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!