If you can not see the video on this site, it is likely because EVERYONE is watching, embedding, sharing and emailing this instant classic skit as soon as it hit the Net for our downloading pleasure.
It speaks volumes about how despite the rhyme and rhetoric-- ranging from the lofty & beaming to Paris Hilton & idioms on porcine cosmetology--about change and making history, it still is an old boys club and they still get to choose who plays in the tree house.
There is ten times more forthrightness in beholding Roger Sterling going, "Crab, Duck. Duck, Crab."
In my humble (non-voter) opinion, CUT THE FUCKING TREE DOWN!
Hail La Fey!! Viva El Poehler!!! Kudos to Seth Meyers, you little cutie.
I Will Possess Your Heart by Death Cab for Cutie. Album: Narrow Stairs (2008)
A waif wandering the globe restlessly, eyes wide, haunted & taking in everything, face framed by arty bangs swept aside casually way to many times, hair tousled enough to be eccentric, and a rock band of of nerds serenading me with similes about "a book elegantly bound" from a giant meat freezer: this succinctly portrays my fantasy life.
As a matter of fact this may unwittingly be my life right now.
Add butt-loads of crap, errands for ice water & pain meds, constant assignments by married coworkers to CMV and almost every isolation case--for no other reason than I'm single & therefore (by their implication) have not much at stake--and the burning varicose veins, life unfolds like Urban Outfitter vignettes elegantly bound, love.
House of Cards by Radiohead. Album: In Rainbows (2007)
Sorry fellas but Camden, NJ is just a tad too far from my side of the East Coast for one grrl to drive alone to. The area around Tweeter according to my Googling sure ain't no Columbia, MD. Please consider stopping by the BW area next time or maybe if you decide to extend your north American leg.
Well bless my bulgur and call me UNDRA queen. This third world progeny is hoisting the overtaking dirty finger at the New York literati for beingslowto have caught on the show that is her "Freudian death wish," as Pete Campbell would put it. I may just be getting as cocky as the show's period chauvinists. My sister, Melissa, & I have dissected the disturbing deja vu Mad Men can incite from our sibling psyches despite that we have not really known that we both are obsessed with it until we get to reunite and catch up in my Vegas hotel room (yes, my life is never tawdry) which was kinda apropos (had to use the word. Hah! Take that Dan Kois and Lane Brown). Like Andy Garcia in the baby carriage-down-the-train-station-steps in the Untouchables she shoots, "Doesn't it remind you of old BISCOM?" I still have to turn our eldest sib, who has a namesake in the show btw, into a convert. Give in to the pomade, girdles and claustrophobia, sistah! As I am a Miranda (according to a Facebook app) in the SATC universe, I definitely am a Peggy (complete with irrational attraction to brainy, irascible jerks in the workplace) in this alternate thread.
The series plods but not in a bad critique kind of way but much like the eerie, poignant strains of an impending (symbolic?) suicide permeated by the music of the opening credits. We just sit back and watch the countdown of lives imploding in an era at the cusp of radical change. We tsk-tsk at the archaic standards of couthness and perceptions as much as we inwardly wish ourselves back into that world.
Personally, the lead character, Don Draper, is both the tip of this iceberg and the cherry on top. Jon Hamm is hot damn! I have not even bothered to mull on his Golden Globe-winning, Emmy-nominated performance. His Draper though is an antithesis but somehow reminds me of my father as I've seen him as a girl growing up. It's the immaculately combed hair, the white t-shirts, perspiring over a playhouse on a hot day, a hand laying on his sleeping daughter's forehead as he piles on the blankets after coming late from work and the scent of pomade, after-shave & nicotine that came with the strong, implacable air that both lead, awed and cowered lesser men. Ala FPJ.
Anyways, back to the middle finger. Even New York Times & Vanity Fairare in the bandwagon that dollies through the office of Sterling Cooper. Hmmm? So can you blame my cockiness? Perhaps I am just the product of my roots? As the saying goes, "Guina pala kag guina piko ang kwarta!" and of course the immortal, "Indi kami tikalon!" To the literati, go figure that out.
This picture is from the UK Daily Mail article. Click on title or link for theYouTube clip (please feel welcome to mute out Whitney) that got featured in Today, made Meridith cry & Gregory ruin the moment. Nevertheless, my diggings about Christian drew out memories as a little girl watching this movie in our Paglaum living room about lion cubs which might have been Born Free. Fuckin' traumatized me. Like that Dumbo movie when they were all mean to Dumbo and locked away his mom who was just being protective and in Aristocats with the kittens & that conniving butler. Bastards. I didn't get to watch Bambi until I was probably over 18 for a reason. Those Wonderful World of Disney specials with the movie clips gave me a spoiler heads up, thank God.
Thispretty much encapsulates why I wanted to kick myself for not booking at Fandango for the midnight screenings in advance specially in the face of "artsy" Starbucks-cashier-girl-taking-my-latte-order gloating through her piercings that she had hers a week before. TEN THEATERS at the AMC Lowes ALL SOLD OUT. I thought my blue state suburban corner in the East Coast would be immune to an albeit foreseen phenomenon rampaging the major cities of this country. Damn it.
Anyway, I did get to watch it at 10AM. Bright & early (for me). Front & center. Close enough to count Ledger's pores. Enough to get slobbered by his Joker as he licked his gashed maw and even taste the salt & metal of sweat and blood from a wound that never scabbed over. To get totaled by an exploding truck in trajectory. To snigger atnurse Joker sharing a hairstyle curl for curl & the exact shade of red with someone I work with. Enough to feel the loss of him rubbed into the psyche.
I need to sleep. Maybe I can think up a better written review.
And fuck you Dr. Zahiri. (Totally unrelated, btw).
I am having one major geek-out right now right now after happening upon this clip during my somewhat pointless wanderings into Perez Hilton but WTF. The sound is atrocious. The video quality is shotgun. But 10 seconds into this 5-minute clip of the opening scene of Dark Knight I have found myself trying to stop the spontaneous drool from spilling out of my awestruck maw onto my long-suffering Mac's keyboard while declaring, "Oh my God, I so have got to see this movie!!!!"
Heath Ledger is officially a deity and with SO MUCH LOVE, as the Joker, is one crazy motherfucker. My heart aches. My soul cries. Hope you're happy surfing heaven's Bondi, mate!
Click on link to movie website. Now, lemme go to Fandango. Or maybe I can harass the nice people at the Maryland Science Center if they're showing this on IMAX.
Yep, that time of the year is rolling closely again. Nice to meet you finally, Dave! Closer, Trent Reznor. We meet again, Scott. Mano po, Lolos Bob, Iggy & Chuck. Ola mader Moby. Manash Kanye don't pull a Bonnaroo, ok girlfriend? It's the days of crab cakes & Southern Comfort again!!
Damn you, Weezer, Rage vs. the Machine, Beck & Radiohead. Love you but damn you. Next year perhaps? A grrl can hope.
It doesn't start with once upon a time, the middle is a shattered attempts at happily-ever-after, and ends with the possibility of a lucrative sequel. That is the most I can tell about the plot for I loathe to spoil this for my friend Shivaun who introduced me to the series and these characters whose lives we aspired for and the city we dreamed about.
Sex in the City has always been a personal thing for me that I watch alone except for my cat, Rodman and occasionally my sister Melissa, only to share and discuss extensively via text with Shivaun. After watching the movie surrounded by the literally well-heeled, pre-movie inebriated equivalent of Trekkies and Star Wars fanatics, it pretty much is the same with every fan wether they are into Gucci and Vuitton or Proust and Bronte. This is more than just a chick-flick, it is a major catch-up with one very dear friend with some very pleasant surprises:
1. It's got something to do with the NY Public Library which by the way behind it is Fashion Week mecca, Bryant Park which I know could induce a sigh from my writer friend and fellow bibliophile Shivaun.
2. Charlotte Yorke whom I considered the fluffiest and scoff-worthy of the four, in three pivotal scenes brought in the biggest laugh (hint:Mexico), the loudest applause (with Big) and one rather out-of-character, feral moment on the street by Bryant Park which I didn't think Kristin Davis had it in her.
3. The two kids they casted as Charlotte's and Miranda's respective children, Lily and Brady provide precious touches, from Lily being the precocious, unwitting participant in the girl talk, to red-headed Brady sharing his mother's smile.
It just goes to show how much the actors have embraced their characters and how invested we are in their journey. The movie feels like one continous season marathon and like every season four years ago, we laugh, sigh, shed a tear or two, and say, "Oh shit!" fervently, religiously. Just like any night with your best friends.
I intended to post about this movie after I marched through the wet, windy chill to the Loews of The Avenue at White Marsh in my McGuffian homage of hoodie, stripes and Chucks but after the age of sixteen and specially after a harsh introduction to winter, I had always been in some kind of funk during Decembers.
Oh well, I have the DVD now, naturally, for I love indies. I always somehow associate them with a contented state of unemployment which have, once upon a time, existed for me-- living at home, taking trips to Bacolod to buy my Lola's insulin then rent 3 free 1 laser discs at Quadtech.
I was never this succinct of mind, words and spirit as Juno. I struggled with self-expression and my only decisiveness was not go without umbilical approval from my Nanay & Tatay. I had the pretty, developed teen-queen BFFs but had to ape as their personable but weird token friend whose behavior had to be explained by the cuter members of the clique to win the senatorial elections by a hair. I owed my popularity by being one of the few who gets driven to school. I may have been part of the in crowd because of family Volkswagen Brasilia, but I wish I was this cool enough not to give a fuck what people said. In college, oh boy, I was an amoeba not even known enough to be a reject. The only thing I could be proud of was how resolute I was to not become a cliche. Specially in the LaSalle School of Nursing.
My Torontonite sister tells me her curmudgeon co-worker and fellow Flip remarked, "Sana inangkin nya na lang yung bata tutal sila naman pala yung nagkatuluyan (She should have held on to the baby since she ended up with the father, anyway)," pertaining to the Ellen Page and Michael Cera characters. Pregnancy and marriage have never been options for me back in my Third World hometown let alone solutions. Books, films, music, education and Marc Jacob Sgt. Pepper jackets are and still is.
By the way, this Penny Saver scene I swear seems like it's totally been shot at the park behind my sister's apartment in Vaughan Road even though the film was shot in BC. I also could definitely tell the film wasn't shot on US soil. The whole environment was too.. too.. well-adjusted to be American. Sorry, Jason Reitman.
So is living like a snarky sixteen-year-old Stooges and Patty Smith fan hiding from life? Should one feel less alive for not-so popular choices? Don't ask me. I'm still figuring it out. All I know is that it takes a certain amount of spine to stand by my shenanigans (just had to sneak the word in, hehehe). Honest to blog.
Oh summer, how much can one cram into three wee months of sun before the cruel grays of the cold months take over?
They may not be necessarily the greatest band ever although they are one of the biggest, there is something about Chris Martin & co. that stirs an ardent, polarized yet somewhat civilized wide-scale kaffeeklatsch. There are far more brilliant lyricism and far more innovative musicianship but they are far from middling either. Perhaps casting comparisons and A-list affinities and proximities and being in the know aside, these blokes just happen to make good music that happen to resonate in our joint existentialism. The song below is a prime example and a particular, personal fave other than Shiver (see past blog post).
Much like the summers that come and go into our lives and the questions wether we have made the most of them the song ticks and tocks with an urgency and constancy like a timepiece that seemingly verges but refuses to bog down-- "cursed missed opportunities..."
Speaking of summer, with several fellow greats have albums out and are of course touring. Foos, check. NIN, check. Dylan, check.Cornell, maybe. Have to check my sched. REM, have to find somebody to switch with at work. Radiohead, I wish but Chicago is too far. Pearl Jam may be out of the question. Damn PJ for being too expensive (why Eddie, why?)!!! Coldplay.com please pick me for the free Madison Square gig, PLEEASE!!! After all these, I'm going to be broke. Damn it.
Coldplay is releasing their fourth albumtaking part in series of unconventional releases by big acts in a show of middle fingers to the evil record company traditions.
Clocks Coldplay from A Rush of Blood to the Head, 2002
Lights go out and I can't be saved Tides that I tried to swim against You've put me down upon my knees Oh I beg, I beg and plead, singing Come out of things unsaid, shoot an apple off my head and a Trouble that can't be named, tigers waiting to be tamed, singing You are, you are
Confusion never stops, closing walls and ticking clocks, gonna Come back and take you home, I could not stop, that you now know, singing Come out upon my seas, curse missed opportunities, am I A part of the cure, or am I part of the disease, singing
You are, you are, you are, you are You are, you are And nothing else compares Oh no nothing else compares And nothing else compares
You are Home, home, where I wanted to go, Home, home, where I wanted to go, Home, home, where I wanted to go, Home, home, where I wanted to go.
It all starts with an explosion in the deserts of Afghanistan.
Summer is a-nigh. Time for bikini's, snarky tees, bare feet, music fests and superheroes. Blasting the door over for the sun to come in and annihilating the wintry doldrums is the somewhat unlikely Ironman. Despite the CGI ammo and Oscar A-list artillery of a cast, this could have been easily just another summer cheese platter from the big studio craft service. Much to everyone's surprise the fanboy also-ran (except for the hard-core ones, natch), grossed over the 100-million mark domestically and as the last of the credits roll, the geek in everyone gets awakened and wriggling for sequel.
Perhaps it is of little faith to ever doubt an actor's actor like Robert Downey Jr. who, according to Zodiac costar Jake Gyllenhall, has a 100 & 1 different ways to approach a scene. He so engulfs the role that even after the snazzy CGI armor comes to fore, his presence still pretty much takes over through the virtual Titanium. The analogies to Downey's real-life persona may help but his Tony Stark is a glib, bacchanal, unapologetic yet downright charismatic, campy brat ("Press conference. Cheeseburger first") who's claim to superhumanity are merely acing MIT and a trust fund-- a quasiatom of Gates & Jobs and Paris & Nicky. Taking a lesson from the Fantastic 4 fluff care of Jessica Alba, Jon Favreau puts his Swinger ethos to good use using the ably nuanced Paltrow as stoic and even-keeled Virginia "Pepper" Potts who provides more veritas than just being able to sprint in escape from a killer robot in strappy stiletto Louboutins over iron grates. Terence Howard poses a heroic and heretofore portentous figure to eventually fill in the iron suit and then War Machine. As father figure and nemesis, Obadia Stane, Jeff Bridges is both reassuring and menacing--the Dude transmogrified as evil capitalist. The horror.
The critics, the fanboys and the random audience talk about the makings of this superhero and the criticism of America's wars. I read in one Yahoo review, complaints about using AC/DC in the opening as a little cliche which pretty much is representative of certain points that escape the American movie-goer. On the get-go Tony Stark is introduced as somewhat of a dick. With due respect, what can be more fitting soundtrack than Back in Black, the theme song of the all-American dickhead? Seriously. In its pivotal points the film flings popcorn, albeit lovingly and glossily, at not just the American war but the American way which most superheroes or superhero films protect, uphold and concentrate on:
1. In his first attempt Ironman doesn't rescue a blonde or red-head in distress falling from a skyscraper or a family in perilous car trouble in Iowa but an Afghan family in some obscure village on the verge of being torn apart by the devastating crossfires of bullies with big guns.
2. The usual hangouts of Stark are in Vegas, Malibu, & LA--superficial wonderlands of lights, cars, mansions and easy women. The only reference to NYC, the city of the world, is by a Box of Ray's Pizza flown in by private jet.
3. In a press conference, Burger King in hand, Stark looks back on the loss of promising American lives with MySpace pages and witnessing firsthand the havoc of the American system of "zero accountability".
Watch out for the fallout from the Red State-folks, once there is a lull in the election coverage. Or the point may just go over people's heads which is well, quite ironic.
Cutie New York rich kid of E!'s The Daily 10, Ben Lyons has mentioned a lull in the series of comedic meteorites from Judd Apatow with star factory-releases like Walk Hard, The Dewey Cox Story (snigger) and Drillbit Taylor. I beg to differ. This is Hollywood Natural Selection 101. With all due respect to Messrs. Apatow, John C. Reilly, Owen Wilson, and Seth Rogen these flicks are merely necessary evils to appease the Sumner Redstones/Weinsteins clones of this Wal-world so they can go on doing the likes of Hard Eight, Darjeeling Limited, Superbad and/or this summer's Pineapple Express which thankfully brings bourgeoning leading man, James Franco back to to his Freak and Geeks origins as if f**in Tristan & Isolde never f**in happened.
Anyway, all is well again in Apatopia with Forgetting Sarah Marshall wherein Apatow falls back on his own blue-ribbon recipe for box-office classicism of all-story and-no-big-stars. He utilizes his Freaks cohorts, writer Nicholas Stoller to direct and actor Jason Segel who starred in, wrote and conceived the tale complete with YouTube and Blogger back stories. In the vein of Isabel-Evans-versus-Izzie-Stevens Katherine Heigl, the film is serviced by TV pin-ups Mila Kunis (That 70's Show & Family Guy) and Kristen Bell (Veronica Mars & Heroes) who are both a fair balance of Maxim popularity and geek cult-dom. In this world, the heroes are averagely cute, adorably funny in their typically clueless manhood. The heroines on the other hand are typical creations from the mind of such men in real life-- impossibly gorgeous and fit both in actuality and in the Wii; a dude's girl he can both hang and have sex with. The shrill, cliched bridezillas most of this men are likely to end up within real life are satirized into the background or as villainess. Thus, this makes the stories and the characters so involving for there is enough fantasy and happily-ever-afters copulating with the not so pretty reality.
Segel, who played the strangely appealing pink-eyed stoner uttering the immortal, "Dude, keep your baby away from him! He wants to rear your child," in Knocked Up, like Rogen, is the quintessential Apatow lead every man--a smart, schlubby, horny teddy bear with a heart of gold. Russell Brand, playing Sarah Marshall's pretentious but harmless lothario rocker boyfriend with a vacuous cool, delivers the loud guffaws with only a look and a shrug best caught in the sex war scene and the rejection of the fanatic advances of Jonah Hill, another Apatow staple. Bell draws nuance & sympathy from the cookie cutter Life & Style title character to her credit. Kunis, once the raving brat Jackie Berkhart, is irresistibly winning as the rebound girl and a surprising movie screen face. Both she and Bell in their little beach outfits make me want to swear off carbs, a normal life and sanity altogether.
Perhaps it may be a little early to see how beings and things unfold and are explored in the growingly Lucas-like universe of Judd Apatow. We've seen some of his Phantom Menace but not necessarily its Jar-jar Binks' or worse, Howard the Duck. There are no conventions in his honor or for his movies so far, but we watch in bated bong breath for his next observations on life, sexuality and the American Way.
P.S. Seriously considering abandoning my ambitions and just move to Hawaii and just surf on my days off instead of brining my life in ennui, Perez Hiltons and ANTM marathons. Shit.
This was worth braving through the salty, biting winds of the Inner Harbor, the labyrinthian rush hour of Pratt St. looking for the only IMAX theatre within 10 miles of my zip code not to mention $18 for parking and a lost ticket for space on the other side of the Harbor.
Somehow Friday seemed to be the day that the well-to-do East Coast urbanites of nearby Federal Hill would come out of their Ethan Allen-ed lairs and their JC Penney ad-styled world. They seemed to be everywhere that I would have checked myself if I was still in Baltimore had it not been for the homeless guy who asked for change and the crab cake platter I ate over fries and hush puppies while waiting for the 7:30 pm show.
At an Urban Outfitters (love their stuff btw but), with the mean girls and the catholic school-garbed gossip girls and the artsy hipsters loitering as clientele, I could not help but think of this hilarious otherblog I stumbled upon. Side note: I'm into about 85% of the entries and by default, fall into entry #11 (which kinda makes me glad for my choice of a Hestia-esque existence, btw), so does that make me white or just pretentious?
As my fellow audience members started to mill into the Science Center theater, I could not help thinking I'd intruded into some neighborhood party and exclaiming, "Shit I'm the only black person in the room!" I picked a center seat third row from the front--nausea central--but could not care less for I intended to be un-bothered by the more ideally-seated mob behind me and other than the old couple five to six seats down, I was the closest to U2's virtual genitals like I had wanted to.
Anyways, on with the show. Any bitch-fest I had hatched up prior to it became null as the lights dimmed and the IMAX place became a rock arena and fittingly enough the familiar opening count of Vertigo sucked us all into U2-pia.
Uno!
Dos!
Tres!
KATORSE!
Anthem after another, the rock arena became a religious experience as Adam Clayton (the group's resident true rock star) handed me his bass; Edge (the token prodigy/deity) let me strum his guitars and; I fly over the stage close enough to kiss Larry Mullen's nape. The audience were clearly intended to feel more than a sense of being there but to be like spirits floating around basking it all. Bono sang One and stretched out his arm and our palms met. He angles his a certain way and I found my pedestrian hands ensconced in the virtual palmar that touched those of the late Pope and lead one of the world's greatest rock bands. The other star was rather very heard than seen. The sound engulfed and washed one into the core of the event. Screw DVDs and HD TVs. This film could only be truly experienced in an IMAX.
Behind me, the Fed Hillites sang-along, woo-whooed and shouted Free Bird. Grams and Pop-pop five seats down were not immune and Grams did not hide her appreciation every time we panned close to Bono's designer jeans. Speaking of which I should be happy about the crotch shots but up close to one of the sexiest men alive I could not help but think that the way he wore his $5,000 denim kinda reminded me of how my Tatay would wear his pants. NOT GOOD. Good for my dad cause he's analogous to Bono but for me, nooo! Not good at all. Aargh! It shouldn't be. Aaack! You are #1 in my list of sex symbols I'd like to hear singing in my shower. Why, Bono? Baah-keht?
The song below is a favorite from their How To Dismantle An Atomic Bomb album and has driven me to tears early into U23D. I once have "theme-songed" this to the wrong couple of people in the past tarnishing one great song every time it plays in my i-Pod. Stupid me when I needn't have looked farther than my own blood to dedicate this to. If there's one thing these Irish lads have taught me is that family is the greatest rock band in the universe.
Nay, Tay, and all the rest of my lovies click on play below or click here for the lyrics. Thanks for all the unequivocally loving and supportive e-mails. Love and miss you.
Should have posted this days ago but I have to go to work. Wishing I am doing the dirty with both Will Hunting and Jason Bourne at the same time (go figure) may be a lovely thought but that don't pay the bills.
I first saw this movie in the early 90's when I was just a fledgling La Sallian college kid. This was like heaven opening and giving me a glimpse of how life should be. It was all to happen in Seattle.
Now I have the bourgeoning album collection, the Doc Martens, the black leggings and the cute hat, the java haunts and money to spare for an Alice in Chains show but alas, this wannabe-Janet Livermore is sixteen years too late, on the opposite coast and past the 25-year mark. Despite it all, the yearning to do something bizarre is still thumping in my chest cavity like a badmotorfinger.
Somewhere, somehow that apartment, that life, and most of all that soundtrack exists- a Gen-Xanadu where one sips coffee with Ament, Gossard and Vedder while reading the paper and they hang out in your couch watching NatGeo and Chris Cornell in all his long-maned glory is a next-door neighbor just passing through. It's gotta be out there somewhere.
I am irrevocably besotted with Conan but Kimmel seems like an upstanding kind of guy. This goes to show all my lusting for 2007 People Magazine's Sexiest Man Alive is not the least bit misguided and so worth the campaign from Pitt and Clooney. Sarah Silverman is one of the most insanely, deliriously, oh-no-you-didn't funniest persons on earth and one cool Jew BUT bitch totally stole my song!
What is it about death? What is it about dying young? Beauty, brilliance, and promise cut short, gone way too soon? Why does the loss throw us into a confounding sadness and endless questions? Banal, existential to the just plain tabloid. The whys and the what ifs.
He was blond and built yet defied cliched stardom routes. His portrayal of the cinematic square-jawed, mono-drawling Western hero embodied every celebrated big-screen tradition then threw it out the window unto the faces of Rev. Phelps and his ilk and our own closeted biases in HD-colored heartbreak. The fact that he was chosen to play the Joker, a role immortalized in stone by Nicholson speaks volumes on his gifts. Many people were enamored by him as the golden boy in 10 Things or A Knight's Tale but I chose to remember him on the silver screen as the tragic Southern boy, the loving and unloved son in Monster's Ball. Or far better as just him as the head of one beautiful young family running errands on the streets of New York caught for posterity by nosey paparazzi lenses.
For most of us he might be the last person we expected to be in the six o'clock news rolled out in a gurney, wrapped in a body bag so early into a new year, a blooming career, parenthood. Just early on in general.
Heath Ledger, actor, leading man, lover, artist, son and father is dead. To paraphrase a quote about another loss of another golden Wunderkind (this time from music), we have barely begun to grasp how much he shall be missed.
Towards the corner of 41st and 5th, a few paces from the New York Public Library and a block away from fashionable Bryant Park, in a huff of feminine emergency to look for the nearest drug store, I literally stumble on this metal and concrete revelation. And this is just one of the thousand reasons I am helplessly, irrevocably in-love with New York.
Click on the title or image to get the big picture.
The hotel is littered by white folk with the air of entitlement of the upper middle class.
The elegant middle-eastern concierge and the chic, skinny black girl at the desk do not seem to question my being there. But a lone girl checking into a Midtown NY literate-hipster hotel for a night can pique curiosity anywhere one goes be it Cauayan or Manhattan.
Concierge guy goes on to instruct me in all his cosmopolitan metrosexual conciergerie discretion about the rules of the hotel: no smoking... something about me AND my guest... Ooh-la-lah! How very clandestine. He proceeds to ask me wether I am there to shop and I say just to get away. That's not a bad reason at all he says.
I glanced to my left. Two tables away I see Elijah Wood in all-black and a faux hawk sipping espresso like the rest of us civilians. For a minute I thought he has fallen off one of the Tolkiens like an errant bookmark. Trust the fates who take delight in my constant punked state to set my token celebrity sighting in an NYC hotel called the Library Hotel to be Frodo Baggins.
The well-dressed white folks do not appear to wonder about my presence among them or are just good in hiding it like they always do. Perhaps it's due to the buggy eyes of my '07 fall-winter Miss Marc hobo or the DKNY bubble of polar bear and squirrel-- a welcome reject I have snagged from some red-neck outlet store but sshh, don't tell. Sometimes one need not dress to kill, just armed and camouflaged for survival. Natural selection.
A cute staffer of gay-boyfriend material approaches to inform me that my room is finally ready. I stuff my iBook into my backpack, grabbed my annoyingly necessary winter garb. Genetics is destiny and ones claim to the midoclorians, I thought as I flash him my Melki smile.
