Walking to Watch the Debate... new trendy trainers and iPod cord plainly visible for coolness factor 

What's with the Christmas lights? It's only September 30th! They're pretty, but seriously! 

Bling 

Off to the Airport For a Trip to Yesteryear

I'm fuming over not having tickets to see Keane play tonight at Irving Plaza. I was really looking forward to seeing how a band can rock that hard without a guitarist (they're simply drums, bass, and keyboards - honestly).

But then an editor friend of mine (the one with the bling in the pic above) comes through with an invite to go to an art opening (http://www.terminalfive.com/) at the old TWA Terminal 5 at JFK, a marvel of architecture that may be most familiar to you all from the serviceable Spielberg by-the-numbers flick "Catch MeIf You Can."

It wasn't quite a "raging" party, but it was black tie, and I'm a sucker to show off my brand new slim-cut Louis Vuitton suit. Since the locale is decidely 1960s, I chose a white and navy blue tie with an appropriate 60s motif. I look like a surfer gangster with impeccable taste.

The art was a mixed bag, the stand-outs where the massive LEGO prints by 'Generation x' author/playright cum artist Douglas Coupland, and a mysterious photography booth that took four black and white pictures from a surprising angle in the top left corner of the booth, where I have a brief, mildly inebriated chat with Casey Johnson, J&J heir and director of the docu "Born Rich."

Whatever I may think of his documentary (fascinating subject, so-so filmmaking), I can't argue with the awesome beauty of his redhead girlfriend.

As I swig Grey Goose and white cranberry drinks, I nearly run into GW and Laura Bush, and Kerry, or at least quite convincing impersonators. They're there to take part in an installation playing on tomorrow's debates.

The party begins to die down, and we leave in a town car, alas, without goody bags (the bright orange towels they offered after they ran out were a poor substitute).

We drive back to the city, straight to Union Square to meet a few friends at Belmont Lounge. The doorman actually addresses me as "Sir" as I walk in without a hint of sarcasm in his voice. Amazing what a well-tailored suit can do for you.

I am knackered. One last drink, a few more photos, a bit more chat, and I share a taxi home with a girl, again snogging my way uptown.

Partying in a bygone era 

The Great Deluge

Manhattan is flooding. Those damn Floridians are sending us their weather... curses!

I leave the office and battle the elements just so I can get to my therapist... I mean hairdresser, Heidi at Whistle. It takes a lot to keep this hair just the right kind of messy.

I soak only half my clothes between Whistle and the taxi, and head uptown. I ensconce myself in my flat and concentrate on writing and upscale Chinese delivery (dumplings included).

You may notice I don't mention how fabulous the haircut looks. That's because I'm modest.

I'm going to London and Antibe on Friday. I have meetings already planned, plus seeing best, old friends, and dear family... but all I can think about are the different girls I need to align to make the most of the trip.

A friend tells me tomorrow she's "wearing her black pants," which apparently means she'll be ready to go out, big time. Now you know.

Monday Night In The City 

"Developing" Issue Settled

As far as Wanderlust goes, anything goes. By keeping everybody's names on this site thinly, lazily disguised, I will keep and maintain the right to be completely frank in all instances, even when (especially when) it may make me seem ridiculous.

There you have it.

WL

How to Spend All Your Sunday in the UES (and still have fun)

What a gorgeous day. I spend most of it writing, eating dim sum, writing, wondering if my friend who did a triathalon today was eaten by sharks during the swimming portion, writing, reading in Central Park, writing, reading on the benches facing the East River near Gracie Mansion (see photo below)... then I realize that a day full of contemplative study and relaxation makes for a boring entry, so I start drinking.

I meet a young woman for what I correctly assume is a date at the Cafe Sabarsky, within the Neue Galerie on 86th and Fifth. Sabarsky is perfect for when you want to feel like a distinguished old Viennese woman (a not altogether unpleasant feeling), plus they have excellent cakes (which my friend bakes at an Austrian restaurant in the Meatpacking District). But my sweet tooth isn't coming out to play, so I immediaetly order an oversized (and over-priced) glass of red wine.

Now I won't get into the details of the date with K (not her complete name), suffice it to say I had a lovely evening. But the reason I mention the date at all is because the issue of honest creative expression was raised. Not by her, and not directly, mind you, but defnitely raised.

To explain, I reconnected with K through the Wanderlust blog itself, when she emailed me after reading it... So, knowing that she reads it, can I be as frank and direct when writing about last night as I might usually be? Hmmm. Stay tuned, folks, stay tuned. This one is, as they say in the news biz, "developing."

Relaxing by the River 

Looking Down on the Dakota 

Saturday Night's All Right (barely)

Weekends recently have been anti-climactic. One is too tired from the week, there are no real "event" parties, everybody's out of town, there's too much build-up, pressure, and too many damn b & t chancers. I swear, if loathing our New Jersey and Long Island invaders makes me a snob, then I accept that mantle with pride (besides, there are plenty of other reasons to call me a snob).

I begin the evening at my friend's apartment on the Upper West Side. His parents spend most of their time on the West coast, leaving their gorgeous flat on the southwest corner of 72nd empty for us to throw frequent dinner parties. This night was particularly lovely, as we ate dinner outside, consuming bottle after bottle of wine on their terrace, looking down on the Dakota.

It was also particularly amusing becuase a friend at the dinner gave me a promo advance of his new CD (review and details later in the week), and I realized the inside artist's portrait was shot by a photgrapher I dated/shagged briefly five years ago... small world.

The rest of the evening was spent running around the city, catching up with old friends, hitting birthday parties, Circa Tabac, Puck Fair, Scratcher... all smelly, crowded, all becoming a blur after the alcohol cosumption was thrown off-kilter by a whiskey shot at 330am.

Weekend nights, who needs 'em? Save them for snuggling with a girlfriend and give me a weekday for raging anytime.

Running into the Devil

...maybe not exactly Beezlebub himself, but this guy. The much beleaguered, much feared leader of Disney, Michael Eisner, dressed in sweats and a baseball cap, looking like any other dorky tourist. Almost regretted stopping myself from knocking into him, but was afraid I might have disintegrated upon contact with his dark unholiness.

Watching Zombies

Had three beers at the office over a meting, then hit the gym for thirty minutes. Not the most healthy routine, I grant you, but it's Friday evening, and time is precious.

A couple friends and I go to see Shaun Of The Dead, which turns out to be one of the most entertaining pictures of the year. I will not ruin any of its delights by quoting the jokes or divulging plot twists... just go see it.

After an arduous week, my friends and I finish off Friday lightly, stopping by Puck Fair for a toastie and a couple drinks, then the Scratcher for a few more to meet up with a friend who is fasting for Yom Kippur. The Scratcher is inexplicably full of people smoking, mocking the ban.

I sit next to a beautiful girl, who, sadly enough for me, is sitting right next to a guy who seems to be her boyfriend. What a wanker (Him or me?).

Between two of my friends who are knackered, and the one fasting who took a redeye from LA that morning, we feel like characters out of the earlier film, so we call it a night.

Spiewak Party, Serena, Sauntering Home

Leaving work, hitting the Dumpling Man in the East Village. Now there's nothing I like more than a good dumpling, but this place is way overrated. Thin covering, but just not that tasty, give me Evergreen's dim sum anytime. Very polite and good service, however, from the dumpling man himself.

A pair of girl friends and I, both named Lara, jump in a cab and head to the Spiewak anniversary party at Lansky's in the Lower East Side. We drive up to see a line that wraps around the block. One of the Lara's, sowing no fear, walks right up to the front like she owns the place. We give our names, and we're in. Not that exciting once we are there, though, except for the free drinks.

So we're gone from there and hit Serena's for a friend of a friend's bday party. It's getting late, and the two Lara's start to call it a night. They both say their goodbyes, but on her way out, Lara 2 (the one I've hooked up with) gets hit on, and she comes back in to chat with this guy, with nary an acknowledgement of my presence. Classy.

This photographer snapped my picture, so I shot him

Punters enjoying free drinks at the Spiewak party 

Waiting uptown... 

Agency Drinking

It's Advertising Week in NYC. Didn't you know? Could you care less? It's funny how few people knew about it, even among those who work for agencies. One would think that the industry that is about selling things would do a better job promoting the event...

But Advertising Week did provide me with more access to free drink. I went on an Agency Bar Crawl last night, where three shops opened their offices and provided booze and snacks: BBH, Kirshenbaum, and Saatchi. Two quick thoughts...

1) Even though the advertising industry is overwhelmingy comprised of women, there was a serious dearth of attractive girls at all three parties. That's just not right.

2) The lamer the agency, the more alcohol they try to ply you with. While Kirshenbaum had all but ran out of booze by the time we got there, Saatchi had a full bar for quite a while. And chex mix. And crisps. And toy mobile phones filled with tiny chiclets. And that's fantastic.

All this resulted in me being quite drunk by 10pm. Shameful. But kinda fun. So I pop my head in a couple of other parties where the open bar had just ended (how convenient) and decided to head for parts uptown, making a booty call on the way up.

Somebody has to come up with a better term for 'booty call'. It gives the impression of the action, sure, but it just sounds so... I don't know, maybe I'm just not an arse man.

Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum (but brilliant friends, hoenstly) jumping from agency to agency

Night Off From Going Out...

...But Not From Smart-Alec Observations.

I'm reading a script for notes, enjoying a massive coffee drowned in half & half at my local coffee shop, DTUT, never surprised to see so many people with their laptops flipped open, their faces aglow with the screens' light. I sometimes feel intimidated that they are all working on the great American Novel, or the Great American Screenplay... but this is the Upper East Side, so they are more than likely hard at work on their law school papers or medical school tutorials. God, these people are dull. They aren't even consuming alcohol!

I see a pair of guys playing chess (perfect setting: crowded place, people buzzing, music on the speakers) and fight the urge to knock over their board.

Today a colleague said, "Look how small my teeth are!" before showing me these tiny, clear rubber mouthguards, perfectly sized and molded to fit her mouth. "They're to hold the whitener," she explained, and were, indeed, miniscule. She's a lovely girl, but seriously, wtf? Who shows other people their mouthguards?

I must apologize for not going out this evening, but staying in one day a week will give me the rest I need to stay alive and bring you lots of fun (hopefully), manic (definitely), and probably ill-advised (certainly) adventures in the coming days...

WL

On My Way Home? 

Running Into Batman

The IFP bash doubled as the afterparty for a the NY premiere of The Machinist, and the film's star, Christian Bale held court in the VIP section.

My friend Boris (Russian by way of Minnesota, perhaps?) scores a pair of red VIP bracelets from an unsuspecting but accomodating publicist, and we're in.

When I say, "hold court" I mean the star of Empire of the Sun and American Psycho was in the VIP section, quite laid-back and approachable. So, the geek in me had to meet the Man Who Will Be Batman, and the producer in me had to ask him about a project I had my casting director send him last year.

Bale comes across dark, intense, but nice enough. We chatted about Batman for a few, then he mentioned he had in fact not read the project in question, that I should resend it. He is a big fan of the project's author, so more could develop there...

After the bash, I head over to Park Bar to meet a couple of friends who have just come down from the unfortunate Yankees game. As we share a few beers, the girl in the picture below runs her fingers on my thigh under the bar. My eyebrows arch, and I wonder whether this was an accidental slip of the hand... then she squeezes my hand. We share a cab uptown, a quick snog before bedtime.

Ahh, Mondays.

The fifth major food group 

Out on a Monday

So I suppose the answer to the below is:
Yes
Perhaps
Maybe
Good snack and free liquor at the IFP Market launch Crobar party. But an open bar does not a good party make. Oh, who am I kidding, alcohol makes everything funner.

An observation about NYC film parties: they're just like LA film parties, except with more dark clothes and less attractive people. Plus, only a handful of the guests actually are involved in making features. At least they know who Truffaut is, right? Right?

Riding Down on the C

A gaggle of ten kids were staging an impromptu sing-a-long of pop standards such as Billy Joel's "Uptown Girl." MidWestern tourists, or musical theater students? I couldn't be sure, but either way, my realxing ride downtown and good taste in general suffered.

Then, a would-be latino rapper was ryhming outloud in Spanish. His lyrics were innocuous to most everyone on the train, simply becuase they were in a foreign language. But I, regretfully, am fluent in Spanish, so when he rapped "So el rey, te como el culo," at a middle-aged WASP across the way, I couldn't help but cringe.

Going Out On a Monday?

Question: should I shouldn't I go out on a Monday?
2nd Question: can a dull film festival (IFP Market) throw a good party?
3rd Question: can a lame/never-was venue (Crobar) throw a good party?

I might (will) answer all of these questions and more, tonight!

OhMyGod! Brittany got married...

...and I don't care. Seriously. Does anyone care anymore?

A Gorgeous Day and I Buy a Pillow

Isn't that the most exciting headline you've ever read?

Clear, sunny, but freezing day in the city today, nothing to do but walk around. Go shopping with the Henrys, a pair of my married couple friends, who I originally met through my ex-girlfriend.

Wandering through the West Village, I momentarily hold back as I see another ex, the model Xtina, walk by a few feet in front, obliviously chatting on her phone. I don't understand my hesitation, but I haven't seen the girl in nine months, and I don't think the first encounter would best be handled in front of friends, especially considering how my last encounter with an ex went (see below, last Thursday).

How bloody small is this city?

The three of us grab dim sum, stroll shops, I try not to ask them about the ex they know (I really want to know/I really don't want to know/argh), we enjoy Argentine ice cream, and somehow I buy my first pillow. I don't know how it happened, we were in a shop, they were having a sale, and I saw this pale blue pillow that I suddenly, absolutely had to have. Hm. When does the time come in a grown straight man's life that he buys his first pillow? Today.

How to Have Fun at Pool and Not Get Beaten Up

After the film, a few friends and I meet up to continue celebrating Laird's birthday... I am signing up for the pool table at Bar 119, when a sexy, but ultimately generic TallThinBlonde girl keeps looking over at me and smiling. Too All-American, catalog/mall pretty for my taste, which is just as well, because her big, beefy boyfriend comes back from the bathroom/smoking a cigarette/moussing up his hair and probably could have smoted me had it got down to it.

Instead me and my good friend Jason play a round of pool and play well (actually, Jason plays well, I just have a good time) before ultimately losing. I look over at the blond, and see she's looking straight at me, even though she's sitting on her NJ muscle guy's lap.

We spend the rest of the night feeding shots to our friend, who's teaching her first day of Sunday School the next morning. Can you still go to hell if you don't believe in it?

Sky Captain and the World of Other Movies

Pretty to look at, both the astonishing visuals and the two most gorgeous leading actors around (my hetero man-crush on Jude is well under control, thanks). But the plot borrows from way to many other films:

Comic relief overweight Arab sidekick straight out of Raiders? check.
Ship chase through narrow passageways straight of Jedi? check.
Rich evil genius with plot to wipe out mankind and start civilization from scratch by rocketing off earth just like in Moonraker? check.

And the dialogue could've used a polish. Seriously. In a scene where a plane dives under the sea:

Polly Perkins (Gwynnie): We're underwater.

No shit.

Entertaining, but mostly only worth watching on the big screen for the efx.

Achingly Hip LES Birthday Brunch

My friend Laird's birthday today... he likes to keep it low-key, so five of us head down to the Clinton St Bakery for some good eatin'. The wait is longer than exected on this dreary day, but the food is scrumptuous.

After the main course of truffle fried eggs (must I always choose the most esoteric item on the menu?), the waitress brings over a choclate cake a la mode with a lit candle for the birthday boy. The four of us begin an impromtu 'Happy Birthday' sing-a-long, and this being the Lower East Side, everybody else is too hip, too cool, to jejeune, to join in.

Assembling For Laird's bday brunch

Woken Up By the End of the World

The remants of a hurricane woke me up this morning, blasting thunder through the apartment, shaking the walls enough that, in my half-slumber, gave me thoughts of Krytpon blowing up. I thought, ever so briefly, if the planet could rip apart. And if so, how quickly would we be put out our collective misery? A lovely thought to start a Saturday morning.

Galleries, Dinner, and Karoeke

Taunt the weather without an umbrella, ignoring signs of the upcoming storm/hurricane/apocalypse.

Meet up with an interesting girl, on what could be a date, though it's just the second time we've hung out, so it's anybodies guess (is it worth giving her an alias yet, when her status is undefined?). Went to a couple galleries together, starting with Wim Wenders at James Cohan... a talented though uneven director takes gorgeous pictures. Who knew? Well, I did, considering I love his photography waaaaaaaay more than his films (though I confess I have seen only a few), and have his brilliant book "Once", which includes his pictures of the American SouthWest.

Catch the exhibit while it's up; especially spend a few minutes standing in front of the desert vista (you'll know the one I mean). It's worth it.

Then I get dinner with the Girl. She's very cute and full of interesting chat. Potential there. But she is tired. Maybe it's that she works for a magazine and feeling the fallout of fashion week, or maybe I'm not as witty as I think.

We say goodnight and I feel tired from a week of work/music/work/debauchery and am about to head home myself, when a call to a friend lands me at Winnie's, a karoeke bar in Chinatown, to celebrate a gay friend of a friend's birthday. Now one thing I can say for my gay friends, they (and the fag hag musical theater women who love them) know how to sing much better than the straights in the bar.

But maybe (just maybe) it's just that the straight people at Winnie's suck ass. After a particular guy's wretched renditions make me want to break my bottle of tsing tao over the table and slice my own throat, I slip the song wench a bribe of three whole dollars and jump to the front of the queue. It's time to show everyone that a straight man can sing.

So I step up, but just in case (I'm still pretty sober), I get my own gay men's chorus (including the ringer, the birthday boy, who can really carry a tune). But there's no real need, for I belt out "Sweet Home Alabama" like I'm straight out of Mobile. For a few moments, I owned that tune.

Having come what I set out to do, I hug everyone and leave. "Good night, New York!"

Sweet Home Alabama 

Launch

It's my first posting, and I'm already too hungover to write. This site was initially going to be called www.whatWLdidlastnight.com
set up mainly to document the many myriad misadventures through the nighttime of New York city and my varied travels worldwide...but I realized that sometimes I have daytime adventures too. So there you have it.

So this is what I would call a "soft launch" (the only thing soft about me -- and no, I mean personality-wise, get your heads out of the collective gutter!). What I mean is that this entry will be relatively short, and lack some of the brutal honesty and depraved ramblings you will come to know and love. I need to ease into this, breaking it in slowly as I get used to the world.

Last night...

Saw my good buddy DJ Knob Touch spin at new venue Second on Second. Virtually dead except for my friend's girl and a few others, and the appearance of a couple of old college friends for the obligatory yearly encounter that went a little like this:

Me: What are you up to these days?
Them: Well, I'm editing a little here and there, making a living.
Me: That's great.
Them: Yeah, I'm happy.
Me: ...
Them: ...
(much head nodding and uncomfortable silence as we both realize we have little in common, the main reason we don't really hang out more than once a year. Do I hear crickets?)

So I extricate myself from the conversation and just concentrate on chatting to my friend's girlfriend (again, NOT in the way you're thinking, she is a nice girl and we were just talking about the publishing industry), and concentrate on DJ Knob Touch's brilliant set of indie/hiphop/electronica greats.

I down the second Kirin, and I'm off to grab a couple of friends and head to The Thrills show at Irving. After an unfortunate encounter with an ex-girl (I just wanted us to be civil, but I don't think she saw it that way), we're at the show, minutes before the band come onstage.

I had low-ish hopes for The Thrills... I like their music but a friend had told me they sucked live. But she had seen them at Coachella in 106-degree heat in a crowded, stifling tent, so who knows... but I just picked up their CD the day before so I was pretty excited.

I needn't have worried, becuase they were very, very fun. Not mind blowing, but cool. Reveiw to come, with blurry, almost non-descript pictures. Promise.

Welcome to Wanderlust.

The Thrills perform a thrilling show @ Irving. C'mon, gimme a break, the repetition is so lame it shoots right around and becomes fresh! Right?

Snow Patrol @ Irving. Marketed as another pretender to the Coldplay throne, but should really be appreciated for their own sound. Songs to be adored: 'Chocolate' (off Final Straw) and 'Make Love to Me Forever' (off When It's All Over We Still Have To Clear Up).

The Donnas play their release party @ Rothkos. The squiggly lines are supposed to be there. Really. They're artistic. Honestly.

Baby Phat show at Fashion Week NYC fall 2004. Two girls fell badly and at least two girls had their tits slip out of the dress. Result.

Storm King sculpture garden. Doesn't it remind you of Six Feet Under?