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Mon, January 29

French Tuesday Special

On Saturday night, we waited outside of PM halfheartedly. I’d sure eaten enough to want to collapse in bed in a food coma. But V was totally into extending the night (we had had an early dinner at 8 o’ clock, which is unheard of for J and me), so we ponied up to the bouncer. “How many girls you got?” he asked us, as if us girls could be sold as a two for one special. “Two girls, two guys,” we told him. “Nah, nah, we can’t have that. We got far too many guys in there already. Girls ONLY.” We stepped back and watched five groups of guys approach the bouncer and then get rebuffed. “I thought you said it was two guys and six girls,” the bouncer said to one of the would-be club goers. “Yes, we will have more girls coming, but it actually is four guys and two girls.” “Well then, where are the girls? I don’t see any girls,” said the bouncer. “They’re coming. They’re on their way.” “Sorry man, it’s not gonna happen.” Then, this crazily dressed black dude came out of the club. He wore dark shades, all black, some knee high leather boots, and a furry hat. J leaned in and whispered in my ear, “See that guy? Just say to him, “Aramis, can we have the French Tuesday special?” I had no idea what that meant, but figured it must be some kind of cool kid code. Surely J would know. I put on a fake French accent and tried my best, to ask for a French Tuesday special. “But it is Saturday,” Aramis responded. “Yes, but perhaps you can give us the Tuesday special?” I tried asking again. My faulty logic must have worked, because then he asked, “How many?”and ushered us into the club. With no cover. Mais oui! It had been some time since I’d been to a club in the Meatpacking, and I was surprised at how old I felt in comparison to the other girls around me. Oh, by the way, the club was 95% girls. There were maybe, three guys, including the bartender. The girls traveled in packs, urgently pulling one another in different directions so they could gossip about this or that in private. As if you could overhear anything in there. As the night wore on, the music of course got better. And best of all—a live drum band came out, and it was just like my African dance class except everyone was wearing better clothes than sweats. Somehow the drummer skillfully combined Nine Inch Nails with African drumbeats and it was insane. V and I got up on the banquettes and danced. I confided in her that I was just a little afraid of heights and she just bounced all over the place. Luckily there was a group of guys below who seemed more than willing to catch me if I fell, but I kept my feet movements at a minimum. I love unexpectedly outrageous nights.

The next day, while waiting at Sunburst café for my Linz, a woman pointed to me (I should have known something was amiss. She was the only New Yorker in the city wearing a fanny pack). “You. You’re Mariah Carey,” she stated plainly. “Oh, me? Yeah, sometimes I get that I look like her.” “No,” she objected. “You ARE Mariah Carey. And my daughter is Mohammad Ali.” “Excuse me?” I asked. I wasn’t sure if I heard her correctly. She shouted, to be clear this time, “My DAUGHTER is Mohammad Ali. And you, you must have seen me on TV.” “Oh,” was all I could muster. I smiled at the Crazy. “You’re her, I know it, and you’ve seen me your whole life on TV. Yes, you have,” she insisted. Thankfully just then Linz, Lex, and Taryn showed up at the café. It would be far too tight a squeeze for a group, thank goodness. I waved goodbye to Crazy, and we made our way towards Pete’s Tavern for brunch.

Just as an aside, I'd like to wish my Grandma Bea a very Happy Birthday. She hasn't aged a bit, even though she thinks she has. (My Grandma maintains a farm, is a wonderful hostess, and travels often with my Grandpa. I think she's just the same as she's always been.) I'm lucky and so glad that we are close...and that she cares to read my blog even if it is sillly most of the time.

Posted by lexzog at Mon, January 29 | Comments (0)

Sat, January 13

Hip Hop Hasidim

My brother just posted this old video he made in high school and it is OFF THE HIZNOOK. Click here:
. (He's the other main hasidim guy who isn't rapping. The rapper is Dan McCabe.)

Speaking of hip hop, I took such an amazing dance class today at Broadway Dance Center with my friend Amanda. I couldn't believe this was a basic class. We danced to this new Ciara song called "That's Right" which moves at warp speed. I love this teacher! New hobby!

In the late afternoon, J, his sis, and I went to the Turkish and Russian baths on 10th street. Unfortunately, it is just as skuzzy as I remember, but they did redo the "radiating heat" room in nice tiles, so that's something. I always run into someone there. This time it was a co-worker, whom I did not recognize because a) she wasn't wearing glasses b) we weren't in the ladie's room at work (where we always run into one another) and c) she was in a bikini.

I signed up for one of the massages because it was relatively cheap and my lower back was sore from all that pop-locking in class. Yes, I realized that the massage table was placed strategically over a bed that I guess some of the staff use when they sleep over at the baths (or for guests?), and that it smelled a little bit like cabbage in there. But I have to say, I left the room feeling like jello. I hadn't had that good of a massage since...well, on the beach in Mexico. Ok, I am spoiled.

Went to El Cid for dinner last night. It is one of the first tapas places in the city, that opened way back when $6 was a lot to pay for a small plate of meatballs. We got serenaded by a Spanish music trio, and they sang our favorite Spanish song, to which I still only know the words, "Ai ai ai ai!" Oh well.

Going to see "Americans in Paris" at the Met tomorrow.

Oh, and did anyone read that New York Magazine article about the new Warhols? I just don't see what all the hype is about. I mean, c'mon, the guy indulges in making (what he calls) "hamster nests" in hotel rooms. "To make a Hamster’s Nest, Snow and Colen shred up 30 to 50 phone books, yank around all the blankets and drapes, turn on the taps, take off their clothes, and do drugs—mushrooms, coke, ecstasy—until they feel like hamsters." He also creates works of art out of his own phlemn: "I was sick, and I’d just wake up with a chest full of phlegm and spit all over the paper and make circles, you know? I’m not quite sure what I’m gonna do with those yet, but I like the way they’re coming out." Umokay. Something about him seems less like "cool rebel anarchist" and more like a kid brother just trying to get attention by picking his nose and wiping it on you so that you yell "Mooommmm!"

Posted by lexzog at Sat, January 13 | Comments (0)

Wed, January 10

Back From Mexico!

Back! And it already seems like yesterday that J and I were lounging in hammocks and counting how long the sunsets took. We stayed at a little hotel on the beach (just a dozen or so small cabanas) owned by a charming French guy named Julian. Each hut was decorated with African masks and they each had a four-poster bed (with mosquito netting). We had our own porch, and hammock. When the doors to the cabana were open, I could sit in my bed and see the ocean a mere 70 feet before me. It was PARADISE. Though, it was certainly no Hilton (think no toilet paper being allowed anywhere but in the waste basket and no hot water), it was as good as life gets in San Augustinillo (and for only about $60 a night!). Every morning I would have a bowl of fruit with yogurt and granola. We would walk along the beaches and hike over the rocks.

There was one area along the beach that in order to cross, you had to crawl through a crevice in the rocks while someone else was on the lookout to make sure the waves weren’t about to crash through it. I ended up scraping my back because I was so scared I would drown.

Our favorite meal was at a little taco shack where the cook alternated between making our tacos “al pastor and” breastfeeding her baby (you know, the secret recipe). We each had about 15 tacos, they were so darn good.

After Christmas, we headed over to Puerto Escondido. It was a ton busier than San Augustinillo, where we had been the only Americans there. There was a huge group of skydivers there, so the beach was more crowded than usual. Last time we were in Puerto we learned how to scuba. This time we attempted to learn how to surf. Our instructor was a debonair looking Mexican with bleached blonde hair. He spoke little English except the words: “Ehready? You suuuure? Ehgetup!” And his favorite: “Bikini bikini bikini!” (Because of course, I hadn’t dressed properly for the occasion, my suit kept on threatening to fall off with every swish of water). I did manage to ride my long board to the shore a few times, but the waves were so high I often freaked myself out. The waves were so strong that when I dove under them, the current yanked my surfboard away from me so hard that it almost pulled my leg out if its socket.

We spent New Years Eve at The Rockaway—a hotel that’s pretty popular with surfers and old hippies. We sat around a tiny bar, where miraculously the bartender and a friend somehow were able to whip up a full meal of pork filled with fruit, some shrimp in Russian dressing, green beans, and mashed potatoes. One of the men next to me (a “regular”) was drinking a dark brown drink. I asked him what it was, and he told me it was a special Mescal (a type of tequila) that was made by one of his friends across the bar. After a couple of sips of the licoricey drink he told me it had “hallucinogenic effects”. No thanks! I prefer marguerites…either way, it ended up being a pretty rough night. We watched fireworks on the beach. Those peeps in Puerto sure know how to party. When I woke up at 5 in the morning, I could still hear people dancing in the streets, and the kids were still awake.

Since there was a lot of political turmoil in Oaxaca these past few months, it too was almost devoid of tourists. But when we got there we found it was very tame. There was a major police presence around the Zocolo, and the city had painted white paint over any trace of graffiti or posters from the protestors. Sometimes it was eerie: You could still see broken glass where rocks had been thrown at some of the buildings. Otherwise, everything was as beautiful as I remembered. At night, kids would buy huge balloons and toss them up into the air by the big church on the Zocolo. Men with guitars serenaded the cafes. All the parks still had “birth in the manger” scenes and Christmas lights. And hooray! I did not get sick this time! We happened to have gotten a great deal at the best hotel in the city (The Camino Real). It used to be a monastery. So gorgeous! Boy did it feel good to finally take a hot shower and not need to use mosquito nets or Bug Be Gone. Oh, and there wasn’t even an option to throw toilet paper in a wastebasket—it was placed outside the bathroom.

We took a two-hour tour of the botanical gardens by the Church of Santo Domingo. We saw all kinds of cacti, native plants, and every kind of pepper imaginable. The tour guide was a little long winded, but we learned a lot more than we expected about the history of the church we so admired each time we passed it. We found a great new place to eat that was in a courtyard. They served jicama with limejuice and chili powder in lieu of tortilla chips when you sit down.

It all seems so far away now, in the cold and darkness of the city. It’s the kind of cold that makes you want to stay home and cook dinner. At least I’d being healthy and saving money!

Posted by lexzog at Wed, January 10 | Comments (0)