It is said that those who move to New York require some nerve, some appreciation for bagels and/or panini's, and some blind luck. New York is a city made of people who believe in things - it's the commonality that links everyone from janitors to CEO's together. They're all fighting for something. So, it would follow that in the Blind Luck category, a charmed life - a serendipitous existence, might follow. That is, compared to the old life I once had - trekking a mile in the snow to class, discussing 18th-century British poets, and going to chapter meetings is part of a hazy past - well liked, certainly, in its own capacity, but distant.
These past two weeks have been a bit like that. Last Wednesday, for instance, my friend Linda and I were heading to Chelsea to visit her friend's gallery. It was around six at night, and I was iPhoning the directions. In my peripheral vision, I saw a man in a black pea coat and silver hair walk by. He looked oddly familiar. Turns out, it was Tim Gunn, freshly evanesced from Liz Claiborne. I whisper to Linda: "So, that was Tim Gunn," thinking she would nod, smile, and we would continue our quest for elusive, pretentious Chelsea art.
Not at all the case.
She begins power-walking after Tim, motioning frantically for me to take a picture with said iPhone. We catch up to Tim at the the street crossing, and I snap a picture. Ironically, he was on his merry way to Gristede's, the New York chain of grocery stores, perhaps in search of the perfect non-clothing clothing item to fashion into the next couture gown. To those of you who do not get this reference, please watch Seasons 2 and 5 of "Project Runway," and then we'll talk.
The next involves running into other said fauxlebrities - that is to say, celebrities that think they are more famous than they really are. Case in point, Taylor Momsen (little Jenny Humphrey) of the CW's "Gossip Girl." One Sunday eve, I was waiting for the NRQW in Times Square: Momson had a posse of impossibly gay guys, and a girl who had "never taken the subway before."
"That's so cute!" Momson editorialized. Not that she had to. As a moderate fauxlebrity, is it ever necessary to take the layman's form of transportation? I know times are hard, but she was obviously there only for the Gawker tips.
Enough of that. I must try and occupy my mind with more intellectual pursuits. Time to analyze the existential meanings of reality television.
Quote of the Day: "Where's Andre?"
Friday, January 30, 2009
Friday, January 16, 2009
Blame the Birds
Two-double-oh-nine.
There's no doubt about it - 2008 was a year most people won't be sad to bid farewell to. Oh-eight was like an obnoxious, licentious relative whose pants don't fit, drinks your beer, and scratches unmentionable places. It was the zombie in C-list slasher films that Would. Not. Die. From economic crisis, the Writer's Strike, horrible, senseless wars, and Sarah Palin, 2008 was what we in the news business like to call a "hum-dinger." Men on Wall Street were reduced to quisling infants who suddenly regretted all those Armani suits hanging delicately in their walk-in closets. Retailers realized that red was a fabulous color to wear, not to have in the books. Yet, out of all of this, some good came.
Barack Obama became the President-Elect. Tina Fey became more ubiquitous in American homes than the Rhoomba. And I learned of my love for olives, Swedish rock, and cardigan sweaters.
It's time for a change. I've been in New York for a good four months now, going on five, and it's time for a change. I think it's just like when I first moved here - on a hope and a prayer, trusting in blind luck, raw talent, and whole bouquets of ambition. I was too comfortable in a place that was wonderful, but was unlikely to lead to anything. Alas. It was ripping the Band-Aid off. It was breaking up with the perfect boyfriend that you're not in love with. Insert any other obsequious metaphor, and that's what I did today.
Today, also, the fellow interns and I decided to go out for one last day of celebratory lunch and the necessary cupcakes at Chelsea Market. And, serendipitously, who walks by? None other than Noted Fashion Photographer Nigel Barker. But that's old hat. His studios are only a few blocks away, so I've seen him many a time, toting equipment to-and-fro, or else in Chelsea Market, patiently waiting at Hale and Hearty Soups, presumably for lobster bisque or perhaps a delicious Italian Wedding Soup.
I think New York, more than most other cities (barring LA, of course) takes its' celebrities in stride. Nowhere else will you see Mary Louise Parker running around in Ugg boots and 83 layers of clothes to grab a cappuccino in the Village. Here, the celebrities are not. It just so happens that the industries they work in put them more in the public eye. Except for Katie Holmes. In my book, she has little talent, little appeal, and little reason to be followed by the paparazzi or my very own Page Six. For goodness sakes, she and I grew up an hour away from each other in Nowhere, Ohio. Anyways. My point being, celebrity sightings here are a non-issue.
But, here's to 2009. Here's to a year of prosperity, of hope, and of dilligent change. Here's to a year of long-fought peace, of introspection, of guarded ambition. Here's to a year without much of Katie Holmes.
Quote of the Day: "TYRA MAIL!"
There's no doubt about it - 2008 was a year most people won't be sad to bid farewell to. Oh-eight was like an obnoxious, licentious relative whose pants don't fit, drinks your beer, and scratches unmentionable places. It was the zombie in C-list slasher films that Would. Not. Die. From economic crisis, the Writer's Strike, horrible, senseless wars, and Sarah Palin, 2008 was what we in the news business like to call a "hum-dinger." Men on Wall Street were reduced to quisling infants who suddenly regretted all those Armani suits hanging delicately in their walk-in closets. Retailers realized that red was a fabulous color to wear, not to have in the books. Yet, out of all of this, some good came.
Barack Obama became the President-Elect. Tina Fey became more ubiquitous in American homes than the Rhoomba. And I learned of my love for olives, Swedish rock, and cardigan sweaters.
It's time for a change. I've been in New York for a good four months now, going on five, and it's time for a change. I think it's just like when I first moved here - on a hope and a prayer, trusting in blind luck, raw talent, and whole bouquets of ambition. I was too comfortable in a place that was wonderful, but was unlikely to lead to anything. Alas. It was ripping the Band-Aid off. It was breaking up with the perfect boyfriend that you're not in love with. Insert any other obsequious metaphor, and that's what I did today.
Today, also, the fellow interns and I decided to go out for one last day of celebratory lunch and the necessary cupcakes at Chelsea Market. And, serendipitously, who walks by? None other than Noted Fashion Photographer Nigel Barker. But that's old hat. His studios are only a few blocks away, so I've seen him many a time, toting equipment to-and-fro, or else in Chelsea Market, patiently waiting at Hale and Hearty Soups, presumably for lobster bisque or perhaps a delicious Italian Wedding Soup.
I think New York, more than most other cities (barring LA, of course) takes its' celebrities in stride. Nowhere else will you see Mary Louise Parker running around in Ugg boots and 83 layers of clothes to grab a cappuccino in the Village. Here, the celebrities are not. It just so happens that the industries they work in put them more in the public eye. Except for Katie Holmes. In my book, she has little talent, little appeal, and little reason to be followed by the paparazzi or my very own Page Six. For goodness sakes, she and I grew up an hour away from each other in Nowhere, Ohio. Anyways. My point being, celebrity sightings here are a non-issue.
But, here's to 2009. Here's to a year of prosperity, of hope, and of dilligent change. Here's to a year of long-fought peace, of introspection, of guarded ambition. Here's to a year without much of Katie Holmes.
Quote of the Day: "TYRA MAIL!"
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