I took a sip of my hip mojito—way too much “jito”, not
enough “mo”—so I walk over to the lower level bar to ask for mo “mo” and get
hit like lightning with a look from the soap opera good looks bearing bartender
that completely left me standing there fumbling over my simple request of “more
rum please”. Now,I have a recipe for a
dating disaster and it goes something like this: 1)
bartenders/waitstaff/artists/musicians + 2) long distance. This one was a nail in the coffin waiting to
happen, but it made me re-think my claustrophobia for a moment, or 5. Ok 6.
She gave me more “mo” and I went upstairs to meet my friends walking away
feeling like I had those little stars swimming around my head from just being
blasted on the head with a 100 year old tree log. “Sprung” would have been a good word--if I
were a man.
Sadly, our visit to coffin making heaven came to an end when
my favorite jewelry designer announced that it was time to head to the party of
the night: The MOMA’s gala.
I had some visions of this party beforehand--and of myself at
he party--and it was all pretty much exactly like I expected, sans me in the
silver tailor-made perfectly for me dress that was far too ‘dressless’ to wear
on such a cold new york night. The party
was that as you would expect it to be on the opening night of an internationally
acclaimed contemporary furniture designer ego-infested gala, complete with open
bar and gourmet flea-sized appetizers that left you wondering if you had
actually just swallowed something or just an illusion of something packaged in
micro-engineered designer air.
I was hungry--and drunk.
Not a good look on Tiffany.
(I have to interrupt for a moment as I have just plugged in
my new ipod earbuds from Brookstone—that store in the mall with terribly
overpriced, undervalued trendy little ‘gadgets’—and I just have to say that
this was a well spent $39 on earbuds—VERY nice sound—just FYI)
So there I am in a minimalist building with a bunch of
minimalist designers that are anything BUT minimal. Large on “image”, “volume” and “self”--my
favorite combo. No Really.
I planted myself on one of the very inviting concrete
benches--actually it was more of a necessary “sit down” as the MOMA’s
architecture was quickly taking on a very different “turn”, courtesy of my
favorite “Fellisimo” bartender. I missed
her already. Never had a mojito that
good. Damn coffins.
I settled for a vodka infused orange juice served with a
sprig of basil instead of a straw. I
distinctly remember trying to sip my drink later out of that little sprig—also
not a good look on me, however funny.
My friends were gathered around--everyone in their own little
conversations and I’m sitting there very, very drunk and catch John staring at
me to get my attention. And we have one
of those “what if” looks that very quickly makes me paranoid and I look to find
his wife. For whatever reason, the look
made me laugh and she asks me why I’m sitting there by myself
laughing---probably the 4th “not good look” on me of the
evening. And it’s only 9:00.
The trouble with me is that I like Trouble. It fucking makes me feel alive. Somewhere inside me I wanted to open up like
a book and tell her about the summer that she and John split while she was in Paris
when we had our little ‘fling’.
Somewhere in the mischeivious depths of me I wanted to tell her how he
had been looking at me like that not only all day, but ever since the first day
we met and that he will probably always look at me that way until the day we
both die and how it will never make a difference to me. I’ll have his look. She’ll have his Life. End of Story.
And it’s honestly the end that I want.
Sans the look.
After that weirdness had dispelled over some more cocktails
we all had some laughs about some of the attendees and their “garb”. Really…I would like to know where these
people shop. For their mirrors. Some of it was just hilarious. “Trying too hard” would be the understatement
of the year and trust me, I am ALL for individuality and eccentricity—fucking
all over it—but come on. Purple pants on
a man?? Bright lavender purple pants
with a paisley pink, blue and purple RUFFLED shirt and green rimmed
glasses. I’m down with those glasses,
but Austin Powers just called and wants his wardrobe back. “Standing Out” ain’t
always the best idea. I digress again…
The coolest thing about the party at the MOMA was this wall
by an artist who I drunkenly regret not remembering.
His palatte: One 30’
x 18’ wall. His medium: A sharpee and some scaffolding and a
brilliant mind that needed nothing else.
To even attempt to describe it would ruin it. It’s was a “mess of brilliance” based around
the topic of Capitalism. I was, for the
second time in the evening, In Love. Had
he been there I would have been down on one knee--hell, I almost was anyway, but
again digressing--it was f’n awesome.
I took some photos that will definitely not do it justice
and I fully intend to look him up just as soon as I have a wireless connection
on my laptop.
While sitting there looking at this brilliance, I thought of
a friend who I knew would have appreciated such a piece and thus decided that
some drunken texting was in order. The 5th
“not good look” on Tiffany of the night.
Please friends, please—if you love me, don’t let me drunk
text. I didn’t say anything inappropriate in the texts, it’s just that I was at
the MOMA in New York City, with my
friends from all over the world and designers galore and I’m on a bench text
messaging. Someone please: Stop the Madness.
However, out of the text, I got an awesome recommendation
for a dive bar in the Meat Packing District and after the gala had come to it’s
ego end, we all piled into a cab and headed down to 13th and 9th. And if you ever find yourself there—well,
you’ll know it.
Eight designer designers and one BBQ dive bar later was a
match made in trouble heaven. I have no
idea what “look” I had on my face when I went into that bar, but one of the
very “large and in charge” bouncers wasn’t down with it.
We went in---it was perfect----without the 45 year old MARRIED
black rimmed trendy designer/store owner that was in tow behind me. Again: fiend to the Crack Pipe. Gotta love em.
I got his ego schpiel.
Loved every minute of that as I vomitted in my mouth and swallowed it
back down again, at least three times.
I excused myself (then wondered why it took me so long to do
that) and made my way to the ladies room—which was so cool because it was so
tiny I could wash my hands while peeing just for the heck of it (yes, I washed
again afterwards).
I came out to a line of women waiting and stood nearby
looking for my now relocated friends. My
favorite bouncer comes up and in his most “winning personality” tone says,
“Either get in the line to the restroom, or get out of it”.
Well, while this sounds like a mild (although rudely toned)
request, five cocktails later, it was just what I was looking for. I quickly turned around and said, “Is there
somewhere that I can stand that you won’t be standing?”
There are some people that I supposed have such a need to
feel powerful in their lives that when given even the slightest, most
insignificant dose of it latch onto it and try to ride it was if it were the
only chance at it that they were ever going to have. This was one of those peoples.
His next retort was “Well, Little Lady (which I just ADORE
being called), I think you better decide whether you want to remain in this bar
at all”.
Just a little drop of gasoline, but a hungry fire doesn’t
need much. I nearly got thrown out of
that bar, but at the last minute rescued by guess who? John…oh yeah…with wife in tow.
The night got a little weirder still, but I think we all
have a good picture of where it was going.
New York was
nice. Next time I’m sticking to
Mojitos. That coffin looked far better than
the one I got in.
