Weekend Highlights

Saturday, 11:00 pm, Mercer Kitchen:

Mr Pinstripes: "Well you know what they're saying don't you. Shanghai, Mumbai, Dubai, or Bye Bye."

Sunday, 7 pm, post-another afternoon of damage at the cross streets of West Broadway and Grand:

J: 9 bottles of Rose. 3 bottles of champagne. Remind me again what we were celebrating?

Girl: That we creamed Germany in the Euro Cup. Viva Espana!!

J: You do realize, my dear, that we were only six people.

Sunday, 9:30 pm, back at my place

J: Aww please don't cry.

Girl: I can't help it, I'm going to miss you.

J: Me too. But seriously, please don't cry. Your doormen are going to think I beat you or something.

Babiez.

As I write this, there is somewhat of a commotion happening about 10 meters from my desk. A tightly packed circle of people chat loudly, alternately cooing and laughing awkwardly in unison. The women have two varieties of smiles plastered on their faces: the knowing smile and the “will this ever be me?” smile- the one I like to call the Sad Clown (this one’s more prevalent, in case you were wondering). The men stand on the outer rims of the circle, chests puffed like overfed pigeons, hands dug deep into trouser pockets, trying to pass off their smirks for genuine emoting. In the middle stands a woman: brunette hair blown out, healthy looking, and all smiles. She has the distinct look of a woman who used to toil in the trenches amongst us but has left it behind for morning walks through Tribeca and afternoons at Stella McCartney. She is carrying something- it's very tiny. Everyone's focus is on her. Wait why do the guys look even more awk than usual?

Oh that's right: she has brought her baby into the office.

“How old?” they’ll murmur in unison.

“13 weeks!” She’ll reply, because new moms always report their baby’s age in some obscure time frame that forces one to divide by 4. (I’ve never understood this by the way. 72 weeks! 17 months! What the fuck, does getting knocked up somehow change how we tell time?! Do you tell her husband to be home for dinner at 2100 hours?! Inquiring minds and all that.)

“Ooh, you must be not be getting much sleep!” another new mom will throw out.

Which of course garners a blank stare because she has a nanny, silly pleb. And onward and upward.

Then of course there’s the whole issue of tearing oneself apart from the pack. Because “Daddy” is taking full advantage of this opportunity to squeeze in a conference call, one has no option but to oblige his time with the obligatory worship of his wife and child. It’s simply not an option to leave first lest you be marked a detached psychopath. Which, naturally, I am. Don’t get me wrong, I love kids. I could eat that little fucker for lunch with some Cape Cod chips and a Diet Coke. But it’s too early in the effing morning to fake being agreeable (I have to harness all the fake niceties I have for important shit, like dates).

Oh god…what did I tell you. Now the little babe is crying. Not so fun anymore, is he?

No, he isn’t. So don’t mind if I just sit here instead, plotting my next cigarette break, thanking God for birth control.

You Mean I Shouldn't Stand still in the middle of Grand Central at Rush Hour? And other questions answered

A few months ago, a friend wrote a few of us to inquire as to where to take a female friend for dinner. This was someone who took his restaurants very seriously, so when he asked us for advice we often attempted to go above and beyond. After asking our usual questions “Are you going for a good scene (i.e. are you trying to just get her drunk) or for excellent food (i.e. to please yourself)?” we unloaded the best of what we had to offer. A few moments later we got the following response:

Guys, I think I’m just going to take her to the Rainbow Room.
Sent from my blackberry wireless

We unleashed the fury on him. His roommate called him a Penis. Another friend asked him why he asked us for suggestions only to counter with an idea totally contrary to ours. And I; well I told him the truth. It was the ultimate in cheesy gestures and I’d be totally insulted if someone thought I'd enjoy something so trite (minus my team lead who took us there for our Christmas party- thanks dude). Authenticity (i.e. anything built into an old townhouse) was and remains the main concern.


The Just Ask the Locals campaign, is predicated on the same belief- that the “authentic” New York experiences are the ones worth coveting. Like the $725/night Greenwich Hotel and the overhyped Tribeca film festival, it is an idea of paramount Robert Denirian brilliance. Celebrities offer their favourite tips on living in NYC (if living denotes the one weekend a month spent here en route from the south of France to their beachfront homes in Malibu) and tourists benefit from their wisdom (which is more important than the wisdom of normal people because these people have been featured on E! True Hollywood Story).

While the idea of New Yorkers trying to be more inclusive of the people we despise (fat, slow, annoyingly curious, overly chatty) comes from a good place, the suggestions themselves are laughable at best. Want to have a fun night? They suggest you go Goldbar, the Box, or Socialista. Because no visit to New York is complete until a tourist sells his kidney for admittance to a place stuffed to the gills with the suffocating pretension of hipsters. Want to try a really insider-y restaurant? They suggest you go to Nobu - and be sure to order the miso cod! Which again, is so funny because only like 876 people before this random celebrity have suggested that to me since I moved here. Maybe I should also hit up Times Square during TRL or go to Soho and see how all the “artists” live. Maybe I’ll run into David Schwimmer at the Spotted Pig- The possibilities are endless!

So it was certainly a pleasant surprise to find some advice from real New Yorkers on the Visit NYC website. This was the stuff that I was open to perusing. These people would tell tourists where they could get the best slice of pizza or New York's finest bagel. They would divulge where the best vintage boutique was. At least they would say where the best alley in which to purchase some crack cocaine is located, right? No, they would say this:


if you see alan cumming stab him
Submitted by anonymous on Jun 23, 2008 10:29 AM

Stay out of my way on the sidewalks
Submitted by anonymous on Jun 04, 2008 02:20 PM

BRING YOUR GLOCK
Submitted by anonymous on Jun 19, 2008 03:10 AM

Don't urinate off the Empire State Building
Submitted by anonymous on Jun 03, 2008 11:32 AM

Don't trust anyone with 2 first names!
Submitted by anonymous on Jun 03, 2008 09:01 AM

Don't ask famous people for tips.
Submitted by anonymous on Jun 01, 2008 02:21 PM

That’s right, It’s all there. Their desire to inflict violence on random celebrities, their sidewalk rage, their unwavering support of the right to bear arms, their disposition toward public urination (just not off a tall building, mmkay?), their distrust of their fellow man. I especially love BRING YOUR GLOCK, though really, I kinda hope you don’t bring your glock, because that would rob me of my ability to wander the streets- drunk and alone- at 3am because my friends insisted on staying at the club and I felt like GOINGFORPIZZA, which I always feel like doing at 3am, and that’s just not really cool. But apart from that little glitch, I love that in so many words, they told me to Go Fuck Myself for even thinking I might find something useful.

Oh wait, I spoke too soon. There was something else- this little gem:

Take your kids for Shirleytinis at the W-makes your girls feel super luxe.
Submitted by anonymous on Jun 06, 2008 11:04 AM


Because if nothing else, you can start breeding our next generation of alcoholic young women with a preference for bright cocktails and hotel bars. The next generations of finance geeks will no doubt thank you for sowing the seeds of their getting laid.

The good old fashioned authentic way, with 20 dollar martinis.

On the Importance of Priorities

Girl: What are you doing!

Boy: Well first I'm looping all your wires together and making them flush with the wall, and second I'm hooking up a router and giving you wireless internet.

Girl: That is the sweetest thing ever! To what do I owe this honor?

Boy: I couldn't imagine you not being able to watch porn in your bedroom. Literally, it brought tears to my eyes.

How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Start Loving the Illicit Spa Treatment

It’s no secret that New York City is home to many a “Massage/Hand Job Parlor”. Hell, I have one on my own street, and I live on a decidedly un-shady street. But when it comes to paying poor immigrants of Asian descent to touch you inappropriately (and most importantly, to leave afterwards, har har), the scales tip largely in favor of men. This is due to the fact that patronizing such an establishment requires that heady mix of monumental idiocy and undying devotion to getting off that only certain males of our species are capable of possessing. Women, I was lead to believe, were above such base endeavors.

I was, embarrassingly, mistaken. While women won’t exactly pay to get off, they will apparently pay exhorbitant amounts to get to Second Base (I know, what the fuck, right? Aim higher ladies). Featured thus in New York Magazine, the “Summer Season Spa Boob Improvement” (emphasis is mine, OBVI):

"In time for bikini weather, Graceful Services, a midtown spa, has introduced the Breast Lifting Treatment. In an $100, 80-minute session, the pectoralis major and pectoralis minor are massaged, excess lymph fluid is drained, and a cream and mask are applied. “It even makes the nipples turn up again,” promises the spa’s owner, Grace Macnow. Dr. Stephen Colen, chief of plastic surgery at Hackensack University Medical Center, notes that while “the treatment hydrates the skin so it looks plumper, healthier, and tighter, and the massage causes some swelling, which can create a lifting effect, this is temporary. It won’t have the lasting effect of a surgical lift.”

Listen, I’m psyched that women now have options or whatever, but why the fake-out appeal to their vanity as opposed to their straight out desire for some good old fashioned second base action? How is anyone dim enough to believe that putting a face mask on the ole twins afterward negates the fact that this is just a pretty sketch massage? Let's get serious here, why not tack on a 15 minute Motorboat Treatment? You can claim it takes years off your “boob age”, which is another concept you can invent to scare women the fuck out of ageing. Own that shit, Graceful Services.

I mean, when you say that it “makes the nipples turn up again” in the effing description, you’re being about as subtle as a tramp stamp.

Presented with Minimal Comment, because I really can't be assed to give you more than that

From this morning's amNY, otherwise known as the best free paper in New York (i'm fairly certain there are only 2 in the running, but whatever):

"Silvano Orsi, a resident of Rochester, N.Y., says Sheik Falah bin Zayed bin Sultan Al Nahyan [i.e. brother to the ruler of the UAE] hit him repeatedly with a steel belt buckle after Orsi declined a bottle of champagne from the sheik."

Yeah, I had to read it a few times too just to let it absorb.

I'm gonna clue you into something here- I'm not hiding under a fucking rock (I do, by some accounts however, live in a rather well appointed bubble); I know that arabs have a bad rap. If they aren't busy terrorist fist pumping each other, they are buying up your precious landmarks and making you look bad (The indignity of it all!). I get it. I mean, there has to be some legitimate reason we've squandered trillions of dollars in resources and 7 years on killing them right? Sure there is.

But this is fucking ludicrous. Why would the fucking sheik of the UAE be sending a bottle of champers to this whiny fanny-pack wearing twit in the first place? I've indulged in many a glass of Veuve from the odd saudi "prince" but let me tell you my friends, they don't just give that shit out for free. Even a Bedouin, which Orsi clearly and fucking deludedly thinks this guy is, is familiar with the concept of fair trade.

However, let's assume for a moment that hell hath frozen over and this actually ocurred. At what point during this encounter did the bartender not think, My, that's wierd! That dude just whipped out his belt cowboy-style and started violently assaulting the guy at the next table. Call me crazy, but that's the sort of thing that raises eyebrows.

I don't know, something is just not measuring up here.

On Board Elections and Lunacy

“Um excuse me? I have a praaahblem,” whined the voice in the back left corner of the room. “My neighbor, who I share a terrace with? Well she hasn’t trained her dog, and it’s disgusting. She’s a bad ownah! And she awhlso tries to put furniture between moy side of the terrace and hers to block her naaasty dog but the furniture is hideous! She has some sort of feng shui bumbling fountain with little rocks and when the wind blows the pebbles make it onto my side, and I’ve called the president of the board 12 times in the LAST WEEK ALONE and she hasn’t stopped doing what she’s doing!”

“Tell me again what it is she’s doing?” The president of the board replied calmly.

“Violating the fire marshall code!” she yelped.

“Uh huh.”

Anyone wishing to study the wide range of human psychoses need only attend a Condominium Association Annual Board meeting.

Where I lived in Chicago, the board was comprised of a notoriously tightknit crew of WASPy octogenarians who squandered the entirety of the capital reserve on cases of Vintage for their weekly “meetings.” We turned a blind eye to their rampant excess and they turned a blind eye to…all of our requests. Were it not for one of the member’s very public divorce and subsequent commitment to regaining attractiveness, the new gym would never have been built.

Needless to say, I steered clear of those twin-set donning ninnies like the Bubonic Plague.

Having since relocated to a decidedly more diverse establishment in New York, I was rather excited to attend last night’s annual meeting. For one thing, I considered it the decidedly “adult” thing to do (a concept that, like cooking proper dinners and working out on Saturday mornings, at first serves to bloat one’s self satisfaction, only later to become expected and ultimately imprisoning).

Perhaps more crucially, however, I went to both judge how attractive my neighbors were and . to gauge their distinct level of crazy.

There was the characteristically cocky Energy Trader. In his election speech, he mumbled something about the value of our investment, and in an entirely unconvincing show of emotion claimed to care about “our community”. His speech was brutal and his suit terrific. Patrick Bateman himself would have shed tears of pride.

There was the woman who had so much collagen in her face; her cheekbones looked like veritable ping pong balls. There was a woman who so violently opposed the placement of the fucking couch in the lobby that we thought an angry wrinkle might just fight the good fight through all of the botox and betray her emotion. In short, there appeared to be many, many victims of both overzealous plastic surgery and poor taste in design.

People wined about everything from recycling, to cigarettes falling into gardens, to doormen taking “excessive bathroom breaks.” I mean, for fuck’s sake (I shall not invoke the name of the Lord here although it is most apt). It took a great deal of courage on my end not to pick up my chair and throw it at the offending commenter. I earmarked their names for future reference.

Last of all, there was the CEO, in whose speech to the board it was shamelessly announced – no less than 20 times- that he was, in fact, a CEO. “Having managed thousands of people in my lifetime,” he would gloat, “I should think I know how to handle a measly 140 units.” To which we all wondered, genuinely, what the fuck he was doing living in a building that many deemed only a slightly more upscale version of a dormitory to begin with.

That, unfortunately, wasn’t covered in the 2 hour long Q & A.

In the end, after countless hours of nonsense, far too much indulgence in the catering from Mangia (“Brownies with Jelly in them , what the fuck kind of way is that to ruin a brownie” the gentleman to my right duly noted), we cast our ballots. The moment of reckoning arrived. Would I vote for catwoman? She was rather passionate about the unsightly blue panels in the mailroom. How about the man with “I’m a CEO” induced turrets? Or the student with a superhuman concern for the fire safety of our terraces? Or perhaps one of the yummy mummies with so much time and so little to do? Perhaps I could write myself in a la Ralph Nader?

No. In the end, I would vote not on promises nor on well based platforms. Like a mirror of national politics, board elections were a haven for smooth talkers and inexperienced doers. I would vote based on the one criterion that was true and good in the world. The one that I knew would be most committed to providing returns: again, and again, and again, on my initial investment.

I would vote for Trader Guy, because he was hot.