Idiot Parade

Last evening's Costume Institute Gala at The Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York apparently served as an excuse for celeb elite to make perfect jackasses of themselves. Taking the lead... again... Madonna, who continues her downward spiral to make even Lady KaKa look less like a spectacle.Rihanna is a close runner-up, with this tux cum jellyfish mess.And taking honors in third place is the perpetually dowdy Kirsten Dunce... oops, Dunst, who looks like the girl who always stood in the corner at high school dances, draped in a taffeta potato sack. Fugly girl!So bad that we can't even rank her is Victoria Beckham, who recently baffled The Smoking Nun by insisting that she doesn't care for men whose crotches are filled out(!?!?!?). Who the hell does she think she is, Cynthia Nixon? She must be the only meemaw alive who missed who husband David Beckham's ravaging manhood...It wasn't all bad, thanks to Kate Hudson, who shimmered in a beautiful form-fitting Stella McCartney gown.

Tinatin At Eurovision

Dear friend and singer/songwriter Tinatin is having the experience of a lifetime, as her beautiful ballad "Is It True," which she co-wrote with acclaimed Icelandic songwriter/producer Oskar Pall Sveinsson and Christopher Neil—a hero of mine, as the producer of Sheena Easton's early hits and much of Celine Dion's first English album—is representing Iceland at the legendary Eurovision Song Contest, which is taking place in Moscow (deliciously ironic, since Tinatin is from the nation of Georgia) May 12-16.

Tinatin is reporting her every move from the contest on her blog: tinatinmusic.wordpress.com/ and it's a fascinating read.

The annual Eurovision Song Contest, which launched in 1956, includes 43 nations, including most of NATO, the Eastern European block and Israel. It attracts between 100 to 200 million viewers worldwide. Previous victors include ABBA, Celine Dion and our Turkish heroine Sertab.

Tinatin's song was chosen to represent Iceland among an open field of 217 songs, four weeks of semifinals and a nationally televised grand finale, sung by gifted vocalist Yohanna (at left, with T), who fostered an astonishing 44% of the national vote.

Reading Tinatin's blog is more fun than watching "Dynasty," as the Icelandic delegation—not to mention the Russian hosts—treat her like royalty. Already, "Is It True" is among my top songs of first-quarter 2009. Let's hope that the entire world feels the same.

Donna Mae Addendum

Photographically, I hardly skimmed the surface of Donna Mae Moose's visit last week, since we were busy doing instead of sitting in front of the computer.Let me see if I can put this back together... On Saturday, we confronted the challenge that comes with moving furniture—when there's nowhere to move it. The task was to replace the age-old oriental carpet in the bedroom with a new rug I bought three or four months ago... that's been rolled up in a corner awaiting assistance.

Now, not being physicists, we tried everything but suspending the bed from the ceiling before realizing that if we just pulled up the mattress and box springs, the 200-pound bed would be a might bit easier to move than trying to scoot it from corner to corner around a 9x12 room. You live, you learn.

We also hung the outrageously huge print that I recently bought (78¾x55") that fit only on one wall in the bedroom. Nailing into a cement wall... hey, another nearly insurmountable challenge. Boy, that thing looked smaller in the store.Dinner was much more precise, as Mae Moose prepared homemade lasagna for us. Mmm mmm, good. Layers and layers of pasta, ricotta cheese, beef and a good 30 pounds or so of mozzarella cheese. Best of all, we cooked enough to last for the next three days, and like most cheese-centric meals, it just got better once it had time to truly set up.

For desert, Ayhan gave Kirbisha a nice bath. As you can see, she thoroughly enjoyed the experience.Painting the living room got off to a slow start, but after scoring primer and then agreeing upon "Twilight Gray" as the chosen new hue, we at last stopped procrastinating and started slapping the roller to the wall... Donna and I discovered in due haste that painting... is not much fun. There's just no particular redemptive glee in the process of priming, engineering corners, taping trim, moving furniture from here to there to here and reloading a roller 500 times. No, painting is work. And, despite the satisfying results, it just plain hurts.

No creative endeavor is truly worth its weight without creating a gargantuan mess. We succeeded.Onward! Monday, Mae Moose and I welcomed the most perfect weather day sitting outside for breakfast at Happy Days Diner in Brooklyn Heights—and were treated to a parade down Montague Street as a bonus, as St. Ann's private school paid tribute to Satan or something of the sort.To Central Park...And the zoo, where no one would come within 10 feet of poor Miss Piggy, thanks to Swine Flu (hey, how's your mamma?)...Here's Mae Mae in her new New York fashion. Take that Lynchburg!

As the painting continued into Tuesday, we at last wrapped the living room, evolving from the sun-kissed gold that it sported for the past seven or eight years (which Strele and Trix Moose were major contributors to, while I believe I created the musical playlist) to the more rich and regal gray. The new coat also gave me the opportunity to paint over some of the many flaws that have come into being over the decade—scary cracks, stupid efforts to remove molding and pulling off the plaster—in all, just a new complexion as I too look toward renewal. A package deal, of sorts.

During her visit, Mae, Ayhan and meese had a fab Turkish dinner up Montague Street at Taze. A must.And finally, Tuesday evening, Donna and I made our way to the building rooftop just in time for dusk, a view that never loses its chroma colors. Here, we look upon the Hudson toward downtown Manhattan...And the vast expanse of Brooklyn...Ah, so that's a wrap. It was another wondrous visit—Mae's third over the past year (and her first trip ever by herself! I'd say she definitely discovered her sense of independence that she may never previously have held complete trust in). An utterly priceless time with my dear friend. So I leave you with a piece of fine art. We call in "Seat On Heat." I could win a Pulitzer for this, don't you think?

Nine Years Ago

It was nine years ago May 2 when I moved to Brooklyn Heights. What a conundrum it was spending every weekend searching for an apartment. Below are some entries from my journal that I found today. The apartment was originally priced at $299,000 and—in the years just before bidding wars across NYC—I was able to purchase for $255,000, despite a bidding war. Of course, today, you're lucky to get a sniff of interest, much less multiple bids.The building, in the Queen Anne style, was typical of much of the architecture of the 1880s, when it was constructed.Looking up Montague Street in the days before the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. My building is right in the center.From my journal:
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 1, 1999
I have made the decision to move out of the Tribeca homestead come this spring. It's time to find a space to call my own. I am thinking seriously of buying something. For god's sake, Manhattan has made it clear by its eternally rising real estate prices that single people making less than $100,000 have no place in this culture. It's actually cheaper for me to pay of mortgage than rent a one-bedroom.

My fantasy is to find a fab, historic place in Union Square that will contain my greatly missed queen-size bed and another room in which to place an office and music room. A real living room/combo dining room would be swell and a modest kitchen that at least allows me to place my favorite glasses, dishes and that precious Calphalon.

This [Tribeca] apartment is great, but after crossing the 37 zone, I feel a need to pull things together for myself again. Buying property is the last thing you could have told me I'd be interested in a year ago, but now we're playing a different ball game. This is my city now.

SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 6, 1999
Apartment hunting venture No. 1 is now under my belt, and what an eye-opening experience it was. I set about circling every open house in Chelsea (because it's a neighborhood I know so intimately) to see what a dollar might buy. Little of nothing was the response I got. Decent studio apartments for just under $200,000 and nothing even remotely livable for under $250,000. The idea of two bedroom was pretty much out the door in a flash, along with a dishwasher, washer/dryer and any amenity beyond the occasional doorman and a nice window—facing another window six feet away.

Returning home and recounting my story to Alice and Francie, they both suggested Brooklyn Heights, a hop on the subway lines across the mighty Hudson into a neighborhood that they proclaimed as the an affordable version of the West Village. I pulled out the ads and saw amazing words like 2 bedrooms, fireplace, rooftop deck, even dishwasher. Eureka!

FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 11, 2000
I need some space, I need my space, I want my furniture out of storage. I want to pick out colors and decorate and play music at midnight without headphones, to watch TV at 8:45 in the morning if I want, since there's no one sleeping 10 feet away. I'm 37, not a kid and I feel I live in a fucking sorority house.

I've been looking actively for several weeks now, spending Sundays in Brooklyn Heights, my destination of choice. I put a bid on an apartment last Sunday—and am still awaiting word nearly a week later. The situation has been particularly challenging because it is being sold not be an individual owners, but by a coop board (the apartment used to house the super, so the building itself is selling it). That has meant jumping through hoops like a damn trained dog.

The best trick was yesterday, when I essentially had 15 minutes to put together what might as well be called a career essay, where I brag about what I do, my accomplishments in the media and basically told them that I am a renowned journalist that would make a swell addition to their building. Whatever.

It's been five days now and I still know nothing. I put in a bid of $242,000 on the asking price of $260,000, found out I was the high bidder among god knows how many, and answered 500 questions for the management company ("Are you planning to make renovations before you move in?" No is the right answer?). I upped the bid to $250,000 on Wednesday amid rumors that someone else had put in a bid for $242,000 cash.

The location of this apartment is absolutely ideal, in fact paradisiacal. The unit is on the second floor, which I love; it's spacious, with two real bedrooms, a great living room and, um, a kitchen and bathroom that leave a lot to be desired. The place needs work, for sure, but for its price in a market where most squatty hole begin at $300,00, it has such great potential that it's worth updating bit by bit.

MONDAY, FEBRUARY 14, 2000
At last. The coop was board was deciding between me and the winch whose rich daddy had upped her bid to $2555 in fucking cash. I told my realtor I was sonde playing the game. She told me, "Okay, in one sentence, if you'll meet the other bid, the apartment is yours." Yes, of course. She made the call and phoned me right back: "You got it!!"

Birds could have shit on me at that moment and I'd have sung their praises. At last, I'm moving. Hallelujah, do you hear me, eureka, praise God! What a pleasant Valentine's Day. Who needs a boyfriend?

...And so it went. After a lengthy coop interview process, loan approval at 8.5%(!), at last, on May 2, 2000, I moved. Since, I've gutted and remodeled the kitchen, second bedroom and hallway, built closets and totally redid the bathroom. Nine years later, there's still much to do, but it's home. Who knew then that I was that smart? I certainly didn't.

Freaky Friday

The evening started elegantly enough. Ayhan and I were invited to the Upper East Side penthouse of our new friend Duffy—who he is working with to hopefully place his music with hit artists—and her friend and colleague Sergio. The view was astonishing, looking down upon Third Avenue from high, high above. Duffy also has a sprawling private terrace above her apartment. This is New York living at its primo best.

We all chattered away as the white wine flowed freely. Duffy also has some links with book publishers, and we talked about my goal of coming up with just the right authorized bio or music biz story to tell in long form—which I see as an ideal next step for me. Ayhan left around 7 and I put in another hour, making my exit for Lunasa around 8.

There's really no way for me to get around this, except telling the damn truth, cool cats. By the time I reached Lunasa, I was uh, feeling the full impact of the four gallons of wine I apparently consumed. We marked time with our weekly photograph as soon as I got there and, seeing it now, I, um, don't quite recall with exact precision seeing half the folks pictured. Bless my heart, I felt the vapors overtake me and apparently took a small lie-down right there in the bar. Class all the way, that's me!

By this point, everyone was pretty much closing their checks to head to HiFi on Avenue A to celebrate Tina B's birthday. I somehow conjured enough of a second wind to make my appearance and, judging the pictures, apparently I had a lovely time.To further complicate matters, the evening was hardly over. Ayhan had a 9 p.m. show that he was working and planned to join us at 11 p.m., followed by a slumber party at Donna & Ayhan's pad in the Lower East Village. Thankfully, Donna was already at the Tina celebration and took me to her apartment so that I could finally recline in peace. I slept a couple hours, then Ayhan and Donna returned home and apparently we watched a movie—so I'm told. At last, around 4:30 a.m., Ayhan and I caught a cab and came back to Brooklyn Heights. I might add, Ayhan was in no better shape than I... and miraculously, we were both up by 11 a.m. this morning. I lived to tell.

Lunacy @ LUNASA, May 1, 2009

May Day Boyzone

A new month and new reasons to be gay. Hurrah!
And four denim dreams in our continuing series "This is the way jeans should fit."

Graduation Day

Fine afternoon in the city on Thursday. After checking in with my shrink ("Your eyes are sparkling. You sound good. Here's your prescription." Yes!) in the East Village, I rang up Kristina for a catch-up. We took a nice walk around the nabe, and then I came up to the office for the first time since I made my final exit March 25.

Last week, when Donna Mae and I got off the subway to head to happy hour, I felt surprisingly emotional, sentimental and a little regretful that times had changed. I also felt a real disconnect from the time and space where I had made a living for the past 14 years. So consider my visit therapy.

It was a grand little reunion. Lots of fond shout-outs, nice conversations , hugs and handshakes with former co-workers and a 20-minute sit-down to catch up with editor "P," which felt warm and familiar and very positive. I even decided to share my blog address with him for the first time.

In all, I wandered around the office for a good half hour, unaccompanied, as if I still had rights and privileges there. I think the best way to describe it is visiting your high school the year after you graduate: still overtly familiar and yet somehow you no longer quite belong. All said, though, thoroughly enjoyed it.