet on top of his shoes. He'd get a little sparkle in his eye while moving us around and making me laugh. I was sad when I grew too big for that, but as I let myself be led in the restaurant, a small part of that feeling came back. And better yet, I was able to share stories of that memory, of my father, while smiling. I think my dad would be happy to see me dancing. Even—no, especially—when I didn't think I could.
* (What would Patrick Swayze in Dirty Dancing do?)
When I was 17, I had an enormous crush on Derek. Immense. He worked at the record store, and I'd go there to purposely look for obscure records so I could talk with him more. Derek introduced me to Stan Getz and The Winter of Our Discontent and the Coen Brothers and all kinds of other good things that I still love. He never judged me for buying awful hardcore records, for which I am now thankful. Before I moved to Ann Arbor for college, I dressed up as him (yet another example of me being quite drag-king as a kid) and made my mother take a photograph. In it, I am wearing a Broken Hearts Are Blue t-shirt, dark green men's trousers, a slicked-back faux pompadour, and a smile.
Last night he informed me that I'm staying at the hotel where much of Combat Rock was written, which made my night. Then we had a quick hour today. Not enough time, of course, but it's funny how old friends always feel like home right away.
Last night he informed me that I'm staying at the hotel where much of Combat Rock was written, which made my night. Then we had a quick hour today. Not enough time, of course, but it's funny how old friends always feel like home right away.
Labels: new york, regression to adolescence, signs of latent homosexuality
Every time the plane lands in New York, I start to feel excited. And when the Manhattan skyline comes into focus, I feel a tiny leap in my heart. An old friend — born and raised in New York — had never been to Chicago, and he scoffed when I said I thought Chicago's skyline was prettier. I still contend that it's so, but seeing the Chrysler building has more emotional impact. I've been on this weird New York lovefest for the past 24 hours, even though I haven't had time to go to my favorite places. It's like when I was a teenager, and I had met what I thought was the biggest love of my life, and I contented myself by knowing we both saw the same moon at night. Just being here, knowing that New York is doing its thing around me, is enough.
Phil and I went to Public tonight. It was crowded, and service was slow, but the benefit is that we had more time to catch up. Couples were on either side of our table, and both men shifted to sit next to their ladyfriends. Then, there was tongue kissing — which also made me feel like a teenager, but in that awkward and horrific way in which I knew, just knew, that everyone else was doing it while I remained an awkward virgin. All I can say is that it's difficult to focus on your tofu curry when someone else's saliva is a foot away from it, and when that saliva belongs to a long-haired man dating a woman at least 15 years his junior. Does the discomfort make me a grizzle? A curmudgeon? Either way, we didn't stay for dessert.
Phil and I went to Public tonight. It was crowded, and service was slow, but the benefit is that we had more time to catch up. Couples were on either side of our table, and both men shifted to sit next to their ladyfriends. Then, there was tongue kissing — which also made me feel like a teenager, but in that awkward and horrific way in which I knew, just knew, that everyone else was doing it while I remained an awkward virgin. All I can say is that it's difficult to focus on your tofu curry when someone else's saliva is a foot away from it, and when that saliva belongs to a long-haired man dating a woman at least 15 years his junior. Does the discomfort make me a grizzle? A curmudgeon? Either way, we didn't stay for dessert.
Labels: new york
I have just returned from Fashion Week, which is one of the longest weeks you can imagine. I have a feeling that people envision a nonstop party, and for some people that's probably true. For me, it meant transcribing until 2:30am and being at a show at 7am to cover the beauty trends. (Let me tell you, nothing makes you feel gorgeous like being surrounded by gaggles of 18-year-old models before dawn.) So while it was a productive week, it was also a long one, and I am very happy to be back to my simple little life.
The model above was among my favorites. Every time I saw Bruna, I couldn't help but stare; her face is intriguing, and her nose has a funny little bump in it that makes her face so much more beautiful than it would be with a "perfect" nose. She always looked sad, though, or maybe she was just annoyed that I was giving her the "why so beautiful?" gaze.
Glaringly absent from the runways: Black women, again. It blows my mind that I can attend a show that has two dozen models walking the runway, and not a single one is black. Most shows, if they have any black women, have one or two who are flanked by Eastern Europeans and Brazilians and, occasionally, an Asian-American model. It just floors me that so many shows continue to act as though black women don't matter. It's a sad state of affairs when America's Next Top Model, a fake modeling show, features more women of color in any given season than Fashion Week does.
Labels: fashion week, new york
I spent many hours on a plane to go to New York this past weekend, and I spent almost as much time trying to understand how I'd become so slow, pokey, clumsy and quaint—in essence, everything that New Yorkers are not. The city has always drawn me to it, making me fall in love with it only to quickly give me reasons why our love can never be. (That reason usually has to do with the low salaries of the publishing industry and the high rents of the five boroughs.)
During this visit, I did a housing swap with a Brooklynite who lives in the nicer part of my old neighborhood. It was strange to walk down 7th Avenue, to enter Prospect Park where I used to enter it on weekends, and to stroll by the apartment where Todd no longer lives. It was like taking a tour of the best and most challenging parts of my early 20s, and ultimately, I was glad that it was only a tour. You couldn't pay me to be 22 again.
During this visit, I did a housing swap with a Brooklynite who lives in the nicer part of my old neighborhood. It was strange to walk down 7th Avenue, to enter Prospect Park where I used to enter it on weekends, and to stroll by the apartment where Todd no longer lives. It was like taking a tour of the best and most challenging parts of my early 20s, and ultimately, I was glad that it was only a tour. You couldn't pay me to be 22 again.
Labels: new york
"You think there are only two cities in the world: New York and Paris," my mother said recently.
So?
I grew up in rural Michigan, happy to climb trees and tangle my legs in seaweed. As a child, I was perfectly content with the idea of moving to Chicago after college. The city had been good to me during my frequent visits. I could see myself there, living only a few miles from my older brothers and a few hours from my parents. It was a grand plan. Then I went to New York, and everything changed.
So?
I grew up in rural Michigan, happy to climb trees and tangle my legs in seaweed. As a child, I was perfectly content with the idea of moving to Chicago after college. The city had been good to me during my frequent visits. I could see myself there, living only a few miles from my older brothers and a few hours from my parents. It was a grand plan. Then I went to New York, and everything changed.
Labels: new york
Todd met me in the armpit of Herald Square, and he looked Toddish as ever. In my old age, I actually can't remember what he looked like before he grew his hair out, but he works the style well. I told him he looked like my dad circa 1975, with the beard and the thin plaid shirt, and I hope he took it as a compliment rather than some weird projecting "Daddy" thing.
We took the train down to the pants store, and Todd purchased a fine pair of trou (again, this is what my dad says, but I really do not have weird Daddy issues, okay?). We walked south toward Nolita. It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining brightly, and a breeze was blowing gently. I was wearing my favorite skirt, an army-green number (did I just say that? Hi, I'm 83) that flares out nicely. I was happy.
And then the wind gusted, my skirt inversed, and my bum said hello to the warm spring sun. The worst part of it is that I was wearing a boring, pale green thong. Why couldn't it have been something black and mysterious, or fishnetted? Now, although he claims to have seen nothing, Todd has seen my underwear and my pale rump. Great. There goes the mystery.
We took the train down to the pants store, and Todd purchased a fine pair of trou (again, this is what my dad says, but I really do not have weird Daddy issues, okay?). We walked south toward Nolita. It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining brightly, and a breeze was blowing gently. I was wearing my favorite skirt, an army-green number (did I just say that? Hi, I'm 83) that flares out nicely. I was happy.
And then the wind gusted, my skirt inversed, and my bum said hello to the warm spring sun. The worst part of it is that I was wearing a boring, pale green thong. Why couldn't it have been something black and mysterious, or fishnetted? Now, although he claims to have seen nothing, Todd has seen my underwear and my pale rump. Great. There goes the mystery.
Labels: men i would have dated, new york
When I briefly lived above the Clark Street subway stop in Brooklyn, Trevor came to visit. In the evening, it began to rain. We walked south on Henry street, paused near a brownstone's stoop, and took a snapshot of ourselves. So now: I have a picture of you and me in Brooklyn on the porch it was raining I remember that day.
- - -
Chris and I have been friends for almost ten years, which doesn't feel as long as it is. We had many wily hijinks in our little group. He and Matt Paris were kicked out of school for piercing their eyebrows (Matt did it first, was suspended, and in protest, Chris followed suit). My other friends and I thought the school district was in error, so we interrupted a pep assembly. Oh, the rebellion! A handful of us marched up to the principal as he was babbling about Ram Pride. We were so smarmy as we asked why certain students weren't allowed to show their Ram Pride. Then we were escorted into the AV auditorium, where we were all given a lecture on the importance of school spirit. Later, I was pulled aside and admonished by the Vice Principal: "You're a role model, you get good grades, you need to be a leader," etc. Eventually, with the help of the ACLU, Chris and Matt were readmitted to the school.
Now Chris is parent to a toddler boy, and on Wednesday, we finally met! He was blond with a perfectly rosy little-boy pallor, and he was wearing overalls and a turtleneck with trucks. I found him absolutely charming. The three of us ate grilled cheese and hot cocoa (which the little one barely touched; he wanted milk instead). When we left, I got hugs and milk-breathed kisses.
- - -
Chris and I have been friends for almost ten years, which doesn't feel as long as it is. We had many wily hijinks in our little group. He and Matt Paris were kicked out of school for piercing their eyebrows (Matt did it first, was suspended, and in protest, Chris followed suit). My other friends and I thought the school district was in error, so we interrupted a pep assembly. Oh, the rebellion! A handful of us marched up to the principal as he was babbling about Ram Pride. We were so smarmy as we asked why certain students weren't allowed to show their Ram Pride. Then we were escorted into the AV auditorium, where we were all given a lecture on the importance of school spirit. Later, I was pulled aside and admonished by the Vice Principal: "You're a role model, you get good grades, you need to be a leader," etc. Eventually, with the help of the ACLU, Chris and Matt were readmitted to the school.
Now Chris is parent to a toddler boy, and on Wednesday, we finally met! He was blond with a perfectly rosy little-boy pallor, and he was wearing overalls and a turtleneck with trucks. I found him absolutely charming. The three of us ate grilled cheese and hot cocoa (which the little one barely touched; he wanted milk instead). When we left, I got hugs and milk-breathed kisses.
