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.