After After the Sunset

Not the most witty of headlines, I agree, but too good to pass up. Went to the premiere and afterparty for the Brett Ratner Hackathon After the Sunset. I liked the film the first time, when it was called The Thomas Crown Affair. Actually, that film was heaps better. When you notice that Salma Hayek starts to take off her clothes seductively one too many times in the film that it becomes a tired "character trait", you know something's wrong.

The afterparty was at the Dizzy Jazz Center in "the most glamorous mall outside of Dubai", the Time Warner Center on Columbus Circle.

The party was full of free drinks, exotic Bahamian food, your typical slew of celebrities (Salma, Pierce, Woody Harrelson, Jeremy Piven, and the ubitquitous Russel Simmons), even a carnival-type procession of musicians and dancers in floral garb. But when I catch supermodel Karolina Kurkova poured over her blackberry in the middle of the revelry, emailing like a madwoman, I wonder how "cool" this whole thing is... I mean, how dull must a party be to drive a model to write?

The Week Ahead

Tonight I stay home, to finish my new film treatment for a romantic comedy I'm writing, and to get some rest to tackle the week ahead. I felt feverish at the office today, and if I'm to enjoy myself at all and be productive in the coming days, a night of relaxation is in order.

I that model I met over the weekend. I thought that knowing she snogged another guy might take some of the edge off, but i was nervous as hell, chest beating fast and sweat forming on the brow (though those could all be symptoms of my feverish state), I was almost relieved when it went to the sweet, safety of her voicemail. I did my best to leave a message that didn't make me out to be a tool. We'll see.

Then upon leaving the office, the strangest thing happened. While walking through Soho, I nearly walked right into a tall, reddish blond model who I was almost sure was the girl I'd left a message for less than two hours ago! Maybe I just had her on the brain, but a flicker of eye contact and I didn't slow down, because:

a) I had just left the message a couple of hours before. It was an uncanny coincidence (okay, a model in Soho isn't that bizarre, but still), and might be construed as weird.

b) I wasn't absolutely positive it was her. Last time I'd seen her, I was quite out of it. I was too chicken, for want of a more dignified term, to stop this woman in the street, risking embarrassment if it wasn't her.

So I made it home and wrote while I caught up on Tivo'd episodes of Subterranean, the best music video show in the US. As I finished the treatment to my new RomCom, I ponder what it will take to turn these eleven pages into a full-length feature: how many more scenes, how many more jokes... can I step up and be that funny?

A few hours later, and no call back. Hm. As I said above, we'll see.

A Note on the Guy Code and a Question

An update on last night's craziness. Apparently while I disappeared for half an hour in the bathroom line, the interesting model-looking Canadian girl was seen snogging another guy, possibly Mark, my friend's friend who I might have thought was my mate too. Which raises two questions:

1) If he was the snogger in question, is Mark guilty of breaking the Guy Code? I was definitely talking to her first, though I got the inkling that they might have met before. He was at the very least trying to get with her...

2) If it was her (and three of my friends believe it was), should I write this girl off as a slag/slut and not call her?

Answers Below...

1) No. If he was a close friend of mine and/or I had a real history with this girl, he should have stayed away. But neither of these was the case, so it's every man for himself.

2) Yes. The girl only met me that night, she doesn't owe me anything. If we were out on a date and she kissed someone else, that would be a different story. And she stayed with me way after Mark (or whoever it was) left, and we shared a cab home. Ultimately it's so difficult to meet anyone with even a hint of potential. Not that it's an excuse, but we were all a little drunk.

What do you think? Am I deluding myself more than usual?

In a way, it might be a good thing. I really liked this girl, and was getting a little caught up in the idea of her, making me a little nervous, which could potentially mess up Next Steps. But this little reality check put a spanner in the works which might allow me to Calm The fuck Down and move forward with a little more caution, patience, and, dare I say it... cool.

But either way, Mark is going down. I've already competed with him over another girl. I came out ahead on that one, but quickly lost interest in her. The chase, as they say, is on.

Sabado Gigante

Yesterday was quite mad.

Spent the afternoon trolling thrift stores and Ricky's in search of Halloween costume necessities with friends. Got the key burgundy blazer that will be part of my Ron Burgundy costume. I already bought the mustache earlier in the week. Four of my friends and I will be the Action News Team from Anchorman, one of the most unashamedly funny films of the year.

The late afternoon, early evening was spent with my friend Mack going from art opening to art opening in Chelsea, enjoying free-flowing white wine at each. By the time we got dinner at eight thirty, I'd had five glasses. A great way to start the evening.

Then off to my friend's flat that overlooks the Dakota (see pictures in past posts) for their dog's birthday party. Seriously. I guess I'll take any excuse to drink in mixed company.

A fortuitous invitation later and three of us pile into a car and head to an apartment party downtown, just north of TriBeCa on Canal and Greenwich. My friend's Australian friend was having quite the soiree.

Vast quantities of alcohol later, and it got way too late to meet up with two other girls I was supposed to see. One of them was spending her last night in the city before going back South, and I was really sorry to not meet up with her, not least of which because her name was Kitty. Really.

The definite upside to the night wasn't just the alcohol and illegal substances (for someone who hasn't dabbled in while, I've had a dash each of the last three weekends. Hm. Should I be worried yet?), but the model-like charming girl I spent the better part of three hours chatting with. She was quite interesting, despite being Canadian, and had a great manner about her. quite interesting, but it's way too early to give her an alias here.

I wasn't very happy with Mark, the friend of my friend, who tried to insinuate himself into my conversation with the girl constantly. I was too drunk to get if they knew each other from before, but he was definitely trying to pick her up, and he was surely attempting to cock-block me. I wasn't sure which one of us (if either) she was going to go for, but I got her number and shared a cab home with her... so we'll see.

The only downside to the evening were my tan corduroys. They were dealt a little punishment from red wine, both mine and others'. Despite my dropping them off at the cleaners today, they might not live to see another party.

Back in Action

Now I haven't been updating the blog as much as I'd like, and there are two reasons for this: I've been mad crazy busy, and actually kind of pensive. I've been thinking way too much about a smattering of "important" things such as life, love, work, moving... all the bollocks that was keeping me away from my superficial web entries. I have to do something about that.

But mostly it's jsut that I've been busy. Really. I promise. Seriously.

So anyways, apologies.

Last Night (Sat)

Planned to go see the band TV on The Radio, who were opening up for the Faint at Webster Hall as part of the CMJ Music Festival. Through some moronic time-wasting, we manage to miss the opening band altogether, but at least the Faint offer an original performance. I like going to shows of bands I've never heard, only to be pleasantly surprised. But truth be told, unless I'm a massive fan of a band, I find it difficult to stay gripped for an hour plus of indie music, and before long I'm staring around the venue... i notice two things:

1) Indie rock women are, for the most part, not attractive, except for the odd sexy riot grrrrl.
2) Everybody here is about 19, and I feel eternally old.

After the show, I give into my masculine instincts and watch the Yankees pummel the Red Sox in Boston at an old college dive bar of mine, Shades of Green, on 15th off Irving.

Off to a place I'd sworn off three years ago, Lotus. There are exceptions to every ban, and this night a group of Aussie friends have booked a table. That means free flowing liquor and immediate, smug admittance.

After some illegal/inappropriate debauchery, I need to way my options for an optimum evening. I look around at my friends and their friends... the fittest girls are either married to or dating my friends or their larger countrymen. The only single one is cute, up for the party, and early thirties. As she grinds in front of me (in front, not against, I feel obliged to point out), I consider playing catch up and going for it... but decide to head uptown for my booty call (we need to find a better term than that).

Back in Town

Land in JFK, and immediately have to field calls for film and advertising work. The day feels like hte image below. More to follow in a few days once I get a grip.

Hypocrite

Ina and I have dinner at my cousin Olivia's, two massive plates of Lebanese food (your usual Middle Eastern fare) over a bottle of white wine.

On the way home, the two of us have a drink at a local pub and share our regrets, confusions over our respective love lives. I, for a change, hog the conversation in venting my puzzlement/conflicted emotions over my ex Halie... but Ina takes it all in stride.

A little too much in stride, actually, for before bed, a goodnight kiss leads to another, and... well, so much for my "Scorched Earth" policy.

Scorched Earth

Yesterday morning I pick up Ina, an ex-girlfriend from Iceland at Liverpool Street Station... woke up at 7am and am definitely feeling a little rough. As soon as I see her, I expereince a mix of mild warmth and indifference... not a good sign. She's staying with me for the next three days...

Friday I got a voicemail on my NYC mobile from my more immediate ex, Halie. She was in town and wanted to get together. We hadn't spoken one word since our break-up almost eight months ago. And we're not going to be able to for a while longer, due to the 3,000 miles between London and New York. Nonetheless, hearing her voice made my stomach turn in a knot of vicious uncertainty.

i'm through with ex-girlfriends. Going home is not the solution. I'm adopting a strict "Scorched Earth" policy with exes.

In the meantime, I have to entertain Ina for the next few days... we go to see Wimbledon, a film whose biggest pleasure derives from an Englishman actually winning the great tournament... after that we hit a dinner party in Knightsbridge. An interesting mix of people: actors, journalists, even an ever-so-welcoming host, a history professor that seems from a different era than his 27 years indicate.

We drink wine an try to be merry, while nagging thoughts of the past weave through my brain like snakes slithering through an Indiana Jones trap. People visit the bathrooms regularly for their Columbian pick-me-ups, and all dance like only English people can.