As a belated birthday present, my dear friend S___ took me to a show at Ars Nova, "New York’s premier hub for emerging artists and new work in theater, comedy and music, producing provocative and affordable live entertainment." Quite a lofty summation, but five minutes after the show started I was thinking, "Wow, this is a great venue for emerging artists and new work in theater, comedy and music..."
From the very beginning I was taken in by the 2 Girls. Sat right up front, I had the fantastic vantage point of not just the stage, but I was able to look back at the small audience. Any time I did (which was rare as the ladies were captivating) the rest of the crowd looked equally enthralled.
I am not about to give a rundown of the production, but I will say that it was wonderfully refreshing to see a show with women who talk about dating without coming across as manbashers or simpering girls who "just can't seem to find the one". It's a delicate thing to discuss dating in New York without at some juncture pointing blame. When it isn't the blame card, one falls into a pattern of stereotypes. "Guys are douchebags; Women are clingy" 2 Girls are definitely quirky, often neurotic, gals about town, but they are also incredibly unique. They don't fill any sort of stereotype, they merely exhibit tendencies. It's theater, but it's not false and that is what makes it such a great show. Everything about 2 Girls for 5 Bucks feels familiar, but it doesn't leave you feeling "I could have done that", but instead you feel "Yes, Yes, Yes!"
OH, and one of the best elements was the band, The Ten Dollar Heartbreakers. Superb and ingenious, not to mention adorable.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Hurrazzles!!!
Checking my bank account has been something I try not to do too often these days. Alas, in a moment of early morning bravado, I did and discovered that my appeal to the Department of Labor for a weekly unemployment increase was approved. This means $129 more per week. Drink is on me! That's right, drink singular.
I am amazed at how quickly it all happened, and have a new sense of faith in the system. Good timing as the string pull thingy on my kitchen light broke and the lights have been on since 6:00 a.m.
I am amazed at how quickly it all happened, and have a new sense of faith in the system. Good timing as the string pull thingy on my kitchen light broke and the lights have been on since 6:00 a.m.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Der Vorleser
A few weeks ago I went to a small Brooklyn theater to see The Reader. I opted for a 7:00 p.m. show with the belief that most young couples on a date would go to the later viewing. What I didn't bargain for was that 7:00 p.m. show was for the AARP crowd. Firstly, it smelled vaguely of camphor and death, which lends itself to a film taking place around WWII (sehr authentico). Secondly, have you ever noticed how loud old people chew? It was like surround sound in my neighbors mouth. I don't even think he was eating popcorn. It was probably a bag of marshmallows, but somehow he managed to turn up the volume.
What struck me most was that at the pinnacle moment in the film when young love turned old was about to be revealed, just at the point when my eyes were brimming with saline, I realized that I felt like I was surrounded by people who lived through WWII. That was why they didn't get upset and teary eyed, because they have been through so much worse. There I was reveling in the tragedy and lost love in a roomful of strangers. Compounding that was the thought that nobody would ever love me that much, which set me off to cry a bit more, borderline sobbing. Yet, when I looked up, those around me looked almost bored. I dare say I saw a pair of rheumy eyes roll.
Walking out of the film I felt something I haven't felt in Brooklyn in a very long time: young. It was nice and refreshing, and it gave me a bit of hope. Until I run into a pack of 20-somethings hoggin' all the bar space, that is.
What struck me most was that at the pinnacle moment in the film when young love turned old was about to be revealed, just at the point when my eyes were brimming with saline, I realized that I felt like I was surrounded by people who lived through WWII. That was why they didn't get upset and teary eyed, because they have been through so much worse. There I was reveling in the tragedy and lost love in a roomful of strangers. Compounding that was the thought that nobody would ever love me that much, which set me off to cry a bit more, borderline sobbing. Yet, when I looked up, those around me looked almost bored. I dare say I saw a pair of rheumy eyes roll.
Walking out of the film I felt something I haven't felt in Brooklyn in a very long time: young. It was nice and refreshing, and it gave me a bit of hope. Until I run into a pack of 20-somethings hoggin' all the bar space, that is.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Not Yet Available, Sorry...
After getting the pink slip from my last post, I sighed with relief, but in the back of my mind job search dread lingered. It has been one month now, and I have done little to find a new place to store my corporate shoe collection. However, quite amazingly, a few opportunities have come my way and I really don't know what to make of it all. Granted, none of the roles are ideal, but I am slightly amazed at the way this is all happening. Ideal isn't the right word, really. Nothing appeals to me at the moment, except perhaps the opportunity to name nail polish shades, or to test yogurt flavors or something. Maybe even to work on some sort of film review type of thing, but at my leisure. Deadlines and low hemlines are not my forte at the moment. I feel I need to sit this out a bit and revel a bit more in ultimate relaxation. Unfortunately, I think the nothingness has caused a migraine of epic proportions to creep its way up the base of my skull.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Central Park + Cachaça = Bikram Yoga
After a morning of recovering from the aforementioned weekend with some old chums from abroad, I cleaned myself up and made my way to 110th street for a charity event sponsored by the Central Park Conservancy. From the second my foot hit the highly polished floor, I knew two things: I was glad I went to the event alone and I was definitely not going to blend in with the crowd. For the next two hours I rubbed shoulders with a flock of people I can safely assume I will never see again. It was a room full of perfect smiles and angles clad in the latest Fifth Avenue offered. After emptying my first plastic cup of some delicious passion fruit laced Cachaça elixer, I attempted a bit of a mingle in the small room, and landed in the corner where I could look out over the Blandana Republic. I made my way to the cocktail table again, this time opting for a strawberry and prosecco laced drink, and then slowly worked my way around the room again, this time in a counter clockwise direction. (I really know how to shake things up.) It was during this journey that I passed the silent auction table. Regarding the "prizes", I noticed that not only were the bids low, but they were virtually non-existant. Slightly buzzed and feeling heady with the thrill of being on the water (does the Harlem Meer count?), I decided that bikram yoga would be a good thing for me AND what were the chances that any of the attendees of this event really went as far south as 14th street on any given day, much less to sweat their asses off. So, I jotted down my bid, the second on the list, and worked my way over to someone I had been introduced to a month prior.
Cocktail, round snack, round snack, cocktail, oval snack.
The silent auction ended, and it was to my astonishment that I had placed the highest bid. I was now the proud owner of a 3 month membership to hot yoga town. Joke is on them cuz this gal can go EVERY DAY AT ANY TIME. Even so, I was quite pleased with my win and decided to cast aside any fear that I had about group classes, much less hot steamy ones that I had never taken before. Now I just have to start...
Cocktail, round snack, round snack, cocktail, oval snack.
The silent auction ended, and it was to my astonishment that I had placed the highest bid. I was now the proud owner of a 3 month membership to hot yoga town. Joke is on them cuz this gal can go EVERY DAY AT ANY TIME. Even so, I was quite pleased with my win and decided to cast aside any fear that I had about group classes, much less hot steamy ones that I had never taken before. Now I just have to start...
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Goodbye, Farewell
This past weekend was one long-winded pub crawl interspersed with snippets of sleep, food and idle banter, and peppered with lots of laughs. Entertaining out of town guests is always fun, and I welcome the challenge of finding great venues for cocktails and victuals, great walks and views. If the opportunity for entertainment in a more cultural form comes along, even better.
The best part of having someone stay in my apartment is when they finally leave. Strangely enough, it is often also the worst part. Once the wheelie case makes it down the hall, my small one bedroom starts to close in on me a bit, and even my cat looks at me as though I will never have any hope of keeping anyone in the place for longer than a week. It makes me wonder, too, if I really could ever live with anyone again. I used to long for a time I could share everything I had, including space and possessions, but now I am realizing that it may not be the best way to go about things. Living with someone creates intimacy and closeness, but it also manages to expose habits and nuances that I don't know if I want exposed to anyone. The exhaustion I feel after having a friend from out of town is not so much showing them around and playing tour guide, but also a sort of pent up anxiety about them seeing how I live. The cat, the dusty windowsill, the refrigerator bereft of greens, but brimming with booze. My lifestyle may almost appear Jonesian in a certain light, and I fear this glimpse, this view. The only way to avoid it is going out into the wild and returning when it is dark and we are all too buzzed to see it.
The best part of having someone stay in my apartment is when they finally leave. Strangely enough, it is often also the worst part. Once the wheelie case makes it down the hall, my small one bedroom starts to close in on me a bit, and even my cat looks at me as though I will never have any hope of keeping anyone in the place for longer than a week. It makes me wonder, too, if I really could ever live with anyone again. I used to long for a time I could share everything I had, including space and possessions, but now I am realizing that it may not be the best way to go about things. Living with someone creates intimacy and closeness, but it also manages to expose habits and nuances that I don't know if I want exposed to anyone. The exhaustion I feel after having a friend from out of town is not so much showing them around and playing tour guide, but also a sort of pent up anxiety about them seeing how I live. The cat, the dusty windowsill, the refrigerator bereft of greens, but brimming with booze. My lifestyle may almost appear Jonesian in a certain light, and I fear this glimpse, this view. The only way to avoid it is going out into the wild and returning when it is dark and we are all too buzzed to see it.
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