Safari

I have come to a realization. It didn't take me long, but, I feel that here, on this blog, that no one reads, is a perfect place to relay the message. 

NYC. is. Awesome. Period. 

All I have to say is, (to quote Annie): "AMEN. FOR N Y C." 

Where else can you walk by a thirty year old man peeing in the street and think nothing of it? See garbage piled on the sidewalk and know that the magic garbage fairy will have made it disappear by morning? Listen to crappy Mariachi bands on the subway? THAT'S RIGHT MOTHERFUCKERS. NO WHERE. Unless you want to be an Actor, New York is a city of dreams. The end. 

....well, dreams and exceedingly high rent. 

After I've finished saying that a place of piss, garbage, and Mexican music is the most desirable place to live, I feel I should back it up with a little evidence.  Let me tell you a story  

I bring you now, not-readers of this oh-so-not-blog, the birth of the Anthony Edwards Safari. 

For those who don't know, Edwards is an accomplished actor/director who's most notable for his role as Dr. Mark Greene on ER. (That, and some high-budget flick he did with Julianne Moore.) ANYWAY. I think I would have a pretty good backing if I were to claim he was the best character in the show's history. (Which I firmly believe is true of the male cast.)(And all of you haters shouting about Ross can STFU.) 

I discovered shortly after my venture to the East Coast, that he too, resided in Manhattan. I had to find him. There was no question in my mind that our two paths were destined to cross, and by golly, I was gonna make it happen. 

........this was September of 2007. 

After seeing a few famous people, and quenching my thirst for a semi-exciting existence on this planet, the safari's subsided. I needed a break from my constant eye-peel for this TV Star. (Mostly, everyone pales in comparison to Dianne Wiest.... *swoon*) 

Now, let me tell you this. New York is the city of dreams, and on November 1st, 2009, my dream was to go to the West Side. I wanted to hang out in the park near the ramble and reminisce about the giant cock and balls someone had etched last year when the lake froze over, look at naked gypsies under the bridge at Bethesda, then end up somewhere near the Dakota. It was to be the perfect afternoon. I had it all planned out. 

What I hadn't planned on was the Marathon. Oh? What's this? A marathon you say? With runners? YES. RUNNERS. WHO BLOCKED MY GLORIOUS ENTRANCE TO THE WEST SIDE OF MANHATTAN. THOSE BITCHES. 

I sat on a bench watching the madness unfold from atop a hill. I was pissed. I decided to see what all this ruckus huckus was about, and there he was. My knight in shining sweaty running shorts....  My heart melted into a nostalgia puddle. 

"YOU GO DR. GREENE!" 

"I KNEW YOU WEREN'T REALLY DEAD!" (spoiler alert!) 

"GO TONY, GO! YOU'RE A FOX!" 

But all I did was squee. 

I squeed a lot :) 

Obsession

Lately I've been playing this game with myself where I decide what I'm going to do as soon as I have twenty dollars. Things that often come up are: Eat, tap with Charlie, or put it towards a new DVD player.... the usuals. Eating typically wins, unless I see something shiny catch my eye at a chic-boutique. 

I have decided, after being sufficiently racially profiled at Strawberry, my next purchase is going to be a sweater. (And for the record, NO I am not paying $12 for a Mary Tyler Moore hat! SUCK ON IT.) My cohort Rafik was in town a few weeks back, and we were talking about fashion as it applied to our personal tastes. She doesn't like colors, (because, quote, "everyone wears them") and I'm not a big fan of anything that wasn't made for a 70 year old. I say this with earnest. Earnest and truthfulness. 

I embody the 65 year old gardener, out and about planting daisies in gaudy orange crock-enstocks. (Brikies+crocs. A must have for every style offender and casual crazy neighbor...) I'm the woman with the tacky reading glasses attached to her bosom with the even tackier necklace; I sit in corner coffee shops wearing neutral knits that make me look more than three quarters my age... 

And you know what? I don't even care. 

Am I in the fashion capital of the United States? 

Yes. 

Am I breaking every rule of style set by every staunchy fashionista in history? 

Absolutely. 

Am I that creepy bag-lady esque woman you shouldn't let your kid sit next to on the bus? 

Possibly. Depending on my last appointment with an apparatus designed for bathing. 

Most children, when asked what they want to be upon arrival of adulthood give stock answers like, "fireman", "ballerina", or "doctor." I stand firmly by my choice, and will for the rest of existence. 

"Well, Monty, what would you like to be when you grow up?" 

"A cat lady." 

RE: The Stroller Brigade

And/or how I tried to pee in the Whole Foods Bathroom on a Saturday, and subsequently failed. 

I will stick to my guns forever when I say New York is the best city in the world. Best meaning, most diverse, most interesting, loveliest and grossest city in the history of ever. Infuriating and fascinating; disgusting and beautiful; extremely cold and extremely warm. That being said, let me tell you a story about Union Square. 

The weekends, a mecca of art, and "art," as well as the Farmer's Market, and a collective, yet uninterestingly diverse group of break-dancers.  Today was no exception. A supposed autistic man tries to sell me beautiful postcards, Bill Peaks is out with his Dancer Girl t-shirts, the smell of fresh cheese and compost wafts down from 17th street into the subway station. I have decided that this, among other days, is probably the best day ever. 

...Until I hear Michael Jackson. Resisting the urge to shout "Too soon!" I wander over to a gathering crowd, passing a man wearing a "FREE ROMAN POLANSKI" sandwich board. (I stopped to give him kudos.) Three kids and a sketchy man are standing in front of a small stereo. "SHOWTIME!" Oh, fuck. Breakdancers. Once they loop you in, it's hard to leave. Pressed up against a bunch of sweaty tourists capturing the memory with their pro-sumer video cameras and DSLR's, it's impossible to make a clean getaway. 

I beat feet as soon as I realized the only thing these kids could do was windmill. (Typical of the breakdancing ensemble. It gets old faster than the Mariachi bands on the Subway.) 

I sat for awhile and mused in front of Polanski-sandwich-board-man, and listened to him argue about the takeover of modern politics being prevented due to neo-Jews. "They get Letterman, they get Polanski, the leftists are finished. Sarah Palin can't run for president as long as Dave is making fun of her...."

Sure buddy, if that's what you want to think...... 

Mixer

Ok, I'm here submitting to what those psychologists call "Peer Pressure." Doing what the cool kids do, because the cool kids are doing it. As many of you know, I still keep my LJ alive and kicking, but I figured that everyone else is doing their "I'm abroad YAY!" blog, and New York is abroad enough for me. Do I expect to have a ton of blog friends and become suddenly e-famous? 

Hold onto your trousers, ladies. This could get INTENSE.  

Onto other business..... 

Tonight was the annual "Actor/filmmaker" mixer. AKA an opportunity to watch a bunch of freshman and unemployed SAG members try and co-mingle. Middle School dance style awkwardness ensues, and a lot of blonde girls get their feelings hurt. C'est la vie Art school! It beats getting trampled by a bunch of graphic design students in skinny jeans rushing outside for their smoke break, am I right? 

I was keeping my eye out for interesting looking folks. I saw this one woman, 'Chrissie' wearing long chandelier earrings and a hot pink duster scarfing down a hoagie; and I was like "YOU! I MUST TALK TO YOU!" Onika, AKA Michelle, my wing man for the evening rushed over to this amazingly amazing woman, and we asked for her headshot. She looked like she was in her 50's, and handed me a glossy photo with earnest. 

"Did she just give me a 20 year old's headshot?" I looked on, confused, as we watched her finish her sandwich. 

"THAT'S SHOWBIZ, KID!"