bar none

One of the few downsides to leaving the East Side was an increase in distance between myself and the Campbell Apartment, one of New York’s finest bars for early-evening drinks dates, martini meetings, and general impressing of others.

Thanks to the investigative efforts of my esteemed Cyan colleague Colin, however, I have, fortunately, discovered an able replacement quite close to home: Single-Room Occupancy, located just two blocks up (on 53rd, slightly East of 9th). Entrance is through a brownstone basement door, largely unmarked save a single green sconce. Ring the buzzer for admittance into the small space, sparsely decorated and lit solely by recessed glowing tiles in the roof and floor. No liquor, just an excellent assortment of imported beers and fine wines, served in tasteful fluted glassware. Sort of neo-minimalist speak-easy chic.

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March 15, 2003

helpful note

If, because the documents, clothing, and other items you’ve accumulated during two months in Los Angeles don’t all fit into your suitcase, you cleverly decide to UPS some things back home, be sure to check the pockets of any pants you ship, so that you don’t realize the following morning that you’ve actually sent your wallet out by mistake as well.

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February 19, 2003

suds stud

Growing up in drought-ridden California, I was, for most of my childhood, robbed of the carwashing experience. Which is why I was so excited to discover that, all around downtown Los Angeles, there are do-it-yourself carwashing stations.

Perhaps these are mainstays elsewhere in the country, but I’d never before seen one myself. In short, toss eight quarters into the wall, and a giant red digital clock comes alive – four minutes, ticking down quickly. From the ceiling, attached to long blue hoses, hang a variety of attachments: power washer, foam-emitting mop, wax sprayer. And, while the seconds tick, one frantically rinses the car, soaps the car, rinses the car, waxes the car, then rinses it once more for good measure. Then it’s on to the drying station, where (with a blue uber-paper-towel, purchased for another seventy five cents) one dries down the entire car, with Miyage-pleasing circular strokes.

This evening, as a result, our black rented SUV sparkles, and I glow with the pleasure of falsely productive manual labor.

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February 2, 2003

fore!

While in high school, I played for a brief stint on the golf team. The reason was simple: we students were exempted from gym class while actively competing in a school sport, and, having tasted the freedom of a prep period throughout the long wrestling season, I was damn sure I didn’t want to head back to running the mile, cranking out pull-ups and straining through the “sit and reach”.

So, after reviewing the spring season possibilities, I decided to join the golf team. A reasonably sensible idea, except that I didn’t actually know how to play golf. Undaunted by that reality, I picked up a cheap set of used clubs, took two lessons, and spent about a week practicing on the driving range. The first time I set foot on an actual golf course was the qualifying round for the team.

In retrospect, I must either have had excellent potential, or the pity of the coach, as I ended up making the team, despite making a travesty of the game for 18 holes. And while I did improve steadily (a result of playing three or four days a week with the team), I was always far and away the worst player – not surprising, considering that all of my teammates had been playing for eight to twelve years, rather than my eight to twelve weeks.

Following that brief stint, without the specter of gym class for motivation, my game languished for years. In fact, during the six or seven years following, I played no more than five times, and headed to the driving range only a handful of times more. But since arriving here in LA, with the strong sun beating down summer-like through the smog, I’ve been regularly taking advantage of the weather and my small patches of free time by heading over to the Rancho Park Par 3 course.

And, amazingly, I’m playing significantly better than where I left off. Perhaps as the muscle memory atrophied over years of disuse, my swing whittled down to a simpler, more effective version of itself. Or, perhaps, now that I really don’t care how well I play, I’ve reached a Zen state of great efficacy. Whatever the reason, for the first time, I’m hitting greens from the tee, chipping to the pin, and sinking long putts over odd lies.

Granted, I won’t be heading off on the PGA any time soon. Nor will I be stocking up on argyle socks, pleated khakis and wind-resistant polo pullovers. But I am, for perhaps the first time, good enough to legitimately claim I can play golf. Game on.

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January 20, 2003

tiny bubbles

A final thought for the morning: without a doubt, there is no hangover more brutal nor more severe than that from an evening of binge-drinking champagne.

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January 1, 2003

a very surreal evening

How to look like the King of Hollywood for four hours:

1. Attend the premiere party for The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers, a huge gala event held at Hollywood’s famed Sunset Room.

2. Bring a date for the evening with whom you were set up, who turns out to have been a Maxim cover model.

3. Meet up at the party with LOTR star John Rhys-Davies (“Gimli the Dwarf”), who seems to have been told by his agent that you’re the greatest thing since sliced bread; have him spend much of the evening introducing you as such to the other stars (Elijah Wood, Liv Tyler, Orlando Bloom, etc.), and to agents and execs.

4. Sit, champagne glass in hand, and wonder quietly how in God’s name this is your actual life.

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December 16, 2002

so little time

On Monday, I head to California. I return the following Saturday. Then, the very next day, I move to my new apartment.

Which means I have exactly the next two days to pack for my trip West and box up the entire contents of my apartment, all the while continuing the mad fundraising push needed to get Cyan’s first feature off the ground.

Sleep is for pansies.

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November 22, 2002

save the date

SantaCon NYC has officially been scheduled for December 14th. While I’ll be living bi-coastally for much of December (and January), I sure as heck will be back for this; a yearly “not-for-profit, nonpolitical, non-religious demented Santa Claus convention” is simply too good to miss.

[For more information about how to participate, in New York or other major cities, head to the home of the inimitable Cacophony Society. You may already be a member!]

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November 16, 2002

shaken, not stirred

Question: What’s the ideal costume for a Halloween benefit ball wherein you’ll be spending the first half of your evening playing with the swing band (requiring you to wear black and white) and the second half drunkenly womanizing in usual style?

Answer: Tuxedo + Martini Glass + Toy Gun = James Bond. Clearly the fastest route to Pussy Galore. (My apologies for perhaps the worst double entendre in the history of this site.)

The problem, however, seems to be that, post 9/11, toy guns are in rather short supply in NYC. So, having exhausted my neighborhood options, tomorrow I’ll be swinging by the Mecca of all red-blooded children – the worlds largest Toys R’ Us, in Times Square (the place is so big, it has room for an indoor ferris wheel; had I visited at the age of seven, I’d doubtless have fallen to my knees and kissed the ground upon entering) – in search of the perfect pistol (one that says, “please take this costume as a playful endorsement of martinis and baccarat rather than of right-wing, NRA nut-job gun ownership ideals and secret-agency-driven subversion of peaceful, productive, legislatively-driven foreign policy”).

Oh, and I’ve got to pick up my good bow-tie from the cleaners. The key to pulling off Bond is a hand-tied bow-tie, which you can leave undone towards the end of the evening for a rakish tilt that women, inexplicably but universally, dig.

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October 29, 2002

the charity continues

Despite still feeling sick as a dog, this afternoon I donned my tux and headed off to Merkin Hall to play a benefit concert with the Park Avenue Chamber Symphony. While I was tempted to beg out, the cause was too good (the concert raised more than $20,000 for music scholarships at the Lucy Moses School), and, in the end, I was glad I had slogged through, as it gave me my first chance to play Merkin, a venue famous as having some of the best acoustics in New York (though perhaps having the worst name).

A few other upsides to attending:

– The conductor, David Bernard, who is now one of my favorites in New York. Not only does he have a clearly articulated (and unique) sense of what he’s looking for musically, he seems to be having much more fun while conducting than nearly anyone I else I play for. He conducted the entire concert from memory (i.e. without using a score), looking thoroughly enrapt the entire time.

– The soloist, an exceedingly talented violinist. Not only did she nail the Mozart Concerto in A, but at the reception following the concert (still begowned in full Cinderella-style regalia), she was absolutely putting the moves on me. And she was cute. Sadly, cute in a high school senior, Lolita-esque, “fifteen will get you twenty” sort of way. But cute none the less. (And, no, I didn’t get her phone number. Come on, people, I have some scruples.)

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October 20, 2002