Miss Manhattan Hangs Out...with Brianne Lugo

When Brianne Lugo tells me to meet her at the Hungarian pastry shop on Amsterdam Avenue, I wonder what the name of the place is. It turns out the name of this Hungarian pastry shop is, well, The Hungarian Pastry Shop. Very easy to find and SEO-friendly, as the kids might say.

Brianne--or Bri, as I know her--is a full-time freelance violist originally from the New York area. Though by now she’s played viola for most of her life, she originally wanted to be a marine biologist but decided to study viola in college instead. After getting her MFA in Music from the Cleveland Institute of Music, she lived and worked in the Chicago area before moving back to New York in 2016. She is currently a member of the Southwest Florida Symphony in Fort Myers, Florida, but she has also played viola on The Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon, at Carnegie Hall, with the Civic Orchestra of Chicago, and for Kid Victory, a new musical written by John Kander.

The day I arrive to meet Bri at The Hungarian Pastry Shop is rather gray but not totally frigid, a welcome respite from the torture this winter has thus far unleashed upon us. Mere blocks from Columbia, the place almost carries with it the romanticism of Beats past. Its interior is dotted with late-teen/early-20-somethings hunched over Baudelaire and Montaigne, with thick, white mugs of coffee and scratched silver spoons within grasp. It feels like a relic of 60 years ago, with lights so dark and warm they feel like they’ve always been that way. Above curving glass cases bearing myriad pastries at the entrance are graying poster menus. Bri arrives and knows exactly what she wants: baklava.

The slice arrives tall and layered on a thick, white plate. We dive into it with forks and knives while discussing the freelance hustle and her violist life. She jokes she initially picked up the viola over two decades ago because the violin was too small and the cello was too big. Bri stretches her chin upward to show me her neck callus, sometimes called a viola hickey or “fiddler’s neck,” which she gets from the placement of the chinrest on the instrument. Decimating our baklava and coffee, we head back out into the cloudy day.

Across the street is The Peace Fountain on the grounds of the Cathedral of St. John the Divine. Assembled from several different representations of good and evil, it’s quite an experience to look at, crab claws, giraffe necks, and all. We chuckle to ourselves at the raucous collection of visuals, which also include angel wings and Satan’s decapitated head. Just, you know, some fun art to look at. Casual.

We walk over to the Cathedral, in awe of its sculptured exterior, and wander inside. But it’s a Sunday, and we’re not allowed to jaunt further than the security guard (no matter how much Bri makes him laugh, which is a lot). It’s beautiful just the same.

Learn more about Brianne on her website.

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Miss Manhattan Hangs Out...On Her 30th Birthday

On my 30th birthday, I decided to throw myself a real ~*extra*~vaganza~*, leaning hard into all of my over-the-top tendencies. In a photo studio in Brooklyn, unspeakable distances from pretty much everywhere, I set up lights to photograph my nearest and dearest, all with food and beverahhhhhge like a photoshoot full of models. I requested, not so subtly, that they all dress the part in “Casual Glamour.” They indulged me, arriving in mega-glam ensembles that warmed my heart.

The first draft of the images are below, as are my definition of “Casual Glamour” and the email I sent out the next day. 30 is off to a great start.

*

Casual Glamour
Look ferocious. Wear something you’d feel good being photographed in and looking at yourself years from now when I hang pictures of you on my wall.

Some suggestions: Jeans and cowboy boots and leopard print and red lipstick; t-shirts with blazers and Chucks; winged eyeliner and leather jackets; black jeans and old t-shirts and lots of attitude; button-down shirts that don’t make you look like you live in Murray Hill; argyle, but make it fashion; Dad(dy) cardigans; Pashminas. For. Days. and pearls if you want ‘em; sneakers you’ll never exercise in; a come hither stare with eyes that scream you don’t give two fucks about paying your rent.

For example: Cher Horowitz goes shopping, 1995. Kate Moss at the airport all the goddamn time. Faye Dunaway having breakfast at the Beverly Hills Hotel pool the morning after winning her Oscar, 1977. James Harden all the goddamn time. Steve McQueen on a Triumph motorcycle, 1968. Not waiting in line at Area. Like you’re Born to Run.

But for the love of God, please no athleisure. You KNOW how I feel about it and it is my 30TH BIRTHDAY for crying out loud so just suck it up FOR ONE NIGHT and PUT ON SOME REAL PANTS.

Also, please avoid very thin horizontal stripes--they show up wonky on digital cameras.

*

Thank you again for spending my birthday with me, for being on board with all the wildness I threw at you; for indulging my extra-osity; posing like a boss; eating, laughing, and being merry; being the most amazing group of hot nerds a gal could be proud to call her friends.

This morning I awoke at 5:45 am with both an "Oooooof" and my pajamas on backwards, stumbling to the bathroom to pop Advil into my body. I initially reached for a single pill but in my 30-year-old wisdom, I chided myself. "What, just one? How about three." I awoke healed and promptly crept to the kitchen to eat leftover chicken wings then try a spoonful of the cake that somehow made it back to my apartment in one piece. I must have dropped some frosting on the floor and stepped in it because soon I was leaving frosting footprints in my kitchen. Here's to this new decade, to ever-increasing sophistication, and fabulous people to share it with.

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Miss Manhattan Hangs Out...with Velvetina Taylor

When I arrive at Velvetina Taylor’s apartment building, she is already decked out in her burlesque makeup, sparkly silver eyes accented with black shadow and black eyelashes that curl upward in a perfect C-shape. Both match her jet black hair. Earlier today she performed at a brunch in the Financial District, and tonight she’ll be at The Slipper Room on the Lower East Side.

Also decked out in black is her Harley-Davidson. It’s named Rita, after iconic 1940s film actress Rita Hayworth. Velvetina will be riding Rita all the way to San Francisco this summer, doing a cross-country burlesque tour of her own design. It’s her third “Pistons and Pasties” tour like this, though the others were from New York to New Orleans. On the way, she’ll stop in her native Indiana for the state fair she never misses. Rita is Velvetina’s second motorcycle but first Harley. It makes a massive, throaty vrroooooooooooom when she moves it across the street. A group of women walks by offering snaps and applause.

During the weekday, Velvetina works at the Conjuring Arts Library, dedicated to all things magic. She received her master’s degree in Library and Information Studies from University College Dublin and previously worked as a freelance social media specialist and ballroom dance instructor.

Velvetina began doing burlesque about three years ago after taking classes at the New York School of Burlesque with her sister. At first it was just for laughs, but Velvetina really loved it and just kept going. She started hosting her own shows, and now has Velvetina’s Vixens at Beauty Bar on the second Monday of every month and Mistress Velvetina’s Variety Hour in the Red Room at KGB Bar on the second Friday of every month.

As Velvetina prepares her suitcase for the night--she can’t think of a burlesque performer who isn’t constantly trailing one behind them--she looks through a clothing rack bursting with costumes like an orangutan suit and the sparkly pink confection she’ll wear tonight to perform her “La Vie En Rose” number. She’s also assembling her costume for a number she does to “What’s Inside a Girl?” by The Cramps, stripping out of a skeleton suit and then a light-up muscle suit, down to tasseled rhinestone pasties made to look like especially sparkly nipples.

We arrive at The Slipper Room and Velvetina begins to change. There’s a tattoo on her right thigh of a moose playing a banjo. “It’s my favorite animal,” she says, putting on a curly blonde wig and earrings, then fastening herself into the “La Vie En Rose” gown. During the performance, she’ll toss pink petals from ruffled pink bloomers to great applause. Later, she’ll go-go dance between shows in a bright red leotard and thigh-highs. Sitting on the stage with a bouncy black ponytail attached to her dark hair, she looks like a maraschino cherry on top of a sundae. The audience slides all denominations of bills to her or tucks them into her stockings as she teases and twirls.

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