Greek Tragedy

back and whacks

There are many places in Manhattan where men get jerked off on rubber couches after their body massages for around 80 bucks. In conversations with friends, they mimic a scale, their hands outstretched in front of them, “Let’s see, pay 80 bucks for a guaranteed release where I don’t have to worry about calling the next day, or wine her and dine her just to kiss her on the cheek? Yeah, tough decision indeed. We all pay for seex; I’d rather be up front about it.”

Then there are the married guys. “Yeah, but it’s not cheating if it’s a massage. It’s just a release.” I’ve actually heard it argued. Argue this: lactic acid drips out of pulled muscles, and you’re finally relaxed, then some Asian chick, who covers her mouth when she giggles, tenses you all up again for your orgasm. Why wouldn’t she and her friend (oh, yes, special customa getta two, special deal, firsta time.) jerk you off at the beginning? Then you can relax through the rest. I’ll tell you why. Then you’d have to lay there with your conscience.

Men don’t go to rub and tugs for the rub. It has nothing to do with relaxation and everything to do with the seexually charged atmosphere.

Here’s my stance on cheating: doing anything you wouldn’t normally do in front of your partner is cheating. If you wouldn’t do it with your spouse, girlfriend, exclusive anyone standing over your shoulder, then you shouldn’t be doing it. So, visiting any seexually charged atmosphere without your partner is cheating, if you believe your partner would take exception to it. Yes, even intimate details about the problems of your relationship discussed with another woman over dinner is cheating. That’s right, talk. If your girlfriend has a problem with your genitals being stimulated by another person, chances are, she’ll find something to scream about if she learns you’ve been fondled at the parlor. And you know it; that’s why you tell the guys about it and not your woman. Chalk it up to, “Well she just wouldn’t understand.” Understand this: you know it’s wrong, you feel it in your body language when you swing open the door. Forsaking all others. That’s what you committed to, not forsaking all others besides dirty whores who don’t count cause they’re dirty and you’d never really want them.

If you want a happy ending, grow up, and realize your 5-minute hard on is hardly worth your integrity... or your relationship. What you need to release is the idea that a "complete massage" isn't a betrayal.

suit

in my birthday suit right now, watching Linus chase the best toy I ever could have found: a fly. He's chasing it around the apartment, his little cleats click on my hardwood floors, and I'm laughing into a cry. I love my dog, my family, my friends, and my life. 29 doesn't feel old, but it feels scary. I want babies and a husband. I want more than one child, and after 35 years old, it's like asking for a deformity. I want healthy babies and a real marriage. It's not everything, but it's a birthday wish just the same. Relax, it's not what I'll wish for when I blow out my candles and smear icing on my face... cause then it won't come true. Whatevs. Still, it's not so bad cuddling up with the love of my life, sleeping in my crotch, beneath the covers. I love Linus. I hope I get flowers today. It's not a hint; it's just one of those it-shouldn't-mean-anything-but-it-just-does wishes. I can't help it. Ahem, have you seen my DVD collection lately? Oy, indeed. I'm 29 on the 29th of September; that only happens once. Then again, so does 30 on the 29th... ah, something to look forward to. Right.

Come celebrate with me and all my "offline" friends this Saturday night, October 2, 2004 at 10:30 pm. Pop Burger, (9th Ave. b/w 14th and 15th streets), New York, NY. How can any bash with the word "burger" in it be bad? Yum. I'll be there with all the girls... including my outrageous sister whom about, apparently, I never write enough. Seriously, you're all welcome. Go ahead, follow suit and name drop; it's encouraged. Say it with me, "Stephanie Klein... she's feeling fine at 29." Rage.

your worth in weight

It's worth waiting for it sometimes... and Moose is among that list of "sometimes."

moi got over it

I'm Miss Piggy. I realized it yesterday when I was in bed with Linus watching those Muppets take over this city. Part of me believes that Candice Bushnell created some of her Sex & The City characters based off some of those Muppets. Is it me or does Standford not look just like Scooter? And piggy is a cross between Samantha and Charlotte. A femme fatale who's not afraid to cry. The pig wears her hair both curly and straight, and always opts for fashion over comfort. She's aggressive, and can go from polite and dainty, "ahem, excuse moi--ha, ha, ha" to just plain demanding "move it you big jerk" in only a sentence. She's really the original Adam Sandler. She's got that uncanny ability to go from 1 to 10 in intensity; the woman has some serious RPM. She's no stranger to hard work: first starting out, she struggled as an actress, even taking a role as a model for an advertisement for pork, the other white meat. To this day, she still prefers not to discuss beyond, "Moi was upset, but moi got over it." With that positive attitude, she landed herself a frog. Miss Piggy is my dramatic romantic counterpart. "Tell Kermie I love him" she'll whisper with the toss of her hair and an outstretched arm.

Beyond the beauty-obsessed, possessive, and self-assured cochon from the Muppets, I also adore that Pepe. The name alone is enough to love him; never mind that he's a hot and spicy king prawn. He's conniving and savvy; he simply won't stand for any shrimp talk. He's a prawn on the town, looking for a little some some to butterfly his pink tail.

Still, Miss Piggy went with a safe bet, falling for her rainbow connection man for his green pad and keyhole eyes. She was wise to lunge for the good guy. That wild pig needed someone safe; she's reckless with everything else, from her Karate moves to her motorcycle tricks... that woman needed a sweet man to ground her and let her glisten.

I'm not dating anyone right now. Not even a frog here or there. "Moi was upset, but moi got over it." He'll come along; they always do. And when he does, I'm going to give him an earful, "What took you so long you big jerk? A ha ha ha..." as I bat my eyes and call him Kermie.

crapass central

I despise sunny days in the city, especially near this crapass park. I should move to the West Village, so I can shop and get drunk on filthy martinis while I’m outdoors. I need to move. Being anywhere near a park is just a reminder of what I don’t have. SPACE. There’s no space in this city, and I never feel it more than when I’m near the park full of it. On bright days, everyone comes to enjoy the space, overcrowding it and depriving us all of any privacy.

The park is full of people, doing things they should be doing indoors. Like holding hands, and wearing their children like necklaces. They’re running. Isn’t that what the frickin’ treadmill is for? I don’t even like dates in the park, on blankets, even if there is a guitar. You know why? It’s just not me. I fcuking hate Central Park. I’ll say it again; it’s crapass. These sunny days keep me from movie theatres and bookstores out of guilt. “How could you be inside on such a magnificent day? You’ll have all winter to do that.” I don’t care about trees or parks or rollerbladers. I don’t want to submerge myself in it. A lovely day like this is for lounging by a private pool and planning a barbecue. It’s for gardening and looking through magazines only for the pictures. I don’t want to be near runners or families or idiots laying around in bikinis thinking they’ve got it good. You’re sharing all this space with all these strangers, and you’re dressed so intimately doing it. All these people are sharing their intimate moments in such public spaces. They’re sweating, bonding with their families, and stripping down to underwear alternatives. Get a room.

in summary

I'm exhausted. Thank god I get to atone tonight; I'm tired of eating anyway. I've gone out every night this week to cover the Premiere of A Dirty Shame, Sony's Qualia private event, a Gen Art bash at The Delancy, a Celebrity Pajama Party at the Plaza, an auction at The Forbes Gallery, and to top it off, I had Fun with Wine. Many of these events were covered for ManhattanSociety.com. Sorry I can't put up a lot of the photos, as they no longer belong to me, now that I'm press. Say it with me. Press. Love it.

patching things up

I want to talk about this “more than 4 million women have used this” birth control patch. First off, in the commercials, with the models skimming over the “heart attack stroke warnings” the patch is clean and neat, like a fresh pedicure. Well I’m here to tell you it’s all bullshite. Just forget the health risks of it; you spend over $300 on a pair of shoes. You should only spend so much on your pair of ovaries. Let me tell you this warning side effect, beyond shortness of breath and blood clots; no one will want to fcuk you again. We’re talking crust. The patch, in only a day, leaves a ring around your collar… ahem, a crusty ring around your patch. Picture it: you stick a patch on your ass. Go ahead; let him spank it. Guess what? Just as he’s backstroking and ready to let gravity take over and paddle your ass for the erotic moan, he’ll get a glimpse of your crust. You washed with Dove, perfumed, and lotioned, and now you're the crusty girl. You can't wash the patch. You're stuck with it, and I promise, no amount of care can shift the movement of lint sticking to your sticker. We thread our brows and mow our lawns; now, girls, it's no time to patch things up. The patch, my good friends, is for ripped jeans, not your ass, shoulder, abdomen, or ovaries. Lose the patch; embrace the pill. You wear the Ortho-Evra for a week before changing it; what else in your life can you say that about? Exactly. Enjoy the condom, despite the smell. You’ll feel less guilty. It’s bad enough you still don’t know his last name.

signs

I’m better at dating people I don’t really like. As soon as I like someone, I become some girl I don’t even know, one who suddenly likes pink and prefers ruffles to contemporary clean lines. I wonder if those that drive us crazy, who we immediately take a strong liking to, are somehow wrong for us—based on that feeling alone. Maybe that intense, “Oh my god, he’s so great. This could be it” feeling is a warning, a yellow Dangerous Curves Ahead sign. There’s something that wasn’t worked out in childhood, or you pick up on some familiar feeling and latch onto it, exclaiming, “I feel like I’ve known you for years.” And we analyze that feeling to be a sign, a good sign, instead of a red Stop. Familiarity breeds unhealthy dependencies; sometimes, it’s just pathologic. It’s what you know, and it hasn’t been working out so well for you; yet you keep choosing it. It's not like being stuck with brittle nails; we do have some choice as to who we love. Still, you swoon and consume too much of your conversations with your interesting friends talking about some, in the long run, uninteresting guy who will probably be gone in a week. Realistically, that happens much more often than not. Yield. Take it in stride; go do something interesting, put on the clean lines, and leave the pink for being tickled in the bedroom. Slippery When Wet. Rarrww.

a dirty shame premiere, ny

I’d like to tell you it all began with the elbows. Really it began with the forced smiles and tilted brows. “Sweetheart, you better watch out. These photographers, not me, but these photographers can be ruthless.”

“Well my nails my be short, but I can be vicious too.” I lied.

I’m not vicious; life is too short. I smiled back in her direction, hoping to convey I was on her side while I fiddled with my flash. I’m not going to lie to you; I’ve been having some flash difficulties, and it has nothing to do with hurricanes or trench coats. My flash bracket broke, so I was left tonight, to shoot the red carpet of a A Dirty Shame premiere with a hotshoe and a prayer. So help me if anyone whips out a line about a carpenter or tools. I just hadn’t accounted for the elbows. Next time, I’m coming with padding, no makeup, body odor, and severe flatulance... okay, gas, like you open windows for. I’m loading up on broccoli and cauliflower. Yes, new diet. Right. Fuck off bitch beneath my breath, while aloud I’ll request, “And Selma, right here please.” I was paparazzi in heels tonight, but I was a rookie. Next time, my bracket will steady my flash beside my lens, and I’ll have more than four AA batteries to do the job. I wanted to cry on the spot. For the love of god, I'm learning. I feel terribly about it, but please, I can do this. I really can.

Noone was cooperating. The male photographer beside me continued to believe his elbow belonged in all of my shots. And when he'd give way, his counterpart would lunge in and put her flash bracket in my frame. Despite my lack of composure, my flash wouldn't refresh quickly enough, leaving me with way too many blackened photos; and sadly, barbecue is no longer "in." And when the flash did decide to fire, it overexposed every photo, despite the bounce and angle I imposed. It was something of a nightmare. Right up there with the no clothes at school bit.

I was humbled, and realized this takes some getting used to. I hope they don’t give up on me; I worry, not that I’m a failure, but that I let my editor down. I wanted to get him the best shots I could… better than pits and bad-breath, who flanked me and complained my flash was, “getting me right here, in this eye. Can you bounce it next time?” Had she only known I was out there, trying my best, chanting some little engine that could mantra. “Stephanie, you can do this.” But I couldn’t. My flash was unruly. I plan on taking the week, spending it in my room, fixing it all, so next time, next time, I can be the bitch. “Oh, I’m sorry, sweetheart. Was my ass in your shot? Well my name is Stephanie, with a PH. You know, for the tabloids. You can call me Doc.” Sadly, I'll always be nice to everyone. Because it's never worth it. Unless it were an hermes bag. But we're only talking photos of celebs. Pahleeze.

Rookie mistake. Next time I’ll spend more money and avoid B&H like the plague. Next time, I’m taking Maynard Switzer with me (My close friend and former teacher, who used to work with Richard Avadon). And we’re going to shop like you read about. And how. Please be nice to me. I’ve had a terrible night. I feel like I've let people down, and that's much worse than just letting me down. Did I try my best, yes, but it wasn't good enough... and that's a dirty shame.

suggestions

I've already told you I'm lazy; I let my dog shite on the floor.  So let's start here today.  For starters, I'd like to know who actually takes the time to write suggestions and fold them into squares.  Then feed them into a box with a slit.  Who reads them?  Well you'll all be happy to know that I've got a box and a slit.  How anatomical.  And today, it's my turn to feed on suggestions.  I'm reading them, and I'm taking them--but just to be clear, they're suggestions, not advice.  Unwarranted advice makes me gag.  Poems make me flinch.  Don't do that.

I've been hard at work on writing a book, so now it's up to you.  Tell me things about which you'd like me to write here.  Now's your chance.

fuming

My first perfume scent was Jean Naté. I wasn’t old enough to wear perfume.  Because it begins with perfume, then make up and red nail polish, and suddenly you’re shaving legs and pits and then you’re kissing, which leads to dating, which leads to sex.  Perfume was outlawed, but scented powders, bath soap, and lotions were permitted. 

I imagine Jean Naté smells of lemon curd or tart vagina.  I wore the scent, not because I liked it, but because wearing it made me feel older and sophisticated, like an oak-fermented Chardonnay. 

My father has no sense of smell, so my mother never bothered with her bottle of JOY.  I’d sniff at it but was never impressed.  Mom smelled of blow-dryer, Keri Lotion and Aveda lipstick—like gingersnap cookies, too heavy on the cloves.  I played with her vanity mirror, eating her lipstick off my lips, feeling like a woman.  Mostly, she smelled of sweet facial lotion that could easily be mistaken for milk.  At night, she’d coat her waterproof eyes with globs of Vaseline.  Black streaks of mascara would coat balls of toilet paper.  Then she’d tape the area between her eyes to prevent involuntary wrinkles in her sleep. 

Eric Fark, the boy I lost my virginity to, wore Calvin Klein’s Fahrenheit cologne.  In the Roosevelt Field Mall, I doused a leaflet in the shape of the bottle, which resembled a b-52 drink.  At home, I slid the scented paper in a scrapbook, under a thin glassine flap.  When I missed him, I’d slide the paper from it’s home and rub it over his green Livingston soccer jersey.  I rolled in his shirt, hugging it to me in fists, whiffing him as if I could will him beside me.   

I moved quickly beyond the Naté to Perry Ellis’ 360º.  The girls in high school wore too much Anis Anis to go with their long-stapped Carlos Fachi and Il Bisante handbags.  To this day Shalimar brings to mind a brunette Jewish woman named Phyllis, a party planner who talked in a whine and was always scowling.  My best friend in high school, Hillary Cohen wore Lu Lu until it was discontinued.  Lu Lu was a heavy provocative scent; it smelled red.  I used to borrow hers, and when I wore it, people would say, “Ooooh, you smell like Hills.”  And I loved her, so it made me smile.

In college, I switched to L’Eau D’Issey by Issey Miyake.  I still love it.  It’s clean, feminine, and quite beautiful.  I wore it because my close college friend Shira did, and I loved her like I loved Hillary.  Sharing a scent makes you feel closer, like beaded friendship pins.  With time, after reading that vanilla, licorice, and pumpkin pie scents increase penile blood flow, I dabbed vanilla oil from Paris behind my ears, on my wrists, on the insides of my elbows, and behind my knees.   Then I’d let some oil drip in my décolleté, cause it doesn’t get more French than décolleté. 

I imagine my ex-boyfriend will always think of me as Issey Miyake and vanilla, despite my coming home wearing the very expensive Quelques Fleurs.  When I arrived home smelling of the chic scent, he remarked, “Oh my god, that’s delicious.”  That’s when I knew one of his ex-girlfriends must have worn it.  I saw the nostalgia in his eyes.  I never wore it again.

I’m currently without scent.  I stole Creed’s Fleur de The Rose Bulgarie from Erin, and now Jen wears it too.  I’ve received more compliments on the Creed than anything else in my life.  Okay, tie with my hair.  But part of wearing perfume is how it makes you feel.  Spicy, heady scents are very brunette; they make you want to go the night without panties.  Clean citrus notes are like French manicures, white terry robes, and clean moisturized feet in white pom-pom socks.  Some scents, Gucci Rush or anything by Versace, are obvious one-night-stand tramps.  They aren’t special; they’re bottled blondes.  Like a redhead, a good scent is complex and makes you work for it.  I’ve been wearing the Creed so long, I can no longer smell it.  I can’t do the Chanel Chance or Madamoiselle, and forget the J. Lo.  Anything of-the-moment kills the mystery.  And forget the Demeter scents like Angel Food Cake, Laundry, and Graham Crackers; she wears an orangy red lipstick and over plucks her brows. 

I can no longer tolerate grapefruit or verbena scents.  Even a sophisticated pachoulli number evokes white girls with manufactured dreads, warn-thin dead shirts, and jingly anklets.  I need something grown up, and when I find it,  if someone asks, “Mmm, what’s that smell?” I’ll say, “me” and just smile.   

in my head for a day

I grew up hoping a man would come along, in a blazer with a shadow of a beard, and change my life. And one did. It just wasn’t at all how I’d imagined it. I had to feel and wade through the bad to resurface into the beauty and joy of my now. I don’t need anyone to swoop in and change my life. I just wouldn’t mind terribly finding someone who will wash my strawberries and love me full of snot, freckled, and red faced. He’ll make me smile through the tears. He’ll be my grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup. He’ll be my home.

I spend hours rummaging through closets looking for pants that don’t make my ass look fat. Then, I’ll watch friends devour fried combo dishes doused with ketchup and sprinkled with salt as I tolerate cottage cheese or hard-boiled eggs. Okay, that hasn’t happened in years, but still. I do it all to look thin, just to find a man who’ll love me even if I’m fat.

I’ve been drinking wine for years. When I inhale, I don’t smell apricots or lialac, mushrooms or mineral. I smell wine. Each one has a personality, built of characteristics: fruity, bold, long finish, supple, nice legs. These aren’t come on lines.

Drunk dialing. I fcuking love it. You know why? It gives me license to follow every random flying emotion, abandoning any sense of reason. And it affords me the ability to be thoroughly pathologic. I can trail every other brain synapse that has always led me to destination wrong. I stop caring about “wrong” and do what I want.

When people say, “what I want” they mean, “what I feel,” not “what I think.” Cause we wouldn’t need liquid courage to follow “right.” We wouldn’t need it to keep up with “think.” Emotions are sloppy drunks that swallow. They don’t worry about disease or calories; they’re made of passion and avoid safe like edges of cliffs.

upper east side

Growing up, I was terrified of being kidnapped.  I’d dream a stranger snagged me, and when I’d part my lips to release a ripple of a scream, nothing would come out.  The Upper East Side of Manhattan at night paralyzes me in the very same way.  Harlem or even some disreputable streets south of the Meatpacking District, near the warehouses and $20.00 trannyjobs is understandable.  But it’s the Upper East Side, home to the Ralph Lauren Mansion, Serendipity’s Frozen Hot Chocolates, and Bloomingdale’s Big Brown Bag that houses my anxiety.  It has little to do with east side rapists trailing unaccompanied quick-paced women to their fifth-floor walk-ups.  It’s worse.  It’s home to my ex-boyfriend.      

Despite it having far superior restaurants to the upper west, the upper east was the only appropriate place to go last night.  Sure his friends, his job, and our memories reside there. Until last night, there wasn’t much room for all that and me.  I’m on a goddamn island; there’s no room for rationing anymore.  It’s not as though I’d get all despondent and introspective over there.  I didn’t conjure up storefronts and restaurant awnings tinted rose or anything.  It’s just running into him or one of his extensions is unnecessary drama.  It’s that suspenseful music, warning the audience something is about to happen.  It’s nerve-racking; that’s what it is.  Because the truly scary bits usually happen in silence, as quick as a heavy guillotine.

Last night I had to visit the east.  Had to, the way you just had to inexplicably leave without saying goodbye.  Something lured me there.  I’d just come from the 6:30 showing of Garden State, so I was in the thick of girl. I was sticky with dripping hope and oozy magic.  I told you I was full of girl, but it gets worse:  see if I were in a movie, the cameras would zoom in from above and The Eels’s song “Packing Blankets” would blast as I wobbled in impractical heels to the corner of 67th and Columbus to hail a cab.   Everyone would know something great was about to happen. 

This wasn’t a night for practical; it meant unnecessary cab fare and a decision to head east for no reason at all.  I wanted something to happen. Le Bateau Ivre has a killer wine list, superb Belgium fries, and is always crowded but never a scene.  I cozied up to the bar and asked, “Do you have a wine list I can see?”

“You’re look-ing at tit.”  A foreign waiter slung back with a smile.  “White, red, rosé?  You name it Mademoiselle.”
“How about a Gewurtzaminer?”
“Ah, yes, very good choice.”

“I am having a Gewurtzaminer, too” the man occupying the stool beside me said. “I’m German, are you?”
“Ah, no.”
“I’m Italian and German actually.  Lemme guess, you’re Irish.  The Germans do a nice Gewurtzaminer.  I lived there you know.”  We have a winner.  “Two of my alma matters are there.  I studied spiritual studies.”  Oh dear god.  This is not what I had in mind.  I nod and smile, then stick my nose into my glass to indicate I take wine seriously and would prefer to be left alone.  “Nice bouquet?”  The bar is too small to up and choose a new seat. 
“Yes, it’s a lovely bouquet.”
“I’ve just returned from a two month journey.  I tasted many a wine.  I was in Israel and Egypt, and then I rounded things off in Italy.  I’m from Boston, but I’m in New York for this week, then I go back home to Aspen.  You know, that’s where I live, in Aspen.” 
“How nice for you.”
“Yeah, I have a Twinkie back in Colorado who called me the other day saying, ‘you know my birthday is coming up.  I’m expecting something.’  Can you believe her?”
“I don’t know her.”  Shut up.
“Well she’s an absolute stunner.  I mean, really sick.”  This man is too old to refer to a woman as sick.  Usually, when men use “sick” they mean amazing body.  See if she had a pretty face, she’d be “beautiful.”  Sick means shapely with a tight punctuated ass.  “She’s a Twinkie.  That’s what we call ‘em.”
“Yes, I heard you the first time.  You do know Twinkies always smell better than they taste.  They’re like coffee beans.”
“That’s good.  Hold up.  Let me get a pen and write that down.”
“Really, Twinkies are easy, simple, and self-contained.  But they’re inventions, always leaving you unsatisfied.”  Oh god.  I married a Twinkie.  Our housekeeper always did refer to him as Creampuff.
“Did I mention I’ve just returned from Israel?” 
“Did I mention that you begin almost all your sentences with I?”
“I collect ancient scriptures.  I’m Catholic, but I’m just back from Israel.”  Was he joking?  I know he heard what I said.  “I brought back a dozen yamakas and a torah pointer.”
“You know it’s not called a torah pointer; it has a name.” I shook my head.  The first turn was "AS;" the second was "IF."
“I know.  I know.”
“Well do you know it?”  I suddenly wanted to club this man with a mutton chop.
“No, do you?”
“I went to Hebrew school my whole life, but I was too busy dealing with puberty to pay attention to the names of things.  I just know it has one.” 
“You’re cute.”
“Well I’m not your type.  I’m not a Twinkie.”  And on that bitchy high-note, I swiveled toward the bartender and asked for my check.  So this is what I've been missing.  Ahem, you can so keep it. 

a names

Really short women are always top heavy. I’m not saying they’re apples, but they’ve always got enormous melons. And they’re always named Diana, Brenda, Daniella, Lisa, or some other short name ending in an A. And these A named women have B personalities. It's just true; it's not my rule, so don't get all pissy with me about it. Take it up with the man. I'm on holiday.

purple

New York is fcuked up. I’m in Starbucks, recounting last night, and there’s a Latino, balding, pony-tailed man waiting for the traffic light to give him the go. It's a busy corner, across from ABC. Usually, I spot Smelly Rippa or some other sitcom, soap opera, talk show person in sunglasses and running shorts. Nothing about this freak is "usually." As he waits, he practices some embarrassingly bizarre body exercise, something with “Tai,” “Chi,” or “Kwan” in it. His feet are shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, as if he’s ready to lift something terribly heavy. Instead of bending, he slices the air in quick movements with his hands, stiff like cleavers. Strong, quick, rhythmic breaths wiggle loose from his diaphragm. His thighs resemble Pugs, round and compact. He’s wearing purple. Who the hell wears purple these days? Definitely not conformists. Though I do hear plum is in for fall.

My driver’s education teacher didn’t just wear purple; he decorated his world with it. His eyeglasses, seat covers, shoelaces, and even his gum, were purple. His name was Rich, but I called him "The peculiar purple pie man of porcupine peak" after a Strawberry Shortcake character from my youth. If you could hear the beat he stepped to you wouldn’t quite be able to dance to it, and you’d never know when to clap. Purple people pretend, dream, and fake seizures to make people leave them alone. I think we can all use a purple freak in our lives, you know, merely for entertainment. Alternatively, there’s always Starbucks on Columbus and W 67th Street.

911

I'm a few days late addressing the anniversary of September 11, 2001, but I don't care.  Last night I opened "The Joy Diet" by Martha Beck.  I opened it to a random page, as if I were cutting a deck of cards.  Figure Out What Your Career Really Is was in italics heading the page.  Just answer this question, and you'll find your answer: What did you do the evening of September 11, 2001?

It goes like this: it's a time of crisis and panic, when you're uncertain and nervous.  So what did you do?  Did you phone friends and family and keep them in arm-distance as you watched the news for days?  Did you flee your office with your unfinished manuscript?  Beyond the phone calls and the are you alrights, what did you do?  Beck suggests in times of uncertainty our deepest values and true career are reflected in our actions.  Your real career is whatever action your heart and soul need to take; it's not necessarily what you do for a living right now.  Despite how you choose to spend your free time or how you earn your paycheck, the answer to what you did the evening of September 11 is a strong indicator of what you should be doing.  I love this idea.

I tried to donate blood, clicked through news stations, and I may have written in my journal.  I like to think that I did, but I doubt it.  I hadn't thought to pick up a camera or write about grief; all I could think about was food. 

The most memorable thing I did on the evening of September 11, though, had nothing to do with my camera, writing, or the web: it had everything to do with a turkey baster.  I cooked, my friends; I cooked. 

I assembled an entire Thanksgiving meal for friends and family.  I packed fistfuls of prayers in the cavity of a bird, my thoughts mingling with mushrooms and stemmed thyme.  Stuffing stuck to the roof of my mouth, like I imagine a wafer of Christ does in church.  I chopped celery, and turned out cranberry sauce.  Sweet potatoes were splashed with orange juice and gobbed with butter and brown sugar.  I hosted friends who were new to New York City.  I did anything I could to make the people around me comfortable. 

Two years later, when the 2003 Blackout happened, I ran home to get my camera and drank a bottle of wine. I wrote about the events; okay, and I got drunk, letting Linus run in parks with large NO DOGS ALLOWED signs.  That's how far I've come to living my dreams, my real career.  My divorce enabled me to take my dreams more seriously.  I allowed myself to take Stephanie seriously.  It's not selfish; it's crucial.  When I was married, I tried to play that part of comfort and Mom to a boy.  It's what my mother did for my father; it's what I knew.  Years later, and a heap of perspective, and I'm so thankful I've learned how to bend over backwards... to make me happy.  I'll always want to cook and surround my loved ones with comfort, but it won't be at the expense of fulfilling my own mandatories.  Storytelling.  With a camera or a pen and paper, it's what I do.  It's not how I make a living, not yet, but it's what I do.

trouble

His album is finally in stores. I dig it; now it's your turn. Ray Lamontagne does music with decisions and soul. It takes me back to a bunk porch with a bug candle, writing on stationery about my summer. Ray Lamontagne will definitely make up a track on my life's soundtrack. I talk about him all the time. Go ahead, get into trouble.

retrospect

Sometimes, in retrospect, you realize it was better left unsaid. That, or it was better for the book.

29

view more photos from the night >>

It's too nice outside to write, and Linus is literally whining as he paws at the window. So I'll leave you with these thumbnails as the storytellers. Saw Sarah Hudson bang it out at BLVD, then stopped by TAJ, where I celebrated my birthday last September. (Incase that flew by you... my birthday is soon approaching. I straddle Virgo and Libra.) After Taj, I hit the Zac Posen After Party Celebrating the Spring 2005 Collection and Launch of The New Cartier Trinity Collection. From frickin' Dillon McDermott and Paulie Shore to the daughter of a designer, Elizabeth Kieselstein-Cord, to a brilliant designer, Alvin Valley, my night was packed. Second best moment is a tie: discovering Sarah Hudson, a new great performer, and meeting Alvin Valley, a man who makes every ass look good. God love him and his pants. Best moment: arriving at the bar and seeing two of my favorite smiling faces. I love my angels; we might all be "generals" but we give good whip.

pups

So Casey Johnson's tit popped out at Milieu on Wednesday. Big deal. Mine popped out at Gallery last night--well nearly; the strap of my shirt broke. Thankfully, I caught it before pulling a Janet. "Stephanie, um, can I hold something for you?" Of course he meant my right breast. Well it could be worse, I mean if I were the playmate above, for example, someone would be going down. No, not like that.

All photos are now up of the kick-off party for the new book Going Corporate at Gallery. For now, look for Randy Jones (that's right, the cowboy from The Villiage People), Benjamin Curtis (Dell Dude), Stephanie Adams (Playboy Centerfold) and check these out >>

Or check out pics from previous parties:

Patrick McMullen's In-Tents Fashion Week Kick-off Party >>
A&F Vanity Fair Bash at The Gansevoort >>
Riding Giants Premiere >>
Hotlist Party >>
Hermes Parties >>
Dangerous Liaisons >>

confession

Today I stole a cab from old people. I ran and beat them to the cab, in the rain. "Sorry, I've been waiting a long time." I said as I slid into the back seat of the cab.

"Well so have we." The old woman with the plastic bag on her head yelled back as she hit her umbrella on the trunk of the taxi. "So have we," she repeated for impact.

I'm a terrible person sometimes. Mostly, I'm just lazy, but still. Not nice.

I don't walk Linus enough. He hasn't left the apartment in 2 days. I'm a terrible mommy to him. I come home and give him a treat to divert him, so he won't paw at my head and lick up my nose and bring me dirty socks and underwear from the basket. My little bean needs outside time to run and stretch. Instead, I feed him. I'm absurdly lazy.

I shadenfruede too much.

I have a closet full of nothing to wear, and most importantly, nothing that fits. Let's face it; outfits begin with Weather on the Ones. Outfits can depend on hair. If I'm going straight, I'll wear something else, and if my hair is going up, then I can wear the earrings I love without worrying about the tangle. I have events approaching, and I'm clueless about the weather. Some men like me more dirty and unmade, like a worn, battered college teeshirt with faded lettering. Personally, I dig the wife-beater with diamond studs and a fabulous necklace, low-slung jeans, tweed pointy shoes, and a smile. Okay, throw in something vintage and we're talking. Other men like me hanging out of small, packed tight. I do both willingly, but lately, the only running I've been doing is away from the scale. I'm getting fat. I feel it. I mean, I'm not crazy or anything; it's not like I'm going to restrict myself to salad. Certain things just look better when you're not spilling over. The only bad in losing weight is losing cleavage, but I prefer skinny jeans to fuller cups. Dieting makes me cranky; it makes me feel alone. And alone seems a little heavier than any weight I'd actually lose. And for the love of god, don't analyze me. Don't hem and haw me with the alone talk, or the you don't need to lose weight. Just shut your hole, dear god. Spare us all.

Sometimes, even though I’m alone, I wear lingerie to bed. I’ve stopped taking the pill because I’ve stopped having seex. When I drink, I get feisty and pick fights, but when I’m drunk alone, I usually just frown and worry that I’ll have to settle. I worry that he doesn’t think about me. I resurrect exes and turn them into something they never were, idealizing us and holding new up to an old that never was. I eat more fries than I should and worry that I’ll never be that good at anything. I know I’ve got a lot of talents, but I’m not ridiculously good at any of them. There’s always someone else who does it better. I know I can only do my best, and I believe I do, but I don’t like that I never think it’s good enough. I need a bikini wax like you read about.

Yes, I’m alone, wearing lingerie, drinking bad white, worrying that I’ll never find my best… the one thing in the world that I can do better than everyone else. Right now, I’ve found my better than mosts. I want a best.

in-tents and purposes

I used to work for Tim & Nina Zagat. I devoured restaurant surveys and highlighted the creative and the witty. I thought in blurbs. I ate free letter by letter, and my fret was never the bill but which fork to use. I gained 30 pounds. About Lucky Chang’s, a drag supper club, I highlighted, “Nuts in my salad is one thing, but nuts on my waitress is quite another.” Last night, there were a lot of nuts.

Patrick McMullen’s invitation-only, Olympus-sponsored, kick-off party to celebrate his new book In-Tents was housed at Saks Fifth Avenue. The book chronicles 10 years of Bryant Park fashion week. If there was ever a time to get a five-finger discount, it was last night. No one was checking out the merchandise, well, at least not the stuff with tags. Everything about the night was hyphenated.

I first met Patrick at the Scope Art Party at The Hotel Gansevoort, where all my photographs hang in all the corridors, suites, and rooms. Patrick invited me to his St. Patty’s Day Bash. Last night, I popped up with Chris of ManhattanSociety.com to celebrate and, let’s face it, snap away photos as if I weren’t in heels.

For all intents and purposes, I need to go shopping if I go to any more of these events. I mean, I'm striking a pose with Angie Everhart. I'm chatting with Esther Nash of Single in The Hamptons, and I'm staring at Betsey Johnson. There are just some people who always look fabulous. I'm not just talking celebs who own stylists, trainers, drivers, and chefs. I'm talking neighbors. Their hair is frizz-resistant, and everything in their lives is smudge-proof. Their children don’t just say, “thank you.” They add “very much.” Their homes smell of wood polish, and they’re decorated like outfits. They own candy dishes and know where to place them. Despite trying, I will never be one of these women; my real list is too revealing to be so buttoned-up. I bite my nails, have curly hair, and sleep with an unruly dog. At least there’s waterproof mascara for the rest of us.

View photos from the night >>

spotted pig spotting

Me and Beyonce courtesy of Chris London of ManhattanSociety.com

Click here to view all the pics from the night >>

It’s a Sunday night in the city, and I’m itching to go out come Sunday morning. I issue a stockpile email asking if anyone is up for going out. The replies are thin. Then night falls, and I’m too tired to go out anyway. Monique calls.

“Are you still up for going out?”
“Yeah, sure, if you are.” I'm hoping she says she's too tired, so I don't have to move. If we do go out, I know I’m not showering.
“Okay, good. I’ll pick you up in an hour. Let’s say 9.” 9:00pm for Monique means 9:30pm. I have an hour and a half to get ready. I sit cross-legged in my desk chair and decide to work on an ofoto Italy album instead of my wardrobe. We’re heading downtown to The Spotted Pig.

Monique and I cozy up to a side bar area in the small English pub restaurant. I know, beer is in order. You know, I don’t do beer. Instead, I ordered a Sauvignon Blanc that tasted like Chardonnay. Beggars can’t be choosers.

“You do realize that’s Jay-Z and Beyonce behind us don’t you?”
“Of course.” I had no idea. “I can’t believe I am without camera. Of all the nights.”
“Would you really take a photo?”
“Well, only once they were finished with their meal. I mean, please.” I dig through my handbag and fiddle with the flash function on my cellular phone camera.

Later in the night, my friend Chris London arrives, camera in tow. Once Jay-Z and Beyonce use their napkins and are enroute toward the door, Chris steps in and talks to Jay-Z. Because Chris has read about Jay-Z's protective nature, he's formulated a plan. He knows not to speak to Beyonce directly. “Would you mind terribly taking a photo with my girlfriend? She’s a big fan of yours.” Jay-Z agrees to a photo. He smiles and waits.

Okay, the thing is, I still don’t even know what Jay-Z does. Of course I've heard of him, but I listen to my iPod full of Guster, Keane, and Dashboard Confessional. I don't know from J-Zee, JZ, or Jay-Z. So kill me. I have a Tivo at home collecting dust, and the only TV I watch which begins with an M is movies. Without googling, I have no idea if he’s a producer or a singer. I wonder if when Chris approched, if he said "Jay-Z." I mean, do you say, 'Excuse me, Jay-Z..." or do you keep it formal, "Excuse me sir." I wouldn't even go there. Initials can be hard to work with. I do however know Beyonce from her stint in Goldmember. I know she’s bootylicious, though in person, I never scoped past her face. I’m sure it’s lovely, though. Honestly though, I don't get into details with her... I don't pull the whole, "You were wonderful in this, and I love how you sing that." Good for me, there, because I'd probably site a Destiny's Child tune.

So, Jay-Z is ready for a photo-op. I breeze past him, “Oh thanks.” I don’t stop for a photo with him. I didn’t know what Chris had said to Jay-Z, only that I was given the green light for a photo. I approached Beyonce and held a smile. Her voice was deeper than I’d expected. They were both very accommodating considering I completely shunned the man of initials. Chris London’s photos are much better than anything I could have taken with my camera phone. Check em out >>

rice

I'm no athlete. I tried to pretend with soccer all through high school. My positions: stopper and sweeper. Mainly, I just liked playing when I was pissed because it gave me permission to shove and kick. Otherwise, while midfield pushed forward, I'd push back my cuticles. I tried LAX, but only so I'd get to wear the shirt. I was even able to choose my own number. Of course everyone on the team chose standard numbers running up to the low twenties. Except me. 69.

In the winter, it was basketball or cheerleading. Mom bought me the high-tops, and Dad tried really hard to coach me. It was useless. I was wretched. We compromised: cheerleading and tennis lessons. But first, I had to make the squad. When I first auditioned for the JV cheerleading squad, I had to perform a cheer, do a cartwheel, and fall into a split. "Adam Zipper, he's our man, if he can't do it, Todd can. Todd, Todd, he's our man..." Oh, worse, even than that, "baskets, baskets, baskets boys, you make the baskets; we'll make the noise." My high school was too small for a football team.

Each night, I went home to practice, hoping I'd gain some flexibility, like fondled bread. When it came time to audition, I was so nervous, I literally fell into a split on the floor. I could have sworn my interior seam parted. I smiled through it; they fell for it and welcomed me to the squad. In all truth, the only reason I was on the team was for my incredible set... of lungs. The girl can belt like an opera singer. Lately, I've been doing some straddling.

I've been facilitating a difficult situation involving a close friend; the kind you fall into when you're nervous. Ben-gay can't help with this tear. Rest, isolation, compression, and elevation can heal a torn ligament; perhaps that goes for the heart. Usually, though, I've learned it's probably a combination of a massage in a lofty, secluded suite at The Four Seasons and time. And while waiting can suck, at least you can wear a short skirt, kick up your legs and scream. I'll hold your pom-poms. And I'll use my lungs to cheer for you, my sweet girl. I love you.

home

When navigating Italy, I disovered a phenomenon. I'll get lost and request directions of an Italian in English...with an Italian accent. As if he'll understand, "Spanisha Stepas" more. Where-a should-a I go? I sound like an incompetent American; even worse, I'm in sneakers. Alas, I'm home now, in my high thread-count bed just loving all the anxiety out of my dog. What a little fava bean. All the pics are now finally up... some black and white pics can be found here >>