Introducing: Stunned in the City

It seemed appropriate that the “Sex and the City” movie was released during the summer that I moved to New York. The comedy about single women taking on life, love, and the pursuit of happiness in the city has long helped spread the allure of the Big Apple. Thus, it was a bit of a disappointment when I thought the movie sucked more than Samantha Jones, aka the particularly “sexually empowered” of the four girlfriends.

The moral of the film: get rich so you can afford to neglect any real responsibility and completely immerse yourself in the personal problems that consume your existence through every possible season (just long enough to view a complete wardrobe, the only saving grace of those two and a half hours). This might not have mattered if the movie had the funny sarcasm and witty repartee of the comedy series, but mostly it was just horribly, indulgently dramatic. However, my opinion seemed to be at odds with every other female that I talked to, who had consumed the motion picture like it was a pint of Ben and Jerry’s after a bad breakup. Someone reported that they cried through nearly the entire thing, another thought it was “just the perfect ending” to the whole series, and another described the unveiling of a certain Louis Vuitton bag as though it had been a religious revival among the entire audience.

After hearing this, I could not help but slip into the signature Sarah Jessica Parker voiceover, though this time it merely echoed my own pondering:

“And I thought, (brief pensive pause) was I the only girl in New York that didn’t like this movie? When it comes to being a young, single female in New York, was there something that I was just fundamentally missing?”

There is something daunting about living here. It demands a kind of survival instinct that I’m unsure I have. It’s like releasing a domesticated lion into the wild: dead meat. If you let a suburban girl wander off into the lipstick jungles of Manhattan, who knows how long she can actually survive?

Ultimately, I found fellow movie haters, including a born and bred Manhattanite who assured me that she knew plenty that had loathed the film. However, I was no longer concerned with the movie, but rather with the personal questions the movie had prompted. I still can’t help but wonder, as I sit here on my bed, typing away on my Apple laptop a la Carrie Bradshaw, was I just another dime a dozen Carrie wannabes? And being like every other girl out there, well, that’s not going to get me very far. So how exactly am I going to make it here? And when will I be able to ask myself these deep, life-laden questions in my own voice instead of constantly hearing Sarah Jessica Parker articulate my anxieties.

Chronicles of a New York Sunday

Since my Saturday night consisted of me alone on my couch watching Freddie Prince Junior’s tween masterpiece “She’s All That,” I decided that it would be a good idea for my mental health to have a social rather than lazy Sunday. I got a lot more than I signed up for complete with douchebag behavior and celebrity sightings.

SUNDAY

8:29 a.m. – I jolt up from restless sleep in panic and reach for my cell phone to see how badly I’ve overslept. Despite the fact that my cell phone alarm has never not functioned, I’m still certain it’s “out to get me” and will one day not ring as programmed. I even set two alarms, yet remain convinced there’s an oversleeping conspiracy afoot. I always wake-up envisioning everyone busily typing away at work at twelve noon, pausing only to glare at my desk which is empty because I never got my ass out of bed. My boss is in the corner destroying my contract with one of those industrial shredders and everyone’s mumbling to themselves what train wreck of a disorganized human being I am.

I heave a sigh of relief when I see that it is in fact only eight thirty and that I can be at work at nine if I skip breakfast and a sense of fashion. After several quick moments of looking around my room, I realize that it’s Sunday goddamnit and I should still be sleeping.

I try and fail.

10:00 a.m. – I meet my freshman roommate Shreeve for brunch at Bubby’s on Hudson and North Moore Street. If you want real New York brunch Bubby’s is the place to be. Where else in New York can you get Bubby’s Breakfast which gives you half eggs half pancakes, sparing you the awful decision of whether to go for griddled goodies or a yummy egg scramble? Tea or coffee is included and they serve the most delightful complimentary scones and jam that make you feel like your back eating on grandma’s back porch swing.

Shreeve then tells me she was drugged – that’s right, drugged, when out Friday night at that place two fifty something Fifth Avenue (the only decent outdoor bar space in New York with the tacky seventies style indoor club a level down…Why they can’t give it a name instead of just an address is irritating and beyond my comprehension.) This is an upscalish place last time I checked (which granted was a year ago) yet apparently this Friday the establishment experienced a drugging epidemic. A male friend in Shreeve’s group blacked out and threw up repeatedly for ten hours as well. Other friends from the group said the bouncers were actually extremely helpful and accommodating carrying those drugged out of the club and into cabs (usually they boot-kick your ass into the street if you as much drool), which made it clear that many people must have fallen sick on this particular evening. What is the world coming to? And why would someone drug Shreeve who’s clearly with her boyfriend and a group of friends? Is this just some sick-o’s idea of a practical joke or are date rapists really this stupid? Plus, how do you manage to date rape someone when you’ve drugged them to the point that projectile vomiting in your face? This I’ve never understood.

Next Shreeve tells me she quit her job as a cocktail waitress at a trendy downtown establishment when the manager announced that all female employees had to wear bikini tops to work from Memorial Day weekend onward. I think this is a text book definition of sexual harassment. Of course the male employees didn’t have to strip down for summer. This is a local bar, not Ten’s gentleman’s club for Christ’s sake. Shreeve then pointed out to the manager that a woman had punched her in the face (no joke) a few days prior when Shreeve politely asked her to take her cigarette outside. The club’s security guard missed the entire incident; probably because he was too busy chatting up the hottie in the corner. Shreeve asked how she was expected to not be physically mangled (not to mention repeatedly grabbed) strutting around the rowdy place with her breasts hanging out of a spandex bikini top. The establishment’s management actually gave Shreeve shit about wearing her all black uniform to work to the point where she just had to flip them off and quit.

I applaud Shreeve for not giving into this ridiculous Neanderthal bar owner (the other female employees complied) and am happy to report that she has found new employment at a less tasteless establishment.

12:10 p.m. – I meet up with a colleague at a nearby coffee shop to discuss work stuff which quickly turns into us passing half of the afternoon in his computer’s photoshop looking at pictures from his trip to Berlin and Stockholm. The art and immense history sound astounding and I am now eager to plan a trip.

3:45 p.m. – After cleaning myself up, I attend a “models brunch” with my friend Safari at the SoHo grand. The only thing that really makes a models brunch different from normal brunch is that the guys all have long greasy hair and the girls don’t wear bras and we’re the only ones in the place since they’re making the event so “exclusive” that it’s actually empty. Gotta love New York.

5:17 p.m. – After two champagne cocktails and several mimosas the models brunch is becoming thoroughly more enjoyable. Safari and I entertain ourselves people watching with her ex, who was kind enough to buy us lunch. Complimentary watermelon and cherries are served (by far the highlight of the afternoon) and the DJ pulls through with interesting remixes of good songs. Had there been some sun to bask in we would’ve been in heaven.

6:08 p.m. – It’s been threatening to rain all day so Safari and I decide to check out the Thompson Hotel roof party before it downpours. Neither of us had been to the infamous Thompson roof, fabled to be accessible to hotel guests and a ring of ten new york city members. Luckily I’d RSVPed to someone’s party we knew of but doubted we’d recognize. We teetered up to the roof more than slightly intoxicated and decided to drink more. Not surprisingly, the Thompson roof deck was nothing out of the ordinary and I personally prefer the view from my apartment building’s terrace.

8:35 p.m. – Safari and I head back to my place to drink on my roof. We stop at the Chinese deli on the way to buy several bottles of wine. In the end, we end up drinking some chilled champagne I had stashed away at the bottom of my fridge. Thank God I’m a genius.

9:16 p.m. - My wonderful roommates Tatas who’s been in Africa for the past month finally returns home. We do a power catch up, load into her car, and drive to the Ed Hardy runway show uptown.

10:10 p.m. – I’m officially drunk and while we’re loving the show’s open bar we’re disappointed with the crowd / the fact that the show won’t actually happen until midnight or later. Since I want to have an early night, I illogically decide we should go to Cipriani’s since Sunday night karaoke there starts around eleven. I’m meanwhile forgetting that while the parties at Cipriani’s tend to start earlier the establishment itself is like a black hole in which you literally lose hours of your life without realizing it. We pile into Tatas car and she maneuvers us to West Broadway and Broom where we park right on the street and skip inside.

12:01 a.m. – I’m now officially shit-faced and singing/shrieking karaoke to Fergie’s Glamorous and that stupid song about the “umbrella” with a bunch of coked out models from brunch. Safari and I keep saying will leave “right after this song,” but how can we resist singing to classics like the James Bond theme Golden Eye, Wonder Wall, Brown Eyed Girl, and I’ve Gotta Woman in a slurred drunken stupor? Guiseppe Cipriani himself is in the house with perhaps my favorite model of all time, Armani’s it-girl Mila Jovovich in his arms. It warms my heart that Mila in person is actually not that extraordinary – although I give her major kudos for letting loose and blasting her own rendition of a Kayne West song into the mike.

1:10 a.m. – Cipriani’s tends to recycle their patrons, so if you stoop as low as to go there on even a pseudo-regular basis you’re bound to run into ten people you know. This was certainly this case this evening. Everyone from brunch as well as the majority of Italians I know in the city were there, so in the spirit of the night I also eagerly greeted an extremely attractive actor from Jersey my friend Twiggy had been dancing with at Cipriani’s on a Tuesday weeks prior. It’s impossible to actually hear or talk to people, but about half an hour after our first conversation he repasses, and noticing that for the first time all night I’m empty handed, invites to his table in the back for a drink. We make it back toward the fireplace where it’s slightly calmer and pass Kevin Connolly who plays Eric Murphy on HBO’s Entourage on the way. Finally able to communicate, I learn the man I’m in the company of is actually NOT my friend Twiggy’s actor acquaintance from Jersey but his identical twin separated at birth: a sexy Argentinean guy chilling with his Brazilian and French friends. They’re all quite nice, and after we get rid of this extremely pesky girl who keeps asking each one of us every five seconds if we have blow, we effectively play the “do you know xxx” game and find we have some common friends.

2:45 a.m. – The good news is that I’m still drinking and the happiest I’ve been in weeks. The bad news is that it’s almost three a.m. and Monday morning.

3:42 a.m. – The Argentinean, Brazilians, Frenchie and I decide it’s time to leave the vortex since everyone has an early morning the next day. Since I’m retarded, I gather the courage to talk to Kevin Connelly on the way out. I say something about how I’m a fan of the show and how I find his character the most compelling and complex before I stumble out onto the street. P.S. However short Kevin Connelly looks on the show, he’s that much shorter in real life. He reminded me of a good luck Irish leprechaun. God knows I need one.

4:20 a.m. – For some reason it seemed like a good idea NOT to go to bed right away but instead to randomly accomplish mundane household tasks in my apartment while being too drunk to properly walk. Then I decide to play on the internet.

6:31 a.m. – Since I was too drunk to remember to put my phone on silent when finally getting in my bed, a text message from Europe (where it’s already afternoon) wakes me up from my slumber. I’m too intoxicated to go back to sleep and roll around in my bed trying to lull my brain into unconsciousness until my alarm successfully goes off at 8:20 with me still awake.

If my blood-alcohol content were to be tested right now I think there’s a large possibility I might still actually drunk. If there are extra typos in this entry, that’s why. I apologize.

The overarching lesson: Going out on Saturday might have been a better idea.

Everybody Loves Entourage

Everybody loves Entourage, so forgive me while I take a moment to trash it…

Am I the only human on the planet thinking this show is running out of steam? Is it just because I’ve seen every episode? For how long can a show about relatively shallow people with no problems be compelling? It’s season three and they’re still punching the same jokes. None of the characters have become smarter or evolved emotionally in any way, becoming cartoon-like in scope (couldn’t Turtle and Drama actually score ass, just once? Or actually embark on a “relationship,” even if just to lead us on?) I get that this is a comedy, but I don’t think asking for complex characters is that out of line. This is HBO after all (the folks that brought us Six Feet Under, Deadwood and The Sopranos) and I feel like I’m watching a glamorized Hollywood version of Sponge Bob Square Pants. Entourage’s glitter of maseratis and plastic breasts can only hold my attention for so many seasons. The emotional height of last episode was a case of blue balls and whether Eric should embark on a ridiculously expensive Nappa vacation with or without Vince. If that’s a TV character’s biggest problem in life I think they should be stoned…or maybe just in a car accident. And if Vince is really Eric’s best friend shouldn’t he be able to say “yo, I need forty eight hours alone to bang my girlfriend,” without us having to see an entire episode about it?

OK. Now that I got that out of my system, I'll be tuning in tonight ...