Twenty-Something Resolutions for Twenty-Somethings

Image courtesy of myself...for once...kind of proud

1. Frame a photo, don’t InstaGram it
2. Wish your friends a “happy birthday” on the phone, not on their wall
3. Leave your phone off or at home during dinner
4. Trade in an energy drink for a juice drink
5. Buy something because you need it, not because you saw an ad for it
6. Walk down the street without headphones
7. Read the news...any way you can
8. Make a charitable donation, especially if it's your time
9. Forget the names of of reality show stars, remember the names of the people you meet
10. If you want to make a change, make a plan, don’t just send a Tweet
11. Make it a goal to never appear on Texts From Last Night, do try to appear on Damn You Autocorrect
12. Replace the following words and phrases in your vocabulary:
1. Kim Kardashian with South Sudan
2. Paris Hilton with The European Debt Crisis
3. Lindsey Lohan with Gabrielle Giffords
4. Real Housewives with National Geographic; it is essentially the same programming with rational behavior
5. The Jersey Shore cast with actual Italians such as Leonardo Da Vinci, Frank Sinatra, and Sophia Loren
6. Perez Hilton with NPR
13. Engage in conversation about politics, sex and money
14. Read the ingredient labels on food you buy, be skeptical of unregulated advertising lingo
15. Learn to spell without autocorrect
16. Research a question you have, don’t just ask Siri to Google it for you
17. Read a book, not a blog (I acknowledge the irony of reading this on a blog)
18. Make friends with someone who is different than you without sending a friend request
19. Ask someone on a date over the phone, not in a message
20. Aspire to never be “that guy/girl”
21. Delete Internet Explorer from your parents computers and install Google Chrome (they’ll end up thanking you later)
22. Work hard for the things you want
23. Join a club, not a social network
24. Talk to someone at a bar, don’t just find out who is there on Foursquare
25. Take a vacation

Diamond District Glory

What: Pawning Silver

Where: Diamond District, New York
Who: Jehdy and Myself

Having lived in New York for some time now, my father decided it was time for me to do him a favor and sell the silver his father left to him when he passed away. Seeming like a simple task I obliged and scouted out the diamond district for the best possible place to sell his metal.

Review after review popped up on my Google search. Most of the reviews were awful claiming that they had been ripped off. This was no surprise, the business of pawn shops and jewelry stores is very clear: make the most money possible and screw the person selling to you.

I finally decided on three locations that had the best of the bad reviews and dragged my coworker Jehdy with me during lunch. Not sure what I was up against I knew I might need backup.

Upon arriving to the first store we were lead to a back room where the price of silver was looked up online for the trading price that day and then my treasure was weighed. The old Jewish man then told me the best he could do was 4 dollars per ounce below the selling price, he was screwing me essentially.

The next office procured another Jewish man who went through the same process. They must have felt comfortable trying to screw me out of hundreds of dollars assuming that I had no knowledge or backbone, unbeknownst to them many of my family members are Jewish and I learned to haggle with the best of them.

This time the man offered me a reasonable price for the silver and I accepted. As I signed away the rights to the silver he asked if I wanted cash or a check. Having still not opened a New York bank account (way overdue) I asked for cash to hold me over for a while.

As the man counted the cash he gave me an extra $100. Unsure if he miscounted I took the cash and walked out with Jehdy. We both felt slightly violated by the back room experience and had to shake off the dirty feeling we were sure was associated with being a call girl (not that we saw anything wrong with this lifestyle.) As I counted my extra hundred dollars I smiled to myself thinking that I was the first person to screw the diamond district (a title I will not let go of soon.)

When I've retold this story to my friends I assure them I robbed the man and took more than he offered...there is only one witness to deny this, but luckily her price was only $50.

Goals Accomplished:

1) First visit to the Diamond District
2) Uncomfortable feeling like a hooker

3) You can beat the people trying to screw you

Pizza, Yes, For One, No

What: A Rejection

Where: Florence, Italy
Who: Myself

I arrived in Florence on Monday, February 14th. Not realizing what day it was after having traveled from Madrid on the bus ride that took me to the plane that took me to the train. After showering in my hotel I dressed in what might be considered extensive in New York City, but felt right for a nice dinner in Florence.
As I walked down the cobblestone streets passing by buildings, statues and monuments built by masters of the past I began to drink in the energy that is Italy. As I passed by one partially outdoor cafe I noticed an array of hearts and cupids on the overhang and in the windows. It was Valentine’s Day.
Having been in Europe for a week at this point I knew it had been this Hallmark Holiday when I had awoken that day, but had forgotten by the time my feet hit the dirt in Tuscany. This less than pleased me, I was alone (even though in a relationship), across the ocean. Deciding to make the best of it, the way many single girls do on some lonely Sunday at a matinee, I headed in the direction of a favorite pizza place from years before when I studied in Florence.
After weaving in and out of the city center towards the less touristy (read: less expensive) restaurants of the center I found myself at Pizzaiolo. My Italian was rusty after years of solitary confinement, but I had never forgotten how to ask for a table, order more food or ask for a liter of wine.
Translated Conversation:
Me: Good Evening, may I have a table for one, please?
Hostess: No, we cannot accommodate a table for one tonight.
I stared blank, something I am pretty sure translates the world over, thinking that maybe I had used the wrong verb and altered my question.
Me: Can I have a table, please?
Hostess: No, you cannot have a table.
I stepped towards the door somewhat stupefied by the experience as three people walked in.
Group: May we have a table for three?
Hostess: Yes, right this way.
For a moment I thought about asking to join that table and being their fourth...they wouldn’t even have to acknowledge my presence, except when ordering. After a moment of dreamily, probably creepily, staring at the threesome I headed towards the door.
As I slipped out the front door I saw another restaurant favorite I had from years earlier and decided to go there instead.
After a whole pizza and half a liter of wine I roamed the streets back towards my hotel. The intoxicating scents and sights of Florence became overly romanticized in my head. The statues? I thought. Sure they were beautifully built, but they weren’t ‘that’ impressive. And the oldest bridge in Italy? I mean really, had they seen the Brooklyn bridge?
Rounding the street where the restaurant that had accosted me hours earlier was I swore I would never go there again; a big threat considering I had been to the country three times in the past 6 years.
The next night I found myself jonesing for more authentic Italian pizza and found myself in front of the exact restaurant, Pizzaiolo.
I stepped through the front door, walked right up to the hostess, held my head high, and said:
“May I have one pizza...to go please?”

Goals Accomplished:

1) First dinner alone
2) Uncomfortable getting rejected

3) That Italian hostess' are not above having an attitude

Giraffe Neck Equals Model Offer

*Photo by Steven Meisel

What: A Model Offer

Where: Grand Central

Who: Steven Meisel, Lara, Myself

A couple Monday’s ago I went to meet my friend Lara in the constantly bustling Grand Central terminal. Upon arriving I remembered how much I despised this chaotic gathering place of comings and goings.

Not a minute into waiting at the end of the appropriate platform a woman came up to me and asked the time. After giving it to her we awkwardly stood together waiting for our arrivals.

Another minute passed and a man came up to me and barked:

Man: Do you have pen?

Me: No.

While I probably did have a pen I get nervous when yelled at by strangers and thought I would be furthered yelled at if I had to rifle through my bag.

Man: Well take down this number.

At this point, the woman turned and studied the well-groomed 50 something man in a beige knee-length peacoat.

Man: 212

Me: Hold on! I snapped back as an incoming text message took over my screen.

Man: 212-***-****....Call me on Monday.

Me: What?

Man: Whoever you’re working for now, you’ll be happier working for me.

While probably true, I was still skeptical of the man.

Me: What?

Man: Who do you work for? Next? I love your neck.

Me: What?

At this point I hopelessly gazed for my friend Lara to avoid the crazy next to me while the woman continued to be intrigued by the crazy.

Man: You really don’t know what I’m not talking about, do you?

Me: Not in the slightest.

Man: I’m legitimate, I’m a photographer. I want to shoot your neck, it’s long.

Me: Yeah, I used to get called a giraffe a lot.

Finally Lara arrived and I hugged her and whispered that I did not know the strangers next to me and she began to steer me away.

Man: I’m Steven Meisel, call me on Monday.

The name was lost on me until I googled later to find out that he is one of the most successful and famous fashion photographers in the world. He shoots every cover of Italian Vogue, many of the American Vogue’s, Madonna’s Sex Book and the list continues.

I was slightly excited at the prospect of being photographed by someone with more street cred than Kanye West has among douche bags and delighted to be one of the only people in the world who has told Steven Meisel to “hold on.” I contacted him two weeks later and his assistant, Ruk (the name of a chess piece...spelled incorrectly), asked me to send a photo and he would talk to Steven.

After sending the photo I received a reply in which Ruk asked me to describe the man in Grand Central because Steven did not remember approaching me. I then described the man and was told that it was not Steven and no one at the office matched my description.

Mortified I said that I was not an aspiring model by any means and apologized for the waste of time to which Ruk responded that he was more taken aback and amused at the impersonator who is giving out the right number.

With my model dreams crushed in only 3 lines of an email I resorted to going back to the office the next day my head a little lower...if only to hide the length of my neck.

Goals Accomplished:
1) First fake offer

2) Uncomfortable when I learned it was not legitimate

3) That even I can succumb to dreams of being a model

Admission: A Fist Pump

What: Pacha
Where: Pacha, Hell's Kitchen
Who: Justin, Jon, Myself

If you have ever been to Pacha and thoroughly enjoyed yourself then you should probably stop reading here.

“Come to Pacha,” Justin encouraged me.

Having worked in a night club for years, being over busy with work and only trying to new things for the sake of this blog/my sanity, I have become less of a “club” person and more of a “sit at home and eat bad food” person. A fact that I have no qualms with, but friends tend to think otherwise.

So not too long ago I decided to venture out and see the now infamous night club, Pacha, an offshoot of the famous club in Ibiza. With the likes of Snooki and the Kardashians recently attending I was apprehensive about what I was getting myself into.

Upon entering the club with Justin and Jon I found myself immersed in a stampede of hundreds of people bumping their way like ping pong balls around the room to get to the bar, the dance floor or the bathroom. Many of these drunk wonders would be referred to by Manhattanites as ‘bridge and tunnel’ or ‘strong islanders.’ Something I was assured does not always happen. More frequently, the club attracts hardcore music lovers that praise unity through music rather than unity through hair gel.

Spanning two floors Pacha is a large night club in Hell’s Kitchen that attracts famous DJs (Cosmic Gate, Bob Sinclair, etc.) and other celebrities alike. The dance floor, located on the lower level, can be viewed from the second floor, probably your best bet if you dislike being charged into repeatedly.

The music was a mix of trance and techno with a top 40 remix thrown in every so often. I found myself on the dance floor in a sea of fist pumping, lights flashing, dirty grinding, glove show mania that could only be subdued by the drink in my hand.

One girl took it upon herself to pin me against a wall while she danced (read: rubbed up against me) in front of me. Slightly scared by her lack of coherence due to the drugs she was on I searched around for someone to save me. When she finally turned her back to me I frantically texted Justin for a rescue, of which he gladly obliged.

After this I realized I had to throw away all of the things I usually found fun and fist pump with the best of them while dancing with no one in particular. (The trick I learned for fist pumping is to start low and bring it up slow…in case you ever find yourself in a similar situation.)

I called it a night at 1:30 AM, early by Pacha standards since you can stay well past 4 AM. And while this did not turn me into a ‘club kid’ it did make me appreciate the fist pumping, hair blown out, strobe light flashing action that I got to be a part of.

Goals Accomplished:
1) First big time NYC night club

2) Uncomfortable being assaulted by that many people

3) That fist pumping can be fun...if you don't take yourself seriously

How Far Down Does the Club Have to be in order to be Considered a Bunker?

What: Soft Opening for a club

Where: The Bunker Club, Meatpacking

Who: Amanda, Alex, Me

Welcome to Bunker, another sheik club that the meatpacking district can add to its repertoire. While I would normally not attend an overly buzzed about club because I don’t believe in lines on principal (there are 30 other clubs in a 5 block radius without lines) I went because a friend who works there put us on a list for a private party sponsored by Veuve Clicquot. No waiting and free alcohol? It was as though this friend knew my hopes and dreams…at least for the evening.

Virtually impossible to find Bunker is located beneath Bill’s Bar and Burger and right around the corner from 675; owned by the same group. I arrived to the club with my friends Amanda and Alex and were immediately prompted to specify which list we were on…apparently there were multiple. After finding the appropriate list and getting my ID checked twice we were ushered down a dingy stairwell to arrive in a very hip, well decorated club.

Once inside the club partygoers can gaze up at the arched stone ceiling dotted with skylights that are cast with shadows of passerby’s on the street. A giant disco ball spins over the small, but adequate dance floor in front of the DJ who is spinning an eclectic selection of classics intertwined with modern beats.

The walls are lined with tables for bottle service and further back past the dance floor is a wall of open glass doors leading to a semi-private bottle service area. The overly attractive waitresses and bartenders are quick, polite, and radiate just a hint of arrogance; a perfect combination of the service they provide and the slight power they have over guests.

Along the bar that spans almost half of this intimate nightclub one can grab a seat and enjoy nearly any cocktail their heart desires. At the very end of the bar stand two bookcases, relics of an old Saturday Night Live set, both a great talking piece and amply appropriate for the décor.

And while I enjoyed the free champagne and chocolate covered strawberries, my most entertaining part of the night had to be the people watching. Most of the people appeared to be models (a theory that was further proven by their refusal to eat food, smile and act as though they were having fun.) Scantily clad women hung off the arms of what appeared to be rich men and then the most enjoyable had to be the outrageously dressed fashionistas who spun on the dance floor before sulking at a table.

Goals Accomplished:

1) First invite to a trendy Meatpacking club

2) Momentarily uncomfortable by the clientel

3) Learned...free champagne=headache...and that people who want to be seen are as dreary as they appear

Starving Artist or Artistically Starved?

*Photo property of BMW

What: BMW Commercial Audtion
Where: Chelsea
Who: My brother and Me

Living in a city full of starving artists it occurred to me that I had never been on a commercial audition before (I do realize the irony in referring to actors who want to be in national commercials as 'starving artists'.) So I discussed this matter with a few of my actor friends and decided that the best (read: cheapest) route to go down was to rifle through the craigslist ads for open auditions.

After heavy sifting over many weeks I found one that actually struck me as legitimate. I implore anyone who uses craigslist for these types of services to be very scrupulous since many of them appear to be scams.

The ad I found was for an upcoming BMW campaign. The parameters for auditioning sounded simple enough, you had to be between the ages of 20 – 60 and have a brother who was willing to audition with you. Luckily for me my older brother, Tom, obliged my request to come into the city to participate in my newest adventure.

After sending in a silly bio and even sillier pictures of each of us we were invited to audition this past Saturday. The casting crew were unclear about compensation and other details, but it did not matter to me since I was not looking to score a gig, but rather have an experience…although my actor friends assured me that a national commercial pays big bucks. Of course when told this my mind dove into a series of possible futures including my celebrity status from the campaign (similar to the status of Flo for Geico or the guys for Free Credit Report.Com.)

Alas we arrived at the casting office Saturday morning at 10:00 AM to find that we were the first auditions of the day. At this office they disclosed to us some more details:

1) There would be six pairs of semi-finalists who would have portraits taken of them and “day in the life” webisodes would be made
2) Pairs of sisters could audition…although it sounded like they didn’t stand a chance
3) There would be compensation…and a lot of it
4) This would be a three year campaign for the winners
5) There were auditions in four cities: Paris, London, Berlin and New York

While Tom and I were slightly excited about the prospect of earning money
we assumed that some European pair with foreign charisma and charm would win.

During the on camera interview they made us walk from side to side (with a natural swagger of course), pose at different angles and do a full 360 degree turn. Finding this hilarious Tom and I could not help but laugh throughout the interview. Then we were asked rather brutal questions such as, “What is the worst quality in your brother?” or “Was there a time where you guys really didn’t get along?”

After getting through the interview, and still wanting to be brothers, they asked one final question, “Is there anything you two don’t agree on, see eye-to-eye on, or have different opinions about?”

Tom turned to me and said, “Go for it,” with a knowing look.
“Well, he likes women…and I don’t,” I said with a smile as we turned to leave.

Goals Accomplished:
1) First audition for a commercial
2) Uncomfortable whirling and twirling in front of a camera
3) Learned that foreigners have quite a sense of humor about sexuality

You're Invited

What: P.U.L.S.E. presents Insomnia

Where: Littlefield (Brooklyn, New York)

Who: Me

Slapping the title “New York Newbie” and writing a blog has awarded my first perk (other than an open forum for my mindless thoughts and blabberings.)

Last week I was invited to the first P.U.L.S.E. (People United by Lights, Sound and Energy) event, appropriately named Insomnia, here in New York City. It was hosted in a warehouse like club, Littlefield, in Brooklyn. I was told it was and Electric Music Party that would feature 5 DJs and a good time. Since it fit my criteria for an event (fun, new, and free) I decided to go.

After taking the G train, commonly called the Ghost train for its lack of consistency, two stops in the wrong direction I got out of the subway to take a cab. It was already midnight (past my bedtime) and I thought it best to get there as quickly as possible. Consequently, I had forgotten I was in Brooklyn, the land of black cabs that make their own rates. After several of these questionable cabs offered me fares I deemed too high I managed to flag down the one yellow cab in the area.

The driver took me to Littlefield where there were a couple dozen people loitering outside the discreetly marked building. Upon entering I was met with a wide array of patrons, from the girl wearing faux animal fur leggings and gloves that glowed to the skinny hipster boy wearing a backpack in the shape of a doll.

After walking past the bar and into the large backroom where all the DJs were performing it became immediately apparent what all of these people had in common, their love for music. There were five DJs lined up: Daddy Noomz, Tom Rogers, DJ Mass EffEft, DJ Stimp.E and Dj.DROID.

All of the DJs had an interesting and unique feel, but I would say the one that got the crowd the most excited and was the most interactive was DJ Mass EffEct. During his set, Mass EffEct wrote messages directed to the crowd on the display screen behind him, released balloons filled with lights, and then later unleashed a spider web that the crowd pulled across themselves and became intertwined in (a symbol of unity…and just plain old fun.) Along with interacting with the crowd I found Mass EffEct’s set the most fun, upbeat, and creative.

The event was full of electronic dance music and occasionally a top 40 beat was thrown in the mix. Party goers were full of energy, excitement, life and liquid courage. There were several attendees gloving, spinning lights on strings and dancing up a storm. The event itself appeared to be a success for the DJs and while attendance did not reach capacity, it was definitely full. Having never fully vested myself in this type of music in the past I can say one thing for sure; these people definitely know how to party (I left at 4:30 AM...a feat in and of itself for me.)

Goals Accomplished:

1) First time to a warehouse/rave type party

2) Uncomfortable getting lost in Brooklyn...and then felt slightly out of place in the crowd

3) Learned that these people party hard

The Apartment Hunt

*photo property of brooklynnynews.com

What: Apartment Hunting
Where: Midtown East/West, Hell's Kitchen, Greenwich Village, West Village, Bushwick
Who: Carson and Me

“It will all work out.” A lovely sentiment from friends and those I encountered while apartment hunting in New York City, but since their bum was not between a rock and hard place their words were lost on me.

Growing up I had apartment/condo/house hunted on multiple occasions with my parents. The main difference between then and now was that there was no dire need to move, no end point at which we had to vacate our current premises, no landlord banging down the door, and definitely no management company threatening to withhold a security deposit.

Last month there were all of those things and more. Brokers missed appointments, other brokers showed Carson and me the same apartment, even worse brokers showed us apartments that were already rented, and the very worst brokers tried to bait and switch us.

With eight days left in our lease Carson found an apartment on his own. Feeling slightly more screwed than before I panicked and reached out to a few friends whose couches I proposed a rental fee for.

Then, with four days left, Carson found out that there was an opening in the apartment he was going to sign for. However, when I found out there were no windows in the room I had to turn down the offer. The past year without windows dubbed me Harry Potter (I should also mentioned that I literally lived under a staircase) among my friends and I feared that another year would dub me Smegal.

I now reside in Bushwick (or far East Williamsburg if you are speaking to someone trying to fool themselves) for the next two months until I sign a new lease with a friend in Manhattan. Supposedly an “up and coming” section of Brooklyn, Bushwick has piqued my interest more than I could have anticipated. There is a version of Costco with products that are unrecognizable, a JFK Fried Chicken that serves seafood 24 hours a day and gunshots are simply the crickets of the neighborhood. The commute to work is the same, eating out is cheaper, groceries are basically free, oh and my rent is less than half…why didn’t I try this sooner?

Goals Accomplished:
1) First time I have had to apartment hunt, when I moved down I was offered a spot
2) More uncomfortable with fried chicken and fish than with the crickets
3) Learned the cost saving lifestyle attainable in Brooklyn

The Brooklyn Bridge Takes Me Where?

What: Walking the Brooklyn Bridge

Where: Brooklyn Bridge

Who: Jason and Me

Walking the Brooklyn Bridge has been on my bucket list since the first time I visited to New York, but for some reason or another I had never done it…up until last week that is.

A friend of mine, Jason, asked me to meet him in Dumbo. When I asked, “Why?” he told me that it was ‘ridiculous’ that I have yet to walk over the bridge, a fact made truer since I work downtown.

I found Dumbo to be pretty awesome, it is trendy and fun like Williamsburg, but without all the hipsters. Sadly, the rents are the same as Manhattan.

Walking against traffic (read: walking back towards Manhattan at 6 PM) over the bridge turned out to be slightly difficult even though there are clearly two walking lanes. People walking with the majority found it appropriate to edge Jason and me into the bike lane so their commute could go quicker.

Traffic jams aside the view from the bridge is amazing. While I have seen pictures of and from the bridge for years, it was a whole new experience to see these images firsthand. The city lights look brighter, the buildings bigger, the arches on the bridge taller and the tourists more plentiful.

However, I did have a heart attack when one girl thought it would be fun to pose on a ledge for a photo. There was nothing to catch this girl from falling into the speeding cars below and I can only hope the picture was worth it. Having a weak stomach I turned away before her friend snapped the photo or she fell to her death, an outcome that will haunt me forever.

This experience, while short, was invigorating; it reminds you of all the possibilities that lay before you in the city.

Goals Accomplished:

1) First time walking the Brooklyn Bridge

2) Not uncomfortable, but worried about the girl that may or may not have a picture of herself

3) Did not learn much, other than I waited too long to do this

"Ms. Stoeger, my plastic surgeon doesn't want me doing any activity where balls fly at my nose." - Clueless

*image property of http://www.porhomme.com/

What: Dodgeball
Where: PS 87 (Upper West Side)
Who: Shake That Bear


Much to my delight my roommate, Carson, invited me to play dodgeball with his office on a Zog sports team. Having passed on their basketball team last season due to a lack of hand-eye coordination I figured that it would be pretty hard to screw up a sport intended for 12 year olds.

Almost immediately I realized that my assumption was wrong. Not only is dodgeball harder than I remember, but the stakes are raised when it is an adult game. Apparently it is socially acceptable to lose at a real sport like soccer or baseball, but the idea of losing at a children’s game makes men nearing midlife crisis age even more competitive.

I arrived at PS87 at 6:00 PM for a warm-up with my team, Shake That Bear. The team name eluded me and if the meaning escapes you as well count yourself lucky. One of my teammates brought his son who coincidentally had played dodgeball earlier in the week at school. The 11 year old boy very quickly put me to shame (although I would argue he had the advantage by being small.)

After the first game I started to get the hang of it and learned not to close my eyes while trying to catch a ball…I realize most of you reading this probably would have figured this out beforehand, but I assure you it is exceedingly hard to do when balls are flying at your face.

By the fourth and final game I was definitely in the better half of the pack. A new feeling, one I did not experience at the ripe old age of 12, arose; feeling badly for aiming at the girls. A few girls on the opposing teams were scared of the balls and hitting them felt wrong, which makes me a wimp or a victim of their highly tactical head game.

I did however derive great pleasure from pegging a guy who screamed “Who’s your Daddy?” every time he got someone out. Needless to say I shouted his catch phrase as he sidled off the court.

All in all our team turned out to be pretty awesome and won all four games. It was a super fun thing to do and an added bonus that all the money raised by member fees goes to charity.

Our celebration? Shake Shack…but that institution deserves a whole other post.

Goals Accomplished:
1) First Zog sports experience
2) Not uncomfortable...just embarrassed
3) Learned that children's sports can be for adults too...but to be weary of the competitiveness of balding men

Why am I Arched Up During Downward Dog?

*Image property of www.trek2befit.com

What: Yoga
Where: 24 Hour Fitness
Who: Strangers and Me

Yoga seemed to be all the rage over the past few years (and probably before then, but unbeknownst to me) so I decided it was time to take my first class. I thought it best to start out low key (read: free) at the 24 Hour Fitness I belong too.

This time would not be like my spin class, I would be prepared. So I gathered my water bottle and towel and made my way to the gym on a recent Saturday. I showed up at the class five minutes early to find myself standing entirely with women. Not terribly surprised, I waited with them until the previous class finished.

Fearful of being in the front of them room I grabbed a spot towards the back with the matt that my gym had provided (this would be a good idea until the teacher would make us turn around during certain positions.)

The teacher arrived moments later and I really don’t think there is a way not to sound stereotypical. She had wavy (or free as she would describe) hair, spandex pants, and spoke in a calming voice that she would refer to as wind throw the willows, although I am quite sure that no wind ever uttered the words “downward dog.”

I am slightly hesitant to say the class itself was rather easy, although I did not find it greatly challenging. What I found more challenging was concentrating, there were just so many things in the classroom to look at: the crack in the floor at the front of the room, the punching bag swaying slightly, the mirror that reflected everyone’s twisted faces. All of these distractions made it hard to imagine myself in the green pastures of Thailand or some other country she continually referred too.

However, I will pride myself on only laughing twice. The first being on downward dog (do I really need to explain further?) and the second being when a girl who quickly deemed herself as the teachers pet toppled over, try not to judge me too much (after all the Germans created a word for this so it can’t be all bad; schadenfreude.)

My cousin has invited me to partake in Vinyasa yoga at a studio in the East Village…this time I am actually fearful after looking it up, but then again…it will be something new.

Goals Accomplished:
1) First time going to a Yoga class
2) Some of the positions were uncomfortable
3) Learned that not all Yogis (is that a word?) are hippies, names for positions don't always make sense, and it can actually be kind of fun

Personal Assistant or Dog Walker? Doesn't Matter if You're in the Hamptons!

*Walli "enjoying'" the beach

What: Weekend Trip
Where: The Hamptons (Amagansett)
Who: My cousin, Walli, Myself...and a few fun encounters

The Hamptons, what felt like an elusive getaway for me, but a regular excursion for many of the elite. Having grown up in New England friends would go there over the summers. However, I had never been there myself…until recently.

My old boss who I was a ‘personal assistant’ for (read: glorified dog walker) informed me that Walli, his golden retriever, “needed” to go to the beach for the weekend. While I am not a person that treats dogs like humans, I am a poor recent college graduate who believes in treating the likes of me as a celebrity.

Without hesitation I jumped at the opportunity to dog sit in Amagansett with my cousin, Jess, who would be accompanying me. Not only would we be weekending there, we would get to take his SUV (read: environment killer) there. This allowed us to avoid the Jitney, which I was slightly sad about since I have heard so much about it and I am sure would be a new experience all in itself.

Jess, Walli, and I drove the three hours to the beach for what turned into quite the memorable weekend. A fun fact that my prior boss and Jess managed to leave out was that his neighbor was a celebrity and friend of theirs; Sarah Jessica Parker.

Trying not to be too eager about meeting her I pretended not to be disappointed when I missed her the first time we stopped by her house. Luckily on round two I caught her off guard and was the strange cousin of her friend. Immensely excited, I tried to hide it by casually greeting hello.

The house we stayed at was wonderful and only twenty short feet to the private beach. Swimming twice a day was great (once during the day and then again at night.) However, it was disconcerting to actually be able to see the stars for the first time in a few months.

To top off the weekend we got a surprise visitor, another friend of my cousins and my old boss, Matthew Morrison. This has become a namedropping post, my apologies; I am more trying to lay out the weekend than boast about my dumb luck…not really luck if you don’t care about celebrities.

Overall, it was a great weekend, but I see why only “the super rich can afford it,” as said by Robin Leach.

Goals Accomplished:
1) First time going to the Hamptons
2) Mostly comfortable, but nervous around for celebrities (this must have been instilled by society because by the looks of it they are human)
3) Having the "right" friends can have benefits

It's Not a Bar Fight When it's on a Boat

*photo: property of www.theyoungandthehungry.com

What: Bar Fight
Where: The Frying Pan
Who: My roommates, myself, miscellaneous rowdy men

I find it remarkable that I have been in New York City for months and just recently saw my first bar fight; or rather I saw a ‘boat fight.’ On Saturday night I went to the Frying Pan as a send off for one of my roommates who is leaving for London.

Located on the Hudson, the Frying Pan, is a boat that is permanently docked and serves as a bar in the warmer months. There are two smaller side boats, the first of which has dancing down below at the base of the ship.

After having one drunken jock approach me, initiating a fight, on my walk through the dock to the ship I realized I had entered a rowdy location. I made my way over to the further side boat and found my friends seated around a large table.

Within ten minutes my attention turned to the party of thirty next to us. One man at the table next to us was shouting at a guy on the main boat, which could not have been more than three feet away. The guy on the main boat was urinating off the side of the main boat into the direction of the side boat. A shouting match ensued when the party next to us proceeded to take an innocent picture of themselves and the Pisser accused them of trying to snap a photo of his ‘piece.’ (Definition number 7 in the link)

One of the girls at the party turned out to be a quite a firecracker and started throwing bottles at the Pisser and one broke upon hitting him. The Pissers friends started shouting and in return the guys at the Party table decided to take action. Instead of walking twenty feet down the side boat to dock back onto the main boat they decided to take a scene straight out of a pirate movie. Five of the guys in the Party climbed up the railing of the side boat and jumped to the railing of the main boat and scaled up the side.

Moments later the Pisser was in a chokehold and one of his friends was being punched in the face. Fists were thrown and men were falling to the ground. At least ten people were taking part in this fight; the guys from the Party outnumbering the Pisser’s friends exponentially.

One female bartender tried to shout to stop the fight while her male counterpart continued serving drinks. Without adequate security at this location the fight was not broken up. Instead it continued with punches being thrown, men rolling on the floor, and violent words until the Pisser and his friends retreated.

Just when I thought I had witnessed a great fight, the girl who threw the bottle that smashed over the Pisser proceeded to go onto the main boat and retrieve the Pisser’s food which had been delivered and left untouched. Needless to say this girl is now my hero.

Goals Accomplished:
1) First New York Bar Fight
2) Not terribly uncomfortable...there were no bottles aimed at me
3) The firecracker girl taught me that you truly can have your cake and eat it too...and if you want to have a successful bar fight without any arrests, do it at a place like the Frying Pan where security is lacking

Is That Your Third Cheeseburger?

What: Charity Event
Where: 230 Fifth, Rooftop
Who: Phil, his friends, me

A friend of mine recently invited me to a charity event. Struck at the idea that someone thought I had anything to give intrigued me. I became even more intrigued when said friend told me that he does marketing for the company supplying the liquor and that they would be footing the bill for our tickets.

Now that I had become charity too, I agreed to go. The liquor company he was promoting, Rokk Vodka, is a new brand that is directly trying to compete with Svedka. While I found Rokk’s packaging tacky, ripping off Svedka’s, I found their willingness to contribute to charity for me more than compensatory.

All of the money raised was going to the GLAAD (Gay & Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation)foundation. I was told that countless ‘C’ list celebrities would be there in support as well as free food and drinks. With more of my focus on food than the nameless faces I arrived at 230 Fifth at 7:00 PM; right when the event was starting.

After meeting up with my friend, Phil, and his three friends we went upstairs to the top floor where there was a red carpet and paparazzi snapping photos of who I can only assume were celebrities. Instead of waiting around to find out who they were I scurried up the stairs to the rooftop in the hopes of getting Rokk’s contribution worth in food.

On the rooftop there were more people than I had anticipated and moving around was difficult. Among the crowd were at least a dozen young men walking around in bathing suits, something that did not strike me as particularly unusual for a gay event. However, the clipboards in their hand did. In fact, they were part of a silent auction; their bathing suits were being sold to the highest bidder. As someone who has a hard enough time rationalizing a new $60 bathing suit I could not fathom paying for a dirty one.

The night itself was nothing out of the ordinary, it was a free party with men walking around in practically nothing, a few celebrity faces I recognized and could not place (until I Googled them later), and a ton of free food and alcohol. Some of the more interesting Google results were as follows: Bethenny Frankel (Real Housewives of New York and host of the party), Thomas Roberts (MSNBC anchor), and Johnny Weir (Olympic Gold Medalist.)

The only difference between this and the launch party I attended was that the crowd was bitchier. Various people negatively commented on others attire or asked if eating that fourth cheeseburger was a good idea.

Person X (wearing a pink and white plaid shirt): Is that your third cheeseburger?
Me: Fourth actually.
Person X: Are you sure you need that?
Me: This coming from the guy wearing a tablecloth as a shirt?

Within moments the gentleman had taken the cheeseburger from my hand and thrown it off the roof deck.

I can only imagine who it fell on below and what lucky rodent got to eat my delicious burger.

Goals Accomplished:
1) First charity event
2) Closest I got to being uncomfortable was being called out for eating so much
3) Learned that it is important to hold tightly onto your free food

5 AM?! Why Wouldn't I be at a Concert in Central Park?

What: Summer Concert Series: Usher

Where: Central Park

Who: Erica and Me

When a friend emailed me with an invitation to attend Good Morning America’s Summer Concert Series in the Central Park I accepted not realizing the repercussions of such an agreement.

At 5:30 AM on Friday morning my alarm told me that I was already ten minutes late. I was to meet my friend, Erica, in 15 minutes near the park. I stumbled out of bed and into, what can only be described as, the night. Upon meeting Erica in the Upper East Side we walked to the 72nd Street entrance of Central Park.

There we waited in the wrong line for twenty minutes. Upon reaching the front of the line we were told that those with VIP tickets had to wait in a separate line, so we took our seemingly wonderful VIP tickets and waited another ten minutes in a line that awarded us a bracelet that signified our status.

We were then led past the crowd and into a gated area right in front of the stage where we would wait for the next two hours. The performer was supposed to be Rihanna, but much to my dismay she cancelled and Usher would be performing instead. The twelve year old girls and their mothers did not seem to share my disdain. Instead they hailed posters, screamed, and occasionally lifted their shirts in the hopes that they would be like one of the lucky thousands of girls before them to make it backstage.

Usher appeared thirty minutes later to have a stagehand walk him through his performance. The instructions he was given were interrupted by the prepubescent girls and their mothers screaming for his attention.

Not terribly engaged in Usher’s ability to follow the stagehand around I geared my attention to the two women who had started a fight. One could only guess what they were fighting about, but I hoped that at least one of the following scenarios had ensued:

1) One of the females referred to Usher as “her man”
2) One had accidentally bumped into the other
3) One had stolen the other’s boyfriend years ago, became pregnant, and this was the first time they had seen each other since

Regardless of the reasoning behind the fight, the visual of the two women, with their hair standing up and their clothes slightly torn, was enough for me. Others attempted to compete with this excitement, the girl that passed out, the woman who used Erica as an armrest, the girl that lied down on the pavement and put her legs between mine, but none of them came close to the intensity of the fight.

Another hour of scanning the crowd for a fight and Usher finally came on after being presented by Robin Roberts and George Stephanopoulos, both of whom left something to be desired. Their pasted on smiles and raised eyebrows may have translated well on TV, but were fairly creepy in person.

Usher performed, or rather danced, his way through two songs, neither of which I knew. His vocals could hardly be heard over the music, but his constant hip thrusts at dancers wearing their weight in make-up were evident.

It was an amusing performance that was made more enticing by the common belief among that crowd that each and every one of them was his biggest fan.

Upon finishing his second set, Erica and I bolted from the stage area and ran to the outskirts of the park to avoid any chaos that would ensue. Waiting three hours to hear two songs we could only assume that other concert goers had pent up energy. If this post sounds like a lot of buildup only to be let down, well then you now share my sentiment about the performance.

Goals Accomplished:
1) First time going to a concert in the morning and seeing Usher perform (safe to say the last as well)

2) Uncomfortable being around the massive amounts of estrogen
3) Learned VIP means standing in two lines

Ridin' Solo

*Picture from www.wired.com (one of my favorite publications)

What: Bicycling (Manhattan-Style)
Where: Midtown down to the World Financial Center
Who: Me

About a month ago I became dead set on the idea of riding my bike to work. And then, approximately two weeks ago, I summoned up the courage to do so. Having absolutely no idea how far it was from Midtown East down to the World Financial Center I assumed it must be a short distance, in my mind, with Manhattan being a tiny island, I thought a mile tops (probably something I should not be openly admitting). But when put into Google Maps, one can find the actual distance of 6 miles, not an epic feat, but a fair ride for 8 AM.

The route seemed simple enough; all I had to do was to get from the East Side (Lexington Avenue) over to the West Side and then I could take the bike path that runs along the West Side Highway all the way to my office.

Taking the bicycle down the stairs of my apartment (a feat in and of itself) and arriving on the street, immediately I realized that I was not in Connecticut anymore and the chances of being hit by a car grew hunredfold. Buckling my helmet and throwing caution to the wind I mounted the bicycle and headed East on Lexington to eventually go down one block so that I could go West. It was at this moment that I decided not to be a bike that went the wrong way down one-ways.

90% scared and 10% euphoric (for not having to ride the subway) I peddled down Lexington and then took a right to make it over to the West Side. It was going smoothly until I was stuck in traffic due to a red light and could not decide if I wanted to ride up the side of the cars to the front of the line; something I have seen many bikers do. While I started to edge towards the front of the line I ran into a series of obstacles: cars tried to pull out, taxi passengers were opening their doors, and people were j-walking. Having to swerve every 3 seconds to avoid inevitable death I decided to wait until traffic began to move.

I thought I had beat all the obstacles when I hit 8th Avenue until a fellow biker, a delivery man of sorts, was coming towards me going the wrong way down a one-way. Not only was he going the wrong direction, he proceeded to edge me out into the road so that I could not ride next to the parked cars. Disgusted I looked back to see if I was going to be hit, luckily I was not, but it took every ounce of effort for me not to casually reach out and knock the man off his bike as he passed (something I cannot promise will be done in the future.)

Finally, making it to the path on the West Side Highway I rode leisurely down to my office where I parked in the garage and was ushered into the freight elevator to go upstairs. Not realizing that I could not stop in the bathroom before the elevator I showed up on the floor of my building sweating profusely in a tank top and shorts (read: not the best way to get ahead in the ‘finance world.’)

After running into the bathroom to change I realized I had made the second mistake of the day, I had put all of my belongings into my roommates ‘Glee’ bag and had to proceed to carry that around the office for the day. The ridicule between wearing a ‘beater’ and carrying a ‘Glee’ bag that ensued for the rest of the day was quite humorous…for the rest of the office.

I plan on riding in at least once a week.

I have never felt so refreshed going into work, it was probably the combination of the fresh air by the water, not being in the subway, and the constant fear that I might die at any moment.

Goals Accomplished:

1) First time riding a bike "Manhattan-Style"
2) Wildly uncomfortable riding close to cars

3) Learned that other bikers can be worse than the cars on the road

Wanna Flip?

What: Launch Party

Where: Kimberly Hotel
Who: Myself, Carson, Amanda, Alex, and Courtney

Last week I attended a launch party for the new company “FlipMe.” And while my feelings about the company itself are less than desirable, the party itself was not. Then again I must take into account the fact that I am easily pleased with free food and free alcohol.

The company is a new dating site that also has an in-person component. Anyone can sign up to make a dating profile on the site (if you pay the $24.99 fee...which only gets you thirty dating cards), however in order to let anyone view your profile you must give them a “flipme card” in person. Therefore, profiles cannot be searched and browsed. To top it off, the company seemed to be oblivious to the fact that "flipping" is a commonly used term in the gay community. For those who are unfamiliar with the term, I will not go into specifics, but it usually takes place in the bedroom.

My roommate brought it to the attention of many that it would be viewed as wimpy for a guy to go up to a girl and give her a flipme card rather than his number. Personally, I agree, it is an unnecessary step in the dating process. People should either date online or in person. One point that one of the two founders brought up was that it would be good for people who want to cheat…whoever said New York City doesn’t have any morals?

Regardless, the party was definitely entertaining. It was held on the roof deck of the Kimberly Hotel, a fairly unknown gem in Midtown East. The glass ceiling and walls open to create a spectacular view of the city lights.

There was a variety of media, people from the Wall Street Journal, The New York Insider, and others. A mini red carpet was laid out and many people attempted to pose with Miss New York.
Employees of FlipMe ran around explaining the product and showing people the cards. Most were stupefied when asked what they would do if handed a card by someone and it made the evening more enjoyable.

The only thing more enjoyable than the unprepared staff was when my roommate decided to ‘wingman’ for me.

Roommate: Don’t take offense to this, but do you sleep with chics or dudes? My roommate thinks you’re cute.
Cute Guy: I sleep with chics.
Roommate: Really? You look gay.
Cute Guy: What??!! Why?!
Roommate: Your facial hair is too well maintained.
Cute Guy: But I don’t do anything to it!
Roommate: Well maybe you should so it looks like you don’t.

Goals Accomplished:
1) My first launch party

2) My roommate definitely made me uncomfortable flirting with a straight guy (it should be noted that my roommate is also straight)
3) I learned that a surprising number of people want to be photographed in the hopes of ending up online or in magazines

Love the Glove

*Above is jStar gloving at a birthday party

What: Gloving
Where: The BK (Brooklyn)
Who: Myself and jStar

Never having been a person who enjoys raves or the drugs that accompany them I was ignorant when a good friend of mine, stage name: jStar, told me he was a “glover.”

A “glover” he said, as though this was a noun that should already be in my vocabulary, even after having worked at nightclubs this word was still beyond my realm of understanding.

“You’re a what?” I asked.

“I glove,” he responded.

Turning the noun into a verb made it no more recognizable to me, but apparently now it was thing you could ‘be’ as well as ‘do.’

jStar then went on to explain to me exactly what he meant. The performer (the glover) wears a pair of gloves that contain lights in each of the finger tips (well they insert the lights themselves, but that is neither here nor there). There is also the option of having a ‘palm’ light which, as I am sure you guessed, goes in the palm of the glove.

These gloves are worn mainly to DJ events that take place in clubs or at festivals. Then the performer/glover moves their hands to the music. With the surroundings dark this gives the effect of floating lights and creates a spectacle that is mesmerizing. Most glovers give individual shows to people, and occasionally do group ones, but the people have to be close enough together because these light shows are meant to take place directly in front of your face.

jStar then offered to perform a private glove show for me in his room. With the shades drawn to block out any street light, he played one of his favorite trance tracks. He then proceeded to move his hands in precise, exquisite motions in front of me. Each movement was thought out, prepared, practiced. The end result being a story of lights in front of me, the story was happy when the music was happy and sad when the music was sad.

It was entrancing and though I was skeptical I will now say I am converted. While this group of people (glovers) may be considered dorky at the surface level, the actual act itself is pretty cool.

I can only imagine what the people who do drugs at these clubs and raves see as the lights move, but even for the sober folk like me it is an awesome experience.

Webster Hall hosts a party every Saturday night called Circus that often times have glovers if you want to see this in action. My next step in this world is to attend one of these, anyone want to join?

There is also the Electric Daisy Carnival (EDC) later this month in L.A. This two day festival is guaranteed to score you more glovers than you can handle.

Other various DJ events attract glovers as well, you just have to dig a little bit to find the right event.

Or if none of these options appeal to you, just click here and get ready to be gloved…if one in fact can be “gloved.”

Goals Accomplished:

1) I had never seen a glove show before, let alone had a private one

2) Hmm I might have missed the boat on being uncomfortable...but maybe when I go to a massive venue I will be

3) I learned what gloving meant and that there is quite the following for it