Miss Manhattan Goes Backstage

Another season of New York Fashion Week bites the dust. Here are some of my favorite snaps from backstage at the shows.

Laser Cats

We can't all be Barney Stinson and incorporate laser tag into our regularly scheduled programming. Once in a blue moon, however, it becomes possible and we find ourselves taking full advantage of our laserly offerings. Such was the case last weekend at the birthday soiree of one Madam AS, who decided around this time last year that laser tag would be included in her next birthday celebration. So 2013 came, the year of laser tag.

It's difficult to find a place for laser tag in the five boroughs because usually one needs a rather large, dark space in which people can run around delightfully like fools. One such place exists, however, in Long Island City, Queens. Indoor Extreme Sports is definitely sketchy, but if you go in with the right mindset, it's definitely fun. Smelling like old carpet and AstroTurf (the green stuff lines benches in the hallway), IES is home to Arena Lasertag, which features modified paintball guns acting as laser guns. This means the guns emit a powerful, ear-twisting pop when the trigger is pulled. Each game runs about three minutes, so you and your large party take turns firing at each other from behind enormous inflatable structures shaped like giant pills, Xs, pyramids, cylinders, and more. Really, it's like being in a child's bounce house with guns. The large group of us certainly acted accordingly when our guns were off being recharged, jamming to tunes from someone's iPhone (they plug in your music so you can have a personalized laser tag experience) and jumping on apparatus after apparatus. MV even successful launched herself on top of one of the large pill structures, which was about as tall as she was.

Planning sneak attacks and shouting "FREEDOM!!!!," our group charged at one another with gusto, unleashing our inner 10 year-olds on a mission. A disco light twirled green and red dots around us from above, twinkling our eyes as we blasted one another with lasers. If you're in the right spirit, it's utterly hilarious. I found myself sneak attacked several times (I am not so good at strategy games), one time falling over and knocking a giant inflatable X to the ground. I couldn't stop laughing.

What's nice about birthdays is that people will come out and do whatever you want with you, whether or not they really want to, because they love you. That love translates into a thrilling spirit and openness to enjoy pretty much anything, as weird or unusual as it might seem (one year I took a bunch of people to a burlesque show, it was definitely a trip). I will admit, I was certainly skeptical about laser tag, but I went along for the ride because AS is one of my main homeskillets. But I had a great time! I found myself running around and laughing like I hadn't in years, and it was a great stress relief.

Really, life is short and you might as well do tons of stuff you've never done on varying degrees of the ridiculous scale. New York can get so intense and wrap itself around you in a chokehold if you don't just shake it off and laugh at it every once in a while. This especially happens to me in the winter when all I want to do is snuggle in my bed. For sanity's sake, though, you have to shake off those feelings and see the sun. Granted, the sun is different to many people--it could be a walk in the park, it could be a trip to Bloomingdale's, it could be a nice jaunt through a bookstore. Or, if you happen to be so inclined, it could also be a rousing game of laser tag. Just be careful of those sneak attacks!

Angelica

It was almost as if my skin was made from the sheerest fabric, the way the cold waltzed its way right through to my bones. It curled my back into a hunch, bent my shoulders toward each other and burned my nose even as I trudged the mere two blocks from St. Mark's Church on the Bowery, where I had been photographing a performance, toward my destination. Though I was there just less than a week ago, the aching cold as I left my house that evening pulled me back in. I longed for comfort food that I wouldn't be slapping directly on my thighs like my usual mac and cheese, something that was filling and warm and and tasty and pure. So Angelica Kitchen it was. 

Angelica Kitchen was established in 1976, when the East Village was still a grungy haven for punks and artists, when the rent was cheap and the drugs easily accessible, when CBGB was still open and literally blocks away. The entire menu was, and always has been, vegan, made of sustainable, locally grown organic foods (and no refined sugars or preservatives!) that appear like brightly colored jewels on clean white plates. 

Though I originally ventured in for the first time with DW, where we discussed art and process over dashi and vegetables, tonight I was alone. I snuggled myself to a table near the floor-to-ceiling glass window overlooking the street and felt my cheeks begin to warm with that winter glow brought on by artificial heat. I felt myself beginning to thaw, but I wasn't quite there yet. Tired of my usual chai lattes, hot chocolates, and plain ol' teas (I can't drink coffee), I opted for a hot Cranberte--a mixture of "pure cranberry juice, kukicha tea, apple cider & fresh orange juice." The concoction arrived in a white ceramic mug, just hot enough to drink and warm my insides back to their normal 98.6 degrees. I glanced around at the friendly interiors while I sipped, exposed brick painted a camel color, walls textured with swirls of nutmeg, black, and gold paint, cherry wood tables topped with brown recycled paper napkins wrapped around both silverware and chopsticks. 

As I'm sure I've said before, it takes a lot for me to go back to a restaurant in New York more than once, even if I like it, because there are just so many options, so many new places to try. So to go to a new place twice in less than a week was no small event. Upon my first visit with DW, I had one of the restaurants famed Dragon Bowls, a plate of of brown rice, pinto beans, sea vegetables, kale, squash and sweet potatoes, all separated into a gorgeous vegan rainbow. The ingredients are only steamed, with no added flavoring, not even salt or pepper, so every flavor of each ingredient on the plate is exactly its own. The night I returned, craving the clean, fresh taste of the ingredients, I ordered another. I think what draws me so much to the Dragon Bowls is that you know and can see exactly what's in it. There are no secrets, just vegetables--subtly sweet squash and sweet potatoes, crunchy kale that really tastes green, salty sea vegetables, mushy, meaty pinto beans. Even the thought of it makes me feel warmer, in this apartment that is somehow only degrees warmer than the below freezing temperatures outside. 

So if you happen to be in the East Village, and you need a good meal that feels like a big hug but is also actually good for you, I highly recommend Angelica Kitchen. Not to mention the entirely reasonable prices--everything is under $20. How often do you find food that warms your heart and your bones, and isn't going to kill you (or your wallet) someday? Dive in and embrace the vegetables. And call me, because I'll want to join you. 

Angelica Kitchen

300 East 12th Street at 2nd Avenue

212.228.2909

OXHEART Interview: Elaine Hargrove

Dear friends,

In case you were not aware, I am not just Miss Manhattan but also the Media Liaison for art, music, and performance collaborative OXHEART*. I am proud to say we are having our third show, CANVAS, this Saturday, January 19th, at the Brooklyn Lyceum in Park Slope. This show marks our first collaboration with the deliciously edgy Gowanus Circus, so be prepared for some phenomenal flights of fancy (fire! contortion! actual flying!) alongside some incredible artwork, rock and roll and, for the first time, a children's show and burlesque (don't worry, though, those shows are at different times, haha....click here for more information.) 

This time, I had the pleasure of interviewing one of our artists, Elaine Hargrove. I found Elaine's work addicting--as soon as I saw the images for the show, I knew I needed to see more. Any photographer can take someone's picture, but it takes a smart one and a strong one like Elaine to draw out their humanity in even the most mundane or ridiculous scenarios. Not to sound like a raving cheeseball, but her work spoke to me. I could hear the voices of her subjects and I just wanted them to keep talking to me forever. Get to know Elaine and her work below, and of course please come check them out at OXHEART this weekend. Stay updated with us on Facebook and Twitter as well. I hope to see you there!

Sincerely,

Miss M

Interview with Elaine Hargrove, OXHEART CANVAS Artist

Where are you from originally? Where do you live now? 

Originally from Boston, MA, I’m currently a resident of Brooklyn.

What inspires you? What draws you to photograph something?

When I’m making photographs what inspires me are details for better or worse. Details and surprises, and outward expression are beautiful. People and places with details. Some of the things I am most attracted to are handmade, natural, and unique.

On a recent first journey to Mexico I was taken aback at their unabashed use of glitter and loud colors on painted skulls and “folk art.” It was refreshing and delightful and playful to me but also addressed themes of life, death, family, and religion in terms that surpassed my language barrier. It was beautiful how richly these came together.

Some of the art had an unexpected dialog with the images that I am drawn to make, as a glutton for glitter, feathers, bursting color, and skin of natural human beings. The images I make, while fun and indulgent, are also multifaceted addressing themes of love, sexuality, culture, individuality, and passion. And the message is easily accessible.

How long have you been doing photography, and how did you first decide you wanted to get involved with it?

Photography became appealing to me junior year of high school. I found myself skipping academic classes in exchange for the magic and science of the darkroom. Watching an image appear out of water changed my life and enchanted me. As a kid I did lots of drawing, water painting, pastelling, sewing, molding, at home and doodling in church. Photography became something new and definitive in my creative process, and addictive.

Photography reflects life in the most literal language I can use and it’s incredible to me. The connections it creates for me to other people is sometimes uncanny. It inspires me to learn about the world and parts of life in a closer context.

What’s more, there is a hunt and chase for the stars to align and reveal a visual chemistry between people interacting or between my subject and myself as I become a fly on the wall. Sometimes it’s incredible and inspiring to create an interaction with a willing beautiful stranger and come up with something unpredictable.

What makes a good photograph, to you?

It’s hard to define a “good” photograph in our contemporary world flooded with imagery and the craft of photography opened to almost everyone with an interest. I guess a good photograph should be able to hold a viewer's attention for a bit and the artist's too.

What do hope your photographs will say to an audience?

In my current body of work and most of the work I’ve ever made, I want to communicate what’s left behind once you break down broad generalizations of people. I also want viewers to feel good and optimistic and like they can relate somehow to any subject in my portraits.

I tend to photograph "others" often. There are those of us under-represented or ill-represented in western media, i.e. people of color, and people of nontraditional sexual orientation. I aim to photograph them in a non-objectifying manner. I guess I try to see these “others” from the viewpoint of an “other” as an African-American bisexual woman. I don’t want to perpetuate stereotypes of “others” as being “at-risk”, “needy”, “problem cases” or even the extreme opposite position of being “culturally proud.” Between these two positions I tend to see a two-dimensional representation of people that are multidimensional.

Beyond that, I want viewers to feel good, and optimistic and like they can somehow relate to any subject or action taking place in my portraits.

I have a photograph of a heavyset Hispanic couple passionately embracing alone deep in the middle of the ocean. Though this simple representation is one I haven’t seen in our popular media, the response to this image across the board is that viewers are tickled and want to experience a similar moment in their own life, rather than rousing the standard issues of culture, body image, lot in life, etc.

When I do shoot “non-traditional people of color” I try not to perpetuate commonly idealized attributes but rather just appreciate individuality and in a way that keeps them connected to all of my subjects.

What do you like to do when you're not producing work?

When I’m not creating art, I do mindless tasks like house work, watch Netflix, stare at social media, cook veggie food if I happen to have shopped, spend time with loved ones, have a shot of tequila, plan the next trip, read a biography for inspiration, on a good day discover nooks and crannies of the city. I also bartend a lot.

What are your goals for your work in the future?

In 2012 I had my first two gallery shows, and I’m happy to say I recently began vending prints of my photos as well as original photo-themed stationary on the NYC streets and had some success with sales. It’s been a bit of a hurdle to get here as creating art comes more natural to me than presenting it. For me, it’s a process getting my work out there, and exposing it to the world but the response is rewarding even if simple. By the finish of 2013 I plan to have an early draft of my first photo book. I also have a plan of curating a summertime group photography exhibition in the works, an exciting and challenging first for me. I’m anxiously anticipating squeezing everything in.

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Top Great Moments I Didn't Write About But Should Have: 2012 Edition

At the end of each year/beginning of each new year, every media outlet known to man does some type of Top X of the Year. I wanted to write about my favorite moments from 2012, but then I realized there were some I never actually wrote about! So here we go, the Top Great Moments I Didn't Write About But Should Have 2012.

Corner Bistro
I found Corner Bistro on a request from ALiCo. We needed someplace cheap and low key to hang out with a large group of people. As I do with most things, I went to New York magazine to see what might fit our criteria, and found the aforementioned bar. By its own admission, it's been around since the earlier part of the century and is one of the last vestiges of the true Bohemian Greenwich Village, the now-mythic Greenwich Village teeming with starving artists who all became some kind of famous Kerouac-like figure. For me, it was an easy choice, not to mention $2 beers and $6 hamburgers (cash only), listed with those white pull-apart letters normally reserved for conferences at Radissons in middle America. Outside, its legendary neon red letters buzzed brightly on the corner of West 4th and Jane. Inside, under a haze of yellow light, we crammed into a black wooden booth in the back corner of the restaurant. A group of us ate and drank and bullshitted until we were asked to leave, not because we were especially rowdy but because we were taking up valuable table space. They put up no front of hospitality and, frankly, I liked them all the more for it. I wish I lived close by so it could be my neighborhood bar.

TBW's Party Van
It wasn't so much a real party van, the kind that normally includes a stripper pole and/or disco ball, but TBW's mother's minivan he had brought in from Queens for the night. After a rousing, glittery, gay Sunday night dance fest at Greenhouse with the likes of downtown celebrities Amanda Lepore and Ladyfag, TBW, TDS, myself, and a crew of TBW's bros crammed into the van and blasted loud-ass tunes while looking for our next destination. We tried some of those pretentious Chelsea clubs, but they rarely let in guys if they're not on the list, and TDS and I were not dressed up like off-duty hookers, so we were unsuccessful. Instead, we went to the Mexican taco truck on 14th and 8th. TBW swerved the wrong direction into oncoming traffic and pulled up right behind the cart. It was March and there was still a biting chill in the wind. TDS and I waited outside the car while the boys got tacos (they're TBW's fave). My hair was wet with sweat from dancing and quickly got cold. TDS and I huddled together tight for warmth, then back into the van it was for more tuneage and bouncing around the car like idiots on a Sunday night. TBW kept getting lost in the West Village, so we wound up at the Papaya Dog on 6th Avenue. While we were waiting for the boys to get their crazy-flavored juices, two dudes started a vogue-off just outside of the window, complete with drops, twirls, and god knows what else. It was 3am.

Gloria
By sheer misadventure, I wound up covering the annual Jewish Women's Archive Luncheon for the Jewish Daily Forward at the Museum of Jewish Heritage way downtown in the Battery Park area. You could even see the Statue of Liberty from the dining room! At the luncheon, the legendary Letty Cottin Pogrebin and Gloria Steinem were being honored, alongside the amazing philanthropist Elizabeth Sackler and extraordinary writer Rebecca Traister (who later gave me great insight into being a writer. Thanks Rebecca!). In my days as a young feminist--I was in elementary school--I idolized Gloria Steinem for her contributions to women's liberation, like so many I'm sure did. I saw myself in her and did my best--rather, do my best still--to be a good person, not a good woman. Never, ever in my wildest dreams did I actually think I would meet her. But I did. I stood and waited patiently for my chance to say hello, admiring her. Though in her 70s, my does the woman have style: a minimalist black boatneck top to show off her glorious collarbone; chic, black wide-leg trousers and an armful of chunky gold bangles clanging on her slim arms. Tears welled up in my eyes and it was all I could do to hold them back and simply say hello and thank you.

Patrick
Patrick McDonald is a fashion world icon, a legend known as "The Dandy" for his perpetually creative take on menswear, including but not limited to everything from harem pants to yellow suits to fedoras and a completely endless list of thank god knows what else. Though he started in fashion as a model, he later became the assistant buyer at department store, nay, fashion palace Barneys, among other achievements. He, his signature dark hair, piercing eyes and ever-present mole and I had the pleasure of meeting at an art salon party at a photographer's studio in SoHo. Patrick, dressed to the nines as usual, was just on his way out when I stopped him to say hello. We exchanged pleasantries and then, like a magical gift from the fashion gods, he told me he loved my dress. Say what you will: call me vain, call me petty, call me a slave to fashion. But call me when a style deity tells you he likes your dress and then tell me how you feel. 

For a Good Time, Call...
Courtesy of Her Campus.com, the magazine for which I am the Style Editor, I was invited to the New York Premiere of the movie For a Good Time, Call.... Written by Lauren Miller (Seth Rogen's wife) and Katie Anne Naylon, the movie stars Miller and the ever-fabulous Ari Graynor as two girls who start a phone sex hotline. I'd rather you see the film, but I will tell you that that movie is everything I love about being a girl and none of the things I hate. No mushy crap love story, just something true and funny. However, I thought 'New York Premiere' meant 'Press Preview' and I dressed for the latter--luckily my shiny black pants and motorcycle boots translated into the atmosphere, even when I was walking past Elisabeth Moss in the lobby, and at the afterparty in the Meatpacking District. There I was with CN, my guest that night, sipping cocktails next to Justin Long, chit-chatting with Seth Rogen, watching Jonah Hill hit on my roommate and hearing her talk about Norwegian music with Paul Rudd. I hardly knew what to do with myself except have another cocktail and talk to more people, including Graynor herself. The whole evening was a completely wonderful surprise. And my goodness, if you're going to have a surprise evening, isn't it better if Paul Rudd is there?

Interview Russia
I don't remember exactly why, but CH and I did a photoshoot of his friend Krussia at the International Center of Photography Studios near midtown. CH asked me to style, and I came up with a sort of 1900s coal miner/boxer vibe, suspenders and all. The pictures came out beautifully, and when Interview Magazine Russia was doing a story on Krussia, they used our pictures! It was one of the best days of my summer, and I was so excited I swore repeatedly via text message to CH. It's not every day you get your work published in an international lifestyle magazine. If you like, you can check out the pictures, with the article entirely in Cyrillic, here. I know I say stuff like this all the time, but this is why I moved to New York. Sometimes you can be an overnight success, and other times every little step counts. After all, the little steps make a staircase, and they only keep going up. 

16 Hours

The hours between 6:30 pm Christmas Eve and 10:30 am Christmas day were perhaps the busiest yet most delightful 16 hours I have had in a while, if not for their grand company than for their sheer busyness alone. I love to be busy and I love to have a packed schedule, but it’s almost as if the holiday gods were on a bender this year. Back to back to back I went and I did and I Christmased. Maybe it’ll be a new tradition?

6:30 pm

DL arrives for dinner and we go out for my favorite Christmas eve treat, mediocre Chinese food. Fewer things taste like home to a nice Jewish girl on Christmas eve, and DL is a good sport who kindly obliges/indulges me. At a restaurant with a most politically incorrect name, we chopstick our way through dumplings, Mu Shu Chicken (he) and Scallops with Black Bean Sauce (me). Everything tastes the same and the post-meal pineapple comes from a can. Ah, Christmas. After a rousing discussion of the sociobiology and/or hierarchical necessity of how and why we eat, I realize I am having such a good time that I have become late for my next appointment.

9:30 pm

I meet RD and PS at RD’s apartment before we head off to the annual He’bro Jewbilee. He’bro puts on social events for gay Jewish gents, and their party this year is at the extravagant and highly-regarded XL, the largest gay club in New York, and housed in The Out hotel (referring to itself as “straight-friendly,” the hotel rooms have no closets. Get it?). I am writing an article about He’bro, and this event will be the cherry on top (more about this at another time…). Long story short, the event is marvelous, with fantastic music (Gaga, Rihanna, Whitney, do I really need to go on?), go-go boys Jewish and not Jewish with plastic Stars of David swinging from their necks, Jewish drag queens, and yes, even the straight Jewish guy who hits on me while I am resting my high-heeled feet. I smile politely but hobble away to get another drink. Nice try, bro. By the way, it’s excellent fun being a lady in a gay club with unisex bathrooms which discipline patrons to keep one person per stall thank you very much. What’s nice is that even while my feet are beginning to ache, a nice gent with a British accent who is not Jewish but is here for the boys says I look fabulous. Thank you sir! Somehow it gave me the spark I needed to hit the dance floor again. Later, seeing my evening mates have become…occupied, and my feet are nearly falling off, I tiptoe my way to a cab. Which is surprisingly easy to get in the middle of BFE Hell’s Kitchen on Christmas Eve.

2:30 am

Knowing that if I go home and put my head down I will in fact fall asleep and miss my 6 am flight, I go home, change my heels for motorcycle boots and hobble (yes, still—heels are powerful things, I tell you!) to my favorite diner down the street for breakfast? A midnight snack? I don’t know the name of the meal, but I know its purpose was to fill me with enough food that I passed out on the plane. A chicken quesadilla with waffle fries will do the trick, I think. Post-meal, I hobble home, change my shirt, shove a few more items in my suitcase, zip it up, say goodbye to my house, and head for the street.

4 am

Having just loaded my suitcase into a cab, which took a bit longer than I expected, actually, my phone rings. It’s Mother Dear. “Are you awake?” she asks. I am not only awake, but on my way to the airport. I am a jet-setting lady boss of my life and I feel tired but fabulous and on top of everything. I am too important to sleep! I joke to myself.

The airport is surprisingly busy and I thank Goddess for my foresight in checking in online. I arrive at the gate at 4:48 am, wrap my pink circle scarf around my face and simmer into a half-sleep, only to be awakened by the sound of my zone being called for boarding.

I arrive on the plane, in my seat, my carryon luggage stowed safely beneath my feet. The next step is to fall again into deep slumber, so up goes the circle scarf. Only to be brusquely disturbed by the droning voice of the stewardess who wants to know what patron belongs to a black and pink besequined backpack she has just removed from an overhead bin. “Is this yours? Is this yours?” she asks to everyone behind me and finally myself. I say no and replace said scarf. I am nearing sleep, so close I can touch it, despite the continued drone of said stewardess’s voice as it moves about the cabin. In a few moments I am used to the noise and slowly begin my sleep cycle, only to be prodded awake by the stewardess and asked again if this is, in fact, my bag. Yes, madam, I do in fact understand that it is entirely possible that I, a female who also happens to be dressed in black and pink, could be the owner of this sequined monstrosity. I was in fact just at a gay club where sequins are nothing if not the norm. But dear Goddess over my dead body would I ever, EVER own a backpack with the words ‘LOVE PINK’ written across the back of it like some corporate Victoria’s Secret slave and you have just prodded me awake to ask YET AGAIN if I own it while I am clearly, clearly sleeping! “IT’S NOT MINE,” I say firmly, distinctly and with just enough edge to make the woman teeter away looking for her next victim. I huddled back into my circle scarf and felt the tiniest tinge of regret, a freckle on the skin of my remark, if you will. I mean, the woman couldn’t know my distaste for corporate monogramming or that I haven’t slept in nearly 24 hours. I am not ever a person who speaks unkindly to those in service because I know first hand how difficult the job is. I mean, people are generally awful. Besides, it’s just so much easier to be nice. But honey, I said no once and I’ll be damned if some ugly backpack is going to come between me and the only three hours of sleep I’m going to get these next 48 hours. So with that, I wrap the scarf around my face again and drift asleep, happily undisturbed the rest of the flight.

8:45 am

In just a few minutes we will land. I will then get my bag, jump into Mother Dear’s faithful Cadillac and head home. Once home, I will unpack Best Friend’s Christmas present from my bag and wrap it up as prettily as I can on three hours of sleep (which, incidentally, happens to be pretty damn well if I do say so myself) and head to her house for Christmas breakfast at 10:30 am with her family like we do every year. In fact, this breakfast was the reason for my 6am flight in the first place. I was originally supposed to fly out at 9pm Christmas Eve, but had to change flights (with no extra charge, yay!) for the Jewbilee I was covering.

I will not sleep until about 2 pm that afternoon, 31 hours after I woke up the day before. And frankly, I don’t think I would have changed a thing. Except maybe for that damned stewardess.

December Snapshots

Sometimes in New York, one has the distinct pleasure of experiencing several lovely events in a short period of time and one, namely moi, is confronted with the dilemma of how share them all. Until now, when I present to you a series of short vignettes about some fabulous evenings of weeks past. 

Une Petite Crise

When we walked into Marie's Crisis, I had visions of that scene in The Birdcage where the magical Mrs. Coleman (Goldman?) appears and the entire dinner party, conservative Christian family and closeted drag couple alike, burst into "I Could Have Danced All Night," from My Fair Lady. Except instead of a smaller dinner party, there was a large crowd of people sitting, leaning, standing around the piano in the center of the room, behind which an older gentleman in a beanie and a hoodie made his choice of show tunes, handed out solos and directed the evenings vocal acrobatics with thick, wrinkled hands. Gay and straight people alike sang in perfect and not-so-perfect pitch, and some, like me, just sang loud because why not? My, er, untrained voice hid amongst the crowd. I was able to Fosse my way through "All That Jazz" with hands and hips the way I always wanted to on the long road trips north when I was stuck in the passenger's seat.  All my mother and I would listen to were show tunes because she hated my dirty punk music ("Turn off that acid rock!" she'd say) and Kander and Ebb or Cole Porter or Jule Styne were the only things we could agree on. Consequently, I have some entire soundtracks memorized without even trying. I even got to flex my muscles a little bit at Marie's with Anything Goes, Chicago, Gypsy, and Cabaret. A glass of wine and a dirty martini in, I added some choreography. Fun story: Marie's was a brothel when it first opened in the 1850s. So my choreo was hardly the strangest thing that had ever passed in front of the bar's dark red walls. 

Cowgirls on the Run

EPL decided on a whim to come in for her 25th birthday the same weekend EH and ALC had become available to play, so we all went out and had a lady night. You don't get much more lady than a restaurant called Cowgirl, decked out from floor to ceiling in heavy handed and utterly ridiculous cowgirl paraphernalia, be they pinup cowgirl drawings, longhorns tacked to the wall, or a lamp made of smiling ladies wearing stetsons. Not to mention a menu featuring good ol' ranch grub like chili, chicken fried steak, fajitas, and god knows what else. We drank sangria, talked about things you can't talk about in front of boys or people you don't know very well. After many a beverage at another bar, we tried to find a cover-free gay bar to go dancing in, but we were at a loss. Instead, around 2am, we headed to Solas in the East Village and danced until we shut the club down. Next day, over home fries and omelets at new brunch spot Tolani, chosen to avoid all of the weird-ass cold rain flying around, we all conferred with each other--is your entire body sore? Mine is, too! Totally worth it. 

Taylor Mac

Even as someone ravenous for drag, I find myself unqualified to talk about the magic that is Taylor Mac. I had the pleasure of seeing the internationally acclaimed drag entertainer at Joe's Pub, tucked inside the newly renovated and legendary Public Theatre in the East Village. In a new series of one-hour shows he is workshopping, Mac uses his gorgeous, classically trained pipes to share re-tooled songs from every decade of music since the 1800s. In outrageous, outlandish costumes designed by the delicious Machine Dazzle (including a hat made from an entire box of Christmas ornaments), Mac is utterly bewitching, funny, and absolutely fabulous. Excuse me, sir--did you just perform a rock piano rendition of Silver Bells? Are you downing chocolate panna cotta in one bite and tossing arugula on your forehead betwixt songs? Will my life be lacking a certain amount of glitter until I see absolutely every single one of your 24 shows in the series (to be performed all at once, in one 24-hour period) as an ode to imperfection? Could doing so possibly lead to an overdose of brilliance and would it in fact be the most lovely way to die? Yes to all.