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hippy trippin

new york 2 (you gotta read NY1 first or this aint gonna make sense!)

USA | Wednesday, 13 June 2007 | Views [934]


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.

Tags: Adventures

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