in which my art illiteracy becomes apparent...

Most of the time I forget about my corporate discount privileges, but lately I've been flashing my badge to get into some worthy museums, most recently the Whitney and the Guggenheim. Of note:

William Eggleston at the Whitney through January 25. You know how some hipsters manage to take really gorgeous, unpretentious snapshots? That's what this guy was doing in the '60s. He loved playing with color and capturing moments. There's also fun with early portable camcorders. And we saw Chris Parnell at this exhibit, who looked sort of old and short in person.

Alexander Calder at the Whitney through February 15. You know him for his mobiles. What you don't know are his fantastically witty mechanical toys, his whimsical motion-art and his charming crayon sketches. I can't quite put my finger on what was so delightful about everything on exhibit, but we did overhear one lady say, "Well, he must've been a lovely person." And I think that about sums it up.

Theanyspacewhatever at the Guggenheim through January 7. Granted, we started at the bottom and worked our way up, and it wasn't until we were exiting that we noticed the "Please begin at the top" sign. I felt like a lot of the installations went right over my head (possibly because I was missing the posted signs), but I did love the evocative phrases stenciled at random on walls and supports. They said things like "You're closer than you think." and "It's better not to know." Also, the Pinocchio floating face-down in a pool.

I'm not great at describing art, but all were worth checking out. Go see!

Vampire weekend

So, Thanksgiving. Julia's and my first chance to return to our childhood home, hang out with family, eat too many roasted root vegetables and relax around the fire. Having taken care of the first three, we were working on the fourth, dreamily discussing the economy as the fire burned down to a pile of glowing coals.

And then Julia, who was sitting next to me on the sofa, started screaming and wouldn't stop. She was sort of clutching at me and crawling up the couch as she screamed, and my parents, uncle and I all stared at her in confusion. Then my mother (whose view wasn't obstructed by the coffee table) gasped, "It's a bat!", stood up from the loveseat, grabbed a nearby box and smashed it onto a lump of black fur about the size of a flattened softball, lying on the hearth a few feet in front of the fireplace.

My dad and uncle leaped up and began to discuss their next move. A net? They needed a net. What about Dad's fishing net? No, the holes were too big. Mom, meanwhile, stood pressing down on the box (not a box TOP, mind you, but a full box), smashing the struggling bat flat underneath. (The last thing we wanted was for him to become airborne.) Julia and I were told to shut up and both sat on the far end of the couch, gasping.

Finally, Dad went into the garage and came back with an open box, an Amazon box I'd just opened. He dropped it on top of mom's hand, the box she was holding and (presumably) the bat, and she pulled her arm out with a bit of a struggle. I noticed that in the second Mom withdrew her hand, the bat had tried to escape and was now smashed by Dad's box, half-under and half-out. I pointed out his mistake and he lifted the box and dropped it again a few inches forward, just as Julia, Mom and Uncle Tom took off in search of a piece of cardboard to slide under the new cage.

There was a moment of frozen suspension, as Dad pushed down on the cardboard, the cats and dog looked around bewilderedly and I stood useless. Then I saw motion. Dad was facing the fireplace, so no one could see this but me, but somehow that bat had escaped from the box and was half-hopping, half-dragging itself across the living room floor toward the kitchen at breakneck speed. I pointed and screamed and again couldn't come up with a coherent sentence, but I did grab the now-interested dog as she prepared to lunge (my one and only helpful contribution.) The rest of the family came running and Mom, again displaying her quick thinking and total bad-ass-ity, reached down just as the bat scooted across a rug and folded the fabric on top of him. My uncle grabbed my sister's nearby vest and dropped that on top, rolling the whole thing up and dashing outside with it. He and my dad released the evil thing, and they reported that after a few minutes of dizzy walking, it flew off into the night.

Back inside, we were all wide awake and pumped on adrenaline. Julia explained what she'd seen--she'd been absent-mindedly watching the fire when she saw something drop and then flop onto the bricks. For a second she'd thought it was a piece of wood, and then she'd noticed it struggling to move, probably knocked out from the smoke. (Her reaction was pretty understandable. A few years back her roommate had rolled over and been bitten by a bat that was sleeping in her bed...and the same bat tried to flatten itself and enter Julia's room one night later.)

"Well that did it, I'm going to bed," Mom said after a few minutes, waving goodnight. But fifteen minutes later she was back, eyebrows furrowed, to announce, "I'm bleeding, and I wasn't bleeding before." We all took a turn inspecting the tiny speck of fresh blood on her forearm, most likely a scratch from the cardboard. But you don't really take chances when it comes to wild animals, so Mom drove herself to the ER the next day for six extremely painful shots. There will be a whole battery more in the coming days, including one on Christmas.

So, this year, I'm thankful for my family. I'm thankful for my health. But most of all, I'm thankful for the rabies vaccine.

Good eatin'

One thing I like most about NY is the quality and quantity of eating. Not that Philly didn’t have great restaurants, but people didn’t seem to make meal-time quite the priority they do here. In just a few months I’m able to think fondly back on multiple memorable meals. Here’s a listing of where some of these meals took place, if you are in town and looking for a bite...

Barking Dog: One of the first places Andi and I stumbled upon, their claim to fame is that Aidan wore a Barking Dog shirt in an ep of Sex and the City (actually a cute one, where Carrie accuses him of hoarding deo and being a “crazy bag man.”). Really great brunch.

Inoteca: A cute Italian tapas place in the LES. Generous glasses of wine. Also, good for people watching: our waiter reminded us of an ancient Greek lutist, and a table of new money males visually lusted after a small group of new bottle blondes displaying themselves by the bar.

Alta: Oh. My. God. Props to L. for telling me about this place. Every tapas dish that J. and I tried was like another step to food nirvana.

Press 195: I love me some paninis, and these were perhaps the best that I’ve tasted. Man, I’ve been planning to go back (it’s in Park Slope) ever since a quick pre-writing group dinner, but BK’s kind of a hike for sandwiches. Soon though. Soon.

Bread: Also great paninis, and much closer to home (or at least work). As O. mentioned, it’s also filled with amazingly attractive people.

El Paso Taqueria: I think this is my fave place so far, perhaps because it’s one of the few restaurants in SpaHa that people will travel to specifically from downtown. It’s tiny and always packed on the weekends. But the homemade guac, the fajitias, the burritos…delish.

Joy Burger: There are lots of places to get a good burger action in NY. However, there really is something joyous about Joy Burger—the cute 60’s era tables and chairs, the array of free toppings, the friendly dude behind the counter who asked about our lives and welcomed us to the neighborhood. The burgers come in several sizes—splitting a large and a salad with a friend makes for a great and cheap meal.

Old Devil Moon: This was all thanks to my girl J. Great brunch spot in the East Village that a certain charming musician frequents. The décor is great: X-mas lights, a giant moose head, a disco ball, etc. And you can even order a cake from the affiliate group the Masturbakers if you’re so inclined.

Café Steinhof: Another BK eatery, this place offers Austrian comfort food and music and movie nights. We ended up there on Monday night, when the only choices are goulash and trout. (That’s an easy one.) For $6, that’s one of the best meal deals around.

Addends of Awesome

Things I have loved as of late...

• The Banksy exhibit. Everyone's favorite guerilla graffiti artist took over a storefront designed to make you feel really, really bad about the way we treat our animals. Brilliantly entitled "Village Pet Store and Charcoal Grill," it really did make me feel bad about the chicken dish I ate afterward.
• The Disposable Film Festival. Several hours of clever films shot entirely on nontraditional cameras like webcams and cell phones. Such things have advantages over regular cameras. For example, they can be attached to kites and balloons.
• My awesome new Charlie Brown Flip camcorder. For obvious reasons.
• Sia and the chick from Le Tigre DJ'ing at Le Poisson Rouge on Saturday. Actually, they just picked out songs and looked adorable and another guy did the mixing. Talking our way in without paying ruled as well.
• The three-gazillion thread count sheets I ordered on Overstock.com. They're changing my life.
• An Evening with The Believer (earlier tonight!) at Symphony Space. Three actors reading three awesome stories hand-picked by Believer editors. The final reading was from none other than Mr. Alec Baldwin himself.
• Netflix's "Watch Now" function, and Season One of 30 Rock. Pure brilliance.
• Fall.

Lifestyles of the rich and the famous

Guess I’ll pick up the story where Julia left off. After the fashion show, we went our separate ways, with Julia hanging behind and A and I catching a cab to a swank West Village launch party for that new Google iPhone. A college friend had invited her, and we figured we might as well try to get me in too. We waited in a sprawling line with endless beautiful, groomed, well dressed twenty-somethings for longer than seemed necessary (“Is there a separate press entrance?” we demanded at one point) before finally being let in.

It was a huge white space with soaring ceilings, two separate stages, long white couches and (another) open bar. We got ourselves some specialty cocktails and wandered about, exploring the space, chatting with the male models who’d been hired to show off the phones (hilariously, none of them knew how to use them), eating little hors d'oeuvres and admiring the wealthy and beautiful people around us. After a while, we heard guitar strains from the stage behind us and turned around, 20 feet from a band.

“Who is this?” I hollered to A over the music.

“The Raconteurs! That’s Jack White.” She pointed. He was wearing a tight black T-shirt and looking inexplicably sexy.

Elated, we sang along, dancing full-out to the music. They were fantastic live, full of energy and spot-on musicality, but apparently dancing is not the cool thing to do these days, because we were literally the only two people in a crowd of about 60 who were dancing.

But care we did not. A friend who was standing near us (holding still, as per societal norms) leaned over and hollered, “See that guy behind us?”

We both turned. There was a cute guy with dark hair about four feet back, standing with a friend. We stole a glance and then nodded.

“That’s Jason Biggs.”

Oh.

A portion of the evening was then devoted to making contact with Jason Biggs. He smiled at us, and we all shared a “WTF?” gesture when a tall blond girl planted herself in front of us, blocking all our views of the stage. He and his friend headed for the bar with a very slight head-jerk in our direction, so we followed.

The problem was that there was still a show going on behind us, so the conversation was clipped and shouted.

“WHERE ARE YOU FROM?”

“MISSOURI!”

“WHERE?!”

“MISSOURI!”

We excused ourselves for a bit to say goodbye to our departing friends and prepare ourselves to leave, stopping in the bathroom first. There, A had a rather gutsy idea.

“Do you have a pen?” she demanded. I didn’t, so she asked the bathroom attendant and two other guests before I discovered one in a hidden pocket.

“I’m going to give Jason Biggs my number,” she announced, scribbling.

We exited the bathroom, coats in hand, and found JB and his friend relaxing on a white couch. I chatted with his friend (who I believe is a castmember of the same Broadway show Jason’s in) while Anna leaned down and began, “OK, I never do this, but I think you’re really cute and I wanted to give you my number before we left.”

With obvious regret, he replied, “I’m actually married, and I don’t think my wife would be happy if she found your number…”

We accepted this sad truth as he gave us both a combo handshake/kiss on the cheek. (“What’s your name?” I inquired as he grabbed my hand. Like I didn’t recognize him.) And we slipped into the night.

The next day, we both hurried to Google to track down the Mrs. She’s pretty, a lesser-known actress whom he married last spring. Still—if you put A on a real person scale, and this woman on a Hollywood scale, A clearly comes out ahead. So lord only knows what would have happened had Jason not been sporting a ring.

Simon Says Part Trois

This time I was really going to talk to him. Really.

Andrea kindly invited me to a Moroccan fashion show in Chelsea, which was held inside a giant, super-hip, barn-like structure (can barns be hip? The answer is yes). I didn’t know until we got there that the show was being thrown by another Real Housewife—the feisty Bethenny. So, of course, the suave Simon/Alex combo were there sipping away at cocktails and looking slightly uncomfortable. Andrea, A. and I also began taking advantage of the free Grey Goose until we were ready to talk to anyone. But then the fashion show started, and we watched and discussed, and then we began planning the rest of our nights, and my bold, fearless meeting seemed best kept…for next time.

The Litterati

So I’ve been slacking on my author readings lately, but there have been a few memorable ones that I will share with you here:

Franzen: I’d heard from P. how awkward Jonathon Franzen, author of The Corrections, is in person, but I had to see for myself. The Brooklyn Book Fest hosted tons of writers—I also wanted to see Joan Didion but I think it was at the same time—of which JF was just one. Andrea, B. and I went early and were not disappointed. Admittedly, the first sentence out of JF’s mouth was “I don’t want to be here,” but it made sense when he began talking about the death of his close friend, David Foster Wallace, who’d committed suicide two days before. Throughout the talk JF became more enthusiastic and light-hearted, and at the end he apologized for his earlier statement and said that there was no greater way to commemorate DFW than to get together and discuss writing with people who loved books.

Myla Goldberg/Rick Moody/Josh Ferris/Sean Wilsey/etc: This was quite a coup—several young, contemporary authors whom I admire coming together to discuss a book they’d helped write and screen the documentary it inspired. State by State includes 50 essays by writers about their home states, or about states that they lived in or traveled to. The doc was pretty fun to watch, though it was strange to see them reading on screen when they were sitting in the audience. (Apparently strange for them as well. One of Rick Moody’s sparse but hilarious statements hinged on how nauseated he’d become since seeing himself chow down on barbeque onscreen.) The moderator was pompous and the resulting discussion a bit forced. But oh well. My crush on the beautiful Josh Ferris remains.

Fire!

So, for the most part, I love our neighborhood. It is quiet, it is cheap, it is pleasant. Random men do sometimes make comments, but friendly ones like “Have a good night, young lady!” or “Good morning, Ruby Red!” The apartment itself is wonderful, despite the lack of direct sunlight. Even our super, Luis, is friendly. Nothing out of the ordinary or weird or disquieting has occurred…

Until now. One recent Saturday afternoon I walked out of the apartment to a sea of fire trucks, crowds of people, and police tape marking off the entrance. I was hungover at the time and couldn’t comprehend what was going on. As I stepped over the police tape, people watched me at me but didn’t say a word. I went up to a girl sitting on her front steps a few houses down. She thought some type of smoke bomb had gone off, making people sick, and that they’d evacuated the building.

Had I been forgotten? I went back to where my super Luis was standing with a group of people. Luis and I have some communication issues, since he doesn’t really speak English and my Spanish is relegated to the few phrases I learned in high school Spanish class, but I spoke with another woman, who had wild red curly hair. Apparently someone had gotten in and thrown a roach bomb on the second floor. Why on earth would someone do that? They didn’t know, but they also didn’t seem too surprised.

Nothing quite so dramatic has happened since, and they’ve begun locking the heavy outer doors at 6 pm at night. But I still haven’t quite shaken off the memory of groggily walking outside and getting tangled in police tape.

I couldn't help but wonder...

Thanks to its compactness, New York is a hotbed of coincidences. One can only go so long before running into a familiar face unexpectedly, on the street, in a store or, in this latest case, on the subway. I was waiting for the train at a stop I rarely use after dinner with a friend, and as it pulled up I noticed a pair of turquoise shows in the seat nearest the door I was about to enter. The doors slid open and I just about walked into Julia, who was in the car and had gotten up to switch seats. I hadn’t even known she was out that night and we spent the rest of the commute chatting while intermittently commenting on the unlikelihood of the situation. Being on the same train would have been strange enough…we’d been at the same door.

Several nights later, fate laid another concurrence on us. I was out with my buddy S and her friends, and Julia was out on a date. At a certain point in the night she said good-bye to the fellow and called to see what I was up to. She also knew that her good friend from Philly was in town, but she doubted she’d see us both.

When she called, I was walking with a gaggle to China One, an Oriental-themed bar with a dance space in Alphabet City. I gave Julia the details in case she wanted to join, and she said she’d check on her friends whereabouts and then report back to me.

“You’re not going to believe this,” she said when she called back. “L is at China One as we speak.”

So, what followed was a happy happenstance reunion of sisters, friends, former coworkers and new friends-of-friends. Again, we couldn’t help but comment on the unlikelihood—of all the bars in Manhattan, of all the places we could have gone, my friends and Julia’s friend chose the very same locale.

And, as Carrie Bradshaw would say, that’s the thing about New York. Sometimes it feels like a lonely place, but really, there are friends around nearly every corner.

Physically stable/mentally un

Just saw the best. Documentary. Ever. It’s called Man on Wire and it tells the true tale of how a young man tightroped between the two Twin Towers. For reals. Without a net.

The story is gripping and intense and the characters (who tell of their own experiences) are likeable and compelling. Go see it now—you won’t be sorry!

Simon Says Part Deux

So I was heading back to work after enjoying a lunchtime stroll (the Museum of Sex is two blocks away from my building! Who knew?) when who did I see but a familiar, tall, redheaded figure swing into the Tasty Café.

Simon!

I backtracked a few steps and creepily peered into the window to make sure. Then I continued on my way, wondering if fate was putting Simon in my path, and for what reason. Were we supposed to impart some vital information to each other? Provide answer to existential crises that had been haunting our dreams? Or was it purely coincidental? I decided to stay on my Simon guard.

Until we meet again, Monsieur S…

Borough-hopping

Brooklyn is a lovely place. I finally experienced it for one of the first times since I moved here, and I love it. The train ride was horrendous (three transfers) due to weekend line closures, but once I arrived, I was treated to a lovely walk in perfect weather through Prospect Park, along the Brooklyn Library (where a funk band was jamming on the steps) and the gorgeous Brooklyn Museum, which resembles nothing so much the White House with a spaceship on its lawn. (Remember Independence Day?) Not to mention the surplus of adorable children in strollers and on bikes. I won’t lie, I love living in Manhattan and I don’t envy the commute, but sometimes seeing a little open space can make all the difference in the world.

The Ninth Circle of Well Drinks

At 10:15 last night, I was in the shower and Julia was brushing her teeth at the sink. We’d just finished a particularly grueling game of dress-up and were joking about how difficult it’d been.

“That was absurd! It was like we’d completely lost our ability to put together an outfit!” one of us began, in our typical valley girl way.

“Yeah, It was like your closet was Pandora’s box!”

“Yeah, it was like a trial! Like…like a Herculean task!” We laughed and commented on how funny it would be if the rest of our evening were a series of trials toward a fun night, each more difficult than the last. Unfortunately, we were right. So, in classical Greek style, here you have it: our own little odyssey.

Number 2: Trial by humanity

Anyone who’s ever taken the subway on a weekend night immediately realizes that everyone else who’s going out has taken a cab. 10:30, 11, midnight, it doesn’t matter, if you’re taking the subway downtown, all six other people in the car will be middle-aged men or women with strollers, shooting disapproving looks at your zebra-print dress. (Yes, I really did wear a zebra-print dress. It was green.)

So imagine Julia’s and my surprise when a 6 train rolled up at 11:05 absolutely packed. We’re talking 9 a.m. on a workday packed. 9 a.m. on a workday at Grand Central packed. All with families and middle-aged folks, all in Yankees gear. We actually weren’t even sure we’d physically fit.

But the Yankees fans, most of them inebriated, scuffled inside enough to let us slip in. Julia and I stood by the door, unsupported, clutching one another and clutching our cute clutches to our chests. We rode this way for 89 blocks in a state of terrified amusement.

Number 3: Trial by fire

We got off the train, walked over to another track to wait for our connection…and melted. Almost literally. We waited for a good 20 minutes, constantly remarking that we could just take a cab but then constantly countering that the train was bound to come the minute we did that. And the heat. My god, the heat. It was easily 95 degrees down there, maybe more, with no air movement whatsoever. When the train did come, we collapsed into seats, amazed we made it out of Hades’ station alive.

Number 4: Trial by water

Thank Zeus, we successfully entered Spitzer’s, a cute beer bar that screams Milwaukee from every corner. There are the dozens of beers on tap, the long wooden tables, the duders in baseball caps—stepping in, we felt as if we’d been transported 300 miles east.

We spotted an opening on the bench along the wall and sat down, carefully pushing someone’s half-drunk glass of red wine against the wall and as far away from us as possible. We were just finishing up our Haberdash Whites when a blond chick plopped down next to us and spilled the wine all over my arm and Julia’s bag. We both gasped and stood up, peering down at the overturned glass, but the girl pretended not to notice. We leaned over and snapped, “It’s fine, no need to apologize or anything,” and the girl looked at us like we were both toads and, speaking straight from her nasal passages, replied, “Ummm, I don’t think I touched it.”

You’re right, dear, I made red wine spring spontaneously from the bench. Screw Hercules, you can call me Moses.

It all went sort of downhill from here. We walked the half-block to Pianos and were delighted to spot the Ashleys again (why would a gay couple come to a straight bar and spend the evening sulking? One wonders) and witnessed a somewhat indescribable concert from a one-man band named Wolfs. Imagine a rotund 20-something dude, cranking techno beats, playing chords on a keyboard with one hand and wailing away on a shiny twisted tuba on the other, swaying to the beat while larger-than-life projections of running wild animals splash over him and the stage. A guy behind us shouted, “This guy is f*cking brilliant” to his friends, which only added to our confusion.

A few more PBRs, a few more songs and we called it a night. I’m not sure what we did to anger the party gods, but I hope now we’ve passed their trials and fallen back in their favor.

The hippest in the land...

Though tired from a sore throat and a reality check called “returning to work,” I wanted to write a quick post about last weekend before the next arrives.

The highlight was probably a hipster beauty pageant in Williamsburg. (See official logo, left.) Truthfully, it was more of a pseudo-hipster event, because you know real hipsters will have nothing to do with anything so crass as an event that screams “HIPSTER!” Description as follows:

Who will be crowned king and queen of the disaffected hipster set? And more importantly: do you have what it takes to take the skinny-jean-wearing, Murikami-reading, BMX-bike-riding crown? Enter to become part of history; all others can just show up and drink their faces off.

Our program is designed to be an excellent vehicle for advancing your social and romantic agendas. As a contestant, you will be judged in three equal categories including Personal Interview, Streetwear, and Talent. While performance-oriented talent is not a requirement, we ask that you have at least one demonstrable skill that you can showcase to the judges.

We got there during the talent portion and watched a shirtless, sparkly tie-wearing English lad present several contestants: a quiet, bearded guy who drew something; a girl in a blue jumpsuit who shotgunned a beer while dancing; a guy who taught how to make Jorts (jean shorts, ranging from knee-length to short-short); a girl who pretended to bang away on a typewriter while throwing back whisky and responding to a voiceover she’d made, detailing some tragic childhood event that I can’t at the moment recall.

The artist and shot-gunner were crowned, but by that time everyone had moved to the bar and little art installation room nearby. I chatted briefly with the jort-maker, who had an incredibly impressive life resume including school at Colombia, a job teaching hs students and a stint in Africa. Of course. But the most hipster person there was a designer wearing an outfit composed mostly of necklaces. When I asked what his hopes/dreams were, he rolled his eyes behind his giant shades and said, “Well, I don’t really have any because I’ve already accomplished them.”

You certainly have, sir. Hipster on.

Simon says

Tonight something special happened.

Tonight I shared a moment with Simon from "Real Housewives of New York City."

I've always considered myself fairly anti-celebrity, which is why I was surprised at the surge of delight I felt in making sweet eye love with a man who doesn't even count as one.

For those of you who are not familiar, Simon hails from a Bravo TV show that is the infinitely superior spinoff to "Real Housewives of Orange County." And he is the star of the program. Married to housewife Alex (who was also there, both pictured above), Simon is an arrogant Frenchman whose love of shopping and prissy mannerisms lend him an "is he or isn't he?" air. Unfortunately, I was unable to solve the mystery tonight, since our interaction lasted only about a second or so. Still, it was intense.

This all happened at the Eco Chic fashion show at the Natural History Museum, which Andrea graciously invited me to. (Those mag connections are already paying off!) It was a fantastic venue for the show, with a runway set up directly under the giant whale. We wandered with our complimentary glasses of wine and discussed how the stuffed walruses would make wonderful couches (and conversation pieces). THe show itself was also cool. We didn't realize the model squad was made up of celebrities until we watched the little nephew from "Ugly Betty" appear and wave adorably to the crowd. I only recognized one other model--Alek Wek--but apparently Dominique Swain and Lauren Hutton were also there.

I made eye contact with Simon before the show, as we were bee-lining it to the bar. Seeing him made me reflect on the fact that even NYC socialites with reality TV shows are just people, same as any other NYer cruising down the sidewalk. (Of course, this was after I gasped, "Oh my God! It's Simon!!!)

The best part of the show didn't happen until we were leaving. Swag bags, as I now call them, are a consumerist's dream. I cannot let myself get used to this.

Sunday Night's Alright

Saturday was a sweaty day of cutting open boxes and buying cleaning supplies at Duane Reade (the one up here had helpful employees! Duane Reade! Helpful!), so we ended it by drinking pom-tinis and watching the ever-quotable Swingers. On Sunday we had a bit more energy, so we dressed ourselves up and headed downtown.

We started at Beauty Bar, known for its $10 drink/manicure special and the ancient blowdryers lining the wall. The scene was chill but we were content to sip vodka-tonics at the bar until I heard people yelling my full name.

'Twas folks from high school! Folks I hadn't seen in half a decade, longer for Julia! We all stood around and chatted and congratulated ourselves from making it all the way from Wisconsin in one piece. Then we parted ways and headed to Pianos.

I hadn't been there in years and I'd forgotten how much I enjoy it. There were so many attractive people we briefly entertained the idea that it was Gay Night. But it wasn't, and we ended up meeting a host of interesting people, including:

• a Uruguayan children's book illustrator (the last one he illustrated was something like Pete and the Platypus)
  
• a Guy Pierce lookalike who works at Time Inc and kept calling me a "Conde Nast-y"
• two dudes who looked exactly alike and exactly like Ashley Parker Angel (see image, above)
  
• a deadringer for Josh of Sixteen Candles, but with even less personality, if you can believe that.

All in all a lovely evening, followed by a less-than-lovely Labor Day morning. But hey, if the holiday is to commemorate work, what better way to celebrate than to sleep through half of it?

Movin' On Up

Well, hello there!

My name's Andi and I've just started this blog for my sister Julia and me. We both just moved to New York, I from Chicago and she from Philadelphia, to work in publishing, explore Manhattan and get ourselves into all sorts of shenanigans. We're hoping this will motivate us to document our lives (which are currently the stuff of sitcom pilots) while keeping friends and family in the loop.

Let's start by explaining the origin of the blog's title. Julia and I had just put the finishing touches on our glamorous book shelf (pictures TK.) Julia said, "This is even cooler than it was in Philly, and that's saying a lot." I nodded knowingly, hands on my hips, and said, "It's chemistry, man. Individually, we were pretty cool, but together, one plus one is greater than--"

"One plus one equals awesome," Julia interrupted.

And this blog was born.