Miss Manhattan Hangs Out...with Arun Marsten

Huckleberry Bar, on Grand Street in Williamsburg, is Arun Marsten’s local. He’s lived in the vicinity of the bar--one that is somehow at once dark and elegant and welcoming--since he moved to the city a little less than two years ago. The chill outside reminds me that somehow we missed the 50-degree weather and skipped right to the 40s from the 70s. A call for an Old-Fashioned comes from deep within my bones. Soon Arun arrives, and I order just that. He wears head to toe black--or what at least looks like it in the dark of the bar--like a real New Yorker, despite being a native Atlantan.

Arun pronounces his name “arrin” and definitely not “uh-rune” and definitely don’t tell him how he should pronounce his name if you’re not also Indian. We met because we attended the same university, but not at the same time. Rather, a professor we both had, the inimitable Scott Sandage, said we should be friends when Arun moved to the city--I started the campus music magazine Arun edited long after I graduated, and we both took Scott’s rock and roll history course. Arun graduated with a BHA, a bachelor’s of humanities and arts, in information systems and music. He now works in software development by day, and as a musician at night--he’s working on an EP as we speak.

Cocktails are among Arun’s great loves, alongside coffee, biking, and music. My bourbon Old-Fashioned order passes muster, but later he’ll have me try some of the bar’s house cocktails. Arun selects the “Sweater Weather,” made of “Magnus Scotch, Avua Cachaca Amburana, Bebo Coffee Liqueur, Banana Liqueur, and Orange Bitters.” I smell it. “It tastes like alcoholic banana bread,” he tells me, and he’s right. But it’s a little strong for my taste and I wrinkle my nose quite unsubtly. “Yeah,” he laughs. “It’s very alcohol-forward.” The other drink he orders is the “Pachamama,” made with “Caravedo Pisco, Absolut Elyx, Garam Masala Carrot Syrup, Sfumato, Lemon Juice, and Fresh Ginger.” His friend is the beverage director at the bar and she makes the Garam Masala Carrot Syrup herself. It’s delicious. Later, I also get a brief lesson in bitters--Fernet-Vallet is Mexican Fernet, and you can sip it or add it to a cocktail. We sip the dark, herbaceous liquid from tiny shot glasses. We punctuate cocktails with trips to the garden, where Arun will roll and smoke a cigarette.

We talk about our youth as pretentious music snobs, our adulthood now slightly reformed. We talk about cultural appropriation, how you earn ownership of a city, DIY music scenes, being marketed to for your millennial-ness, old-school New York, weird internet culture, where the soul of the city lives, finding community in new places, generative music, “punk shows,” lies people tell about themselves, Bruno Mars. Soon we’ve been at the bar nearly three and a half hours. Arun orders one last drink: a rye, Fernet-Branca, Angostura bitters, and simple syrup cocktail called a Toronto. It’s his favorite.

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Food Blindness

The vibrance of New York often makes me forget the interesting places I've eaten. But I think I just get a little blind sometimes. Here are some things I'm looking back at now that were great, and I just haven't given credit where it's due.

Village Yokocho

Village Yokocho is up a set of ominous-looking stairs inside a glass-doored vestibule that's mysteriously always open and just sort of beckon you from Stuyvesant Street. It's actually the restaurant in which famed cocktail bar Angels' Share resides, but it's also a bustling spot in its own right. Village Yokocho serves Japanese food, not sushi, though you can get some sashimi. HanOre and I strolled in there one night craving some tasty treats, and we were not disappointed. There are pages upon pages of goodies to choose from, in small plates and large. We shared an eel bowl, marinated octopus, salted clams, and beef tongue with bean sprouts and left happy, with our wallets still in tact. 

The Pickle Guys

There have been pickle joints on the Lower East Side since time immemorial, and The Pickle Guys is perhaps the most well-known today. SE and I took a brief trip there recently and were greeted by barrels upon barrels of deliciousness, from the traditional (half-sour pickles) to the sublime (pickled pineapple). We ended up with both the traditional and the sublime, and ate them as we walked through the neighborhood. The pineapples were spicy sweet; they made my hands a little sticky, but it was totally worth it. 

Fig. 19

Maybe I'm supposed to tell you about Fig. 19, and maybe I'm not. But here goes. It's a cocktail bar in the back of The Lodge Gallery on Chrystie Street. I had been in the gallery so many times, and when HanOre suggested we go, I had no idea she was talking about. We showed our IDs to the bouncer who asked what we were doing there. "We're here for the bar," HanOre said. "What bar?" The bouncer asked. "Fig. 19," I responded, and he nodded and let us in. I had a drink with egg whites, vanilla, cinnamon-infused gin, and some other delicious things I can't remember right now, but it was fantastic. Sometimes speakeasy bars can be gimmicky and awful, but the drinks here were actually good. 

Springbone Kitchen

I had heard about Springbone Kitchen a while ago, entranced by its healthy options--cauliflower rice instead of regular rice, zucchini noodles instead of pasta, and countless others. SE and I went one evening and sidled up to their counters, eventually diving into hearty bowls of goodies. I had the Meatballs and "Spaghetti" which was made with those aforementioned noodles and a hearty tomato sauce, and it hit the spot. I left with a cup of vanilla mushroom tea--yes, that's tea made from mushrooms--which was so weird and wonderful, sort of nutty but earthy but very subtly sweet. 

Cafe Dada

At the French-Hungarian spot Cafe Dada in Park Slope, AR and I ordered tea. But it was what they call their Immuni Tea, so it was hot water in a tumbler with lemon, mint, honey, fresno chili pepper and fresh lime juice. At the time, I opted for just the lemon, mint, and honey, but it was a soul-warming experience nonetheless. We chatted while a jazz band played, surrounded by the restaurant's dark, wood-paneled bar. 

Bang Cookies

Dear Sweet Jesus. These cookies are so good. Thick and soft with huge chunks of chocolate, Bang Cookies are usually baked to order. When I had them, they were being sold at the Coffee and Tea Festival in Brooklyn. I had only the smallest sample of the Sea Salt Chocolate Chunk cookie at the festival and I thought my brain was going to fall out. I stood at their booth saying "Oh My God" for about five minutes. In between breaths, however, I found out the company is based in Jersey City, and every so often will come in for a street fair to sell their wares. I'm hoping to track them down soon, or have some delivered since it's really just that (dangerously) easy. 

Chai Mookie

Also at the Coffee and Tea Festival SE and I found ourselves at the Chai Mookie booth sipping cups of chocolate chai tea blended with milk. It was all the great things about chai and hot chocolate but not weird together and not exploding with calories. I had never sipped anything like that in my life, and bought myself a cup after tasting it. SE went for a full bag. It was the perfect antidote for a day of shitty weather and now, months later, I can still taste it. 

Miss Manhattan in Dreamland

"You know The Waldorf Astoria is closing in March 2017 for three years?" I said to SE. He had recently purchased Frank Caiafa's latest edition of The Waldorf Astoria Bar Book and made it his personal bible. There were tabs in a variety of different neon colors spattered along the book's edges, wear in its binding where he had found and repeatedly remade cocktails he liked in particular. I of course wanted him to be able to experience their famed Peacock Alley bar before it closed…but I also wanted to see the legendary hotel for myself.

Neither of us had ever been, but had seen it in the movie Serendipity and of course had known for years that it's one of New York's most luxurious, iconic hotels.

A product of the affluent Astor family, the first iteration of the hotel was established in the late 1890s, with its second and current location opening in 1931 on Park Avenue between 49th and 50th Streets. At the time, U.S. President Herbert Hoover said from a White House radio broadcast that "The opening of the new Waldorf Astoria is an event in the advancement of hotels, even in New York City. It carries great tradition in national hospitality...marks the measure of nation's growth in power, in comfort and in artistry...an exhibition of courage and confidence to the whole nation…” Once the tallest and largest hotel in the world, the hotel is known for its classic Art Deco details, stone and marble columns, and gold and silver leaf accents.

It's strange, sometimes living in New York you either forget to or just don't visit some of the city's most famous or even most beautiful historical spots. In over six years here, I have never been to the Statue of Liberty, the Cloisters, the Cooper-Hewitt Design Museum, and a host of other spaces. When a space has a deadline and you have a desire to get there, though, it's easier to make it happen.

"Why don't we go for your birthday?" SE asked.
"YES! PERFECT!" I said, delighted but amused I had not thought of it myself.

And even though I had known of the hotel's luxury for years, I still didn't know what to expect when we arrived on my birthday.

Hand in hand, we stepped through the building's silver and glass doors into its Park Avenue lobby. White floors accented with columns and a staircase led up to a mosaic tiled floor flanked by more staircases and two ballrooms and gilded lights shone white overhead. I don't remember either of us saying anything except a whisper of "Wow. It's so beautiful." And it was beautiful, elegant and palatial but not at all gaudy. It's the kind of place where you walk in and suddenly feel a little more elegant yourself, like there aren't scuffs on your leather heels and your bag isn't from Urban Outfitters. We seem to glide. I notice my gestures get smoother and more balletic, my voice softer. In my mind I am a version of myself I love, my laugh musical and not too loud, my steps authoritative and not clunky, with delicate manners, acerbic wit, and a cigarette holder dangling from my fingers. Dorothy Parker. Carole Lombard. Katharine Hepburn.

We find our way to Peacock Alley, through the Main Lobby's carpeted interior dotted with gold-leafed, black marble columns. There is also an Art Deco clock I will learn later is from the 1893 World's Fair, a two-ton, nine-foot tall salute to America and its presidents, the theatre, and Neoclassicism. Sidling up to the wood-paneled bar, we are greeted by bartenders in suits and ties, cocktail menus placed in front of each of us. SE orders a Robert Burns. The caramel-colored beverage, which comes in a martini glass, is made with "sheep dip blended scotch whisky, cinzano rosso sweet vermouth, benedictine liqueur, and emile pernot ‘vieux pontarlier’ absinthe." I choose The Peacock, which also arrives in a martini glass, but with its blend of "house-made cranberry infused vodka, marie brizzard apricot brandy, and fresh sour" is pink in hue. (Fun fact: though neither of our drinks were made with it, there are beehives on top of the hotel from which honey is procured. It's called "Top of the Waldorf" honey.) They're perfect, smooth and tangy, respectively. This moment of sitting in the bar in this hotel on my birthday is really all I wanted this year.

As usual, we chat with the people next to us and we find that one of them is Peacock Alley's chef, and the desserts are of her design. We order one, the lemon meringue pie, and it's a whipped, creamy dream. My spoon glides into it, past the fluffy meringue, into the creamy lemon filling, down to the soft crust, and into my mouth. Overhearing it's my birthday, the bartenders give us complimentary champagne (which, they say, they normally only do if you're guests at the hotel, but they like us). Bubbles ripple over my tongue. Is this a dream? Am I really sitting here in one of the finest hotels in New York next to a wonderful man sipping champagne on my birthday? We intake more luxuriant bubbles, more luscious spoonfuls of pie. I am near tears several times as I overhear myself thinking, "I don't have to wake up. I'm not sleeping."

As we're walking out onto Park Avenue, we're already trying to think of when we can return again before the building closes in March. It will be a one billion dollar renovation, I've read, where about 1000 of the hotel's rooms will be turned into condominiums (still, that leaves about 500 rooms leftover). I can only hope that the company that has purchased the hotel will preserve its gorgeous, historical Art Deco style so infinite others like me can come into the legendary space and be reminded that no, they are in fact not dreaming, that even a small slice of life can be and feel just this beautiful.

Beyond Frank

When EH visits, I like to construct an evening out for her of some kind. As I've mentioned before, she works hard at the hospital and barely gets a day off, so I'm always happy to help her blow off some steam when she comes into the city from New Jersey. One time she came in I was working weekend mornings, and had fallen asleep by midnight. I felt so bad that I couldn't give her her evening out that the next time she came in I promised we would go hard, and I delivered: we stayed out until 5:30am. I pissed off my roommate at the time, a light sleeper, when we came giggling in around 6am, the sun just beginning to peek through the windows.

The last time she came in, though, she wasn't in the mood for a "go hard" kind of evening, and frankly I don't know that I was either. But I would have rallied for her without a doubt! She wanted to "go medium," and we ended up going on a petite walking tour of the East Village, starting with a gallery opening. I asked her what she wanted to eat for dinner, and she decided Italian, so I took her to Frank. I went to Frank for the first time a year or two ago, but for whatever reason hadn't been back since. It's an unpretentious little Italian joint on 2nd Avenue, with tables outside, a bar, and a small dining room that wraps around the other side of a doorway. In true 'EH is Visiting' fashion, we end up being able to waltz right into Frank and sit at the bar on a Friday night around 8pm, prime New York eating hours in which it's often difficult to get a table anywhere, let alone someplace especially tasty. We order what ends up being the perfect amount of food while perched at the bar, first sharing a pear and gorgonzola salad. The sharp cheese is softened by the crisp, juicy fruit, and there's enough cheese left over for us to spread it across the warm bread previously served to us with olive oil. Next up is black linguini with calamari. It's in a tomato sauce that's just a little bit spicy, perfectly tangy, and it presses up gently against the inky pasta and the subtle chew of the calamari ringlets.

We head to Mayahuel a few short blocks away next in hopes of mezcal cocktails, but have to leave our name at the door with a man named Josh. Josh will call me when our table is ready, about 20 minutes. In the meantime, though, EH has the genius idea to get some dessert somewhere, and we trot over to Big Gay Ice Cream on 7th Street between 1st Street and Avenue A. It's a bit chilly out, so magically we don't have to wait in line for more than 2-5 minutes, an impossibility when the summer heat swallows the city. I hadn't been there all summer, waiting on line forever for their delectable soft-serve, and it feels like I beat the system.

We decide to share one of their massive cones, a special that day called the Violet Beauregard. Named for the Willy Wonka character whose greedy noshing inflates her into a blueberry balloon, the cone is dressed accordingly with blueberry sauce, pie crumble, and whipped cream atop vanilla ice cream. No sooner to we begin digging into the cone then Josh calls from Mayahuel--interestingly, his area code seems to be from Utah and I wonder what on Earth a Utahan thinks about New York when they first arrive here. We say we are on our way from Avenue A, when in reality we stand outside Big Gay and finish the cone, perhaps the walking equivalent of saying "I'm in a cab" when you've only just gotten out of the shower. Shortly, though, we click-clack over to Mayahuel and are escorted upstairs to a blue-and-white tiled table. We sip our mescal and the drinks are nice enough--but at $15 a pop, we decide our next venue will be a little different. Inside, there's a little old man with a cane, conservatively dressed, waiting for a sundae. EH and I smile--something like this (read: both an ice cream store called Big Gay Ice Cream and a little old man happily going to it for a cone) probably wouldn't have happened 20 years ago.

Our last stop of the evening is a place I pass the evening before, Huertas. This is the first place we go this evening that I actually haven't been to before, and I'm reminded to add some more new venues to my roster. Huertas is actually a Basque-inspired tapas restaurant, but they also make pitchers of cocktails they call refrescos. This actually means 'sodas' in Spanish, but the pitchers they say are more like Spanish wine coolers. We sit at the bar--magically, yet again, there are two seats waiting for us--and head for a pitcher of Agua de Valencia, made with prosecco and orange soda (but not Sunkist, more European in style--think Aranciata, a bubbly, orange-infused, only slightly-sweet construction). The bartender swirls out a neat twist of orange for each of our drinks and each time we pour a new drink (three times possible each with this particular pitcher…and at a cost of $30 total, practically a steal) a whisk of orange oil enters our noses. Soon, though, the bubbles invade our senses and we teeter ourselves into a cab. It was a night, we'll say, where we went hard enough. Are we getting old, I wonder? Or sometimes are a few good bubbles enough?

Cocktailing

In the depths of the especially hot and sticky summer we've been having for the last few weeks, one of my favorite respites is found in a glass. Don't worry, Maw Manhattan: I'm not an alcoholic. I just think a cocktail is a wonderful way to cool down every once in a while, and I have been learning to enjoy the artistry that can go into making a drink. This is in part due to SE, who is an amateur mixologist in his spare time, his home bar stacked with all manner of quality bitters, liqueurs, bottles printed with the phrase "Creme de" [insert flower, fruit, or herb here].

Every once in a while, SE will leave his home in pursuit of a truly wonderful cocktail. I have had the pleasure of being in his company for such endeavors, and one recent excursion took us to the Upper East Side for a visit to the very luxurious Mark Hotel. Consistently rated as a five-star home-away-from-home for people who exemplify "the other half" in the phrase "how the other half lives," The Mark is home to its own personal Frederic Fekkai salon, a trolley service that takes its clientele to and from Bergdorf Goodman (and offers them 24/7 access to the department store), and room service by celebrity chef Jean-Georges Vongerichten, among many other amenities. It is also known for its hotel bar, The Mark Bar.

After a not-especially-special trip to another bar that evening, one whose quality of cocktail did not match the requested expense, I wanted to get SE a truly special cocktail at a place where I knew, I knew we would be able to get them. I had read in New York Magazine's very cool "Absolute Best" series, in which they list their favorite bars and restaurants that achieve a variety of accolades ("Best Birthday Cake" and "Best Lobster Roll" are two that come to mind), that one on their list of "The Absolute Best Uptown-Hotel Bars in New York" was The Mark. So in a bout of adventurousness and spontaneity (which, we would learn later, would be a theme for the evening), I made the suggestion and we spirited ourselves uptown.

Walking to The Mark from the subway, we passed both the ornate cement and modern brick facades of elegant townhomes dotting the walk between Lexington Avenue and Madison Avenue on 77th Street, as well as stores empty of people yet still beckoning their wares with brightly lit windows. A doorman welcomed us into the hotel, its artistically modern furniture and bright white walls covered in contemporary canvases. The air was cool but not chilly, and everything was the polar opposite of the subway ride we had just taken to get there.

We made a sharp left and entered the bar, its couches printed in a brown and white cow pattern, walls decorated in shimmering copper tiles, each centered with a circular, dotted light fixture. The space was covered in a hot pink light of sorts, and we made our way to the silver bar with its matching stools to have a look at their cocktail menu. I chose a fruity champagne cocktail, and SE selected The Mark Bar's take on the classic Aviation--typically gin, creme de violette, lemon juice, and maraschino liqueur, the bar tops it off with a generous splash of Prosecco. As I expected, the drinks were heavenly. Bubbly and sweet, but not too sweet, they were what the drinks we had earlier in the evening should have been.

As we sat and sipped and discussed, the bar became more empty, and soon a gentleman was sitting next to us. A sort of Brazilian Richard Branson in appearance, his pregnant wife (his third) and his child were sleeping, he explained, and he was going to treat himself to a dirty martini. He was in real estate in Miami, it would turn out, and a car enthusiast, much to SE's delight. The two of them slowly but surely eased into a jocular chat that left them both laughing and smiling. I left to use the restroom at one point and when I returned I discovered we were all about to do tequila shots, courtesy of our new friend. Shoot the tequila I did--rather, to the best of my ability, since it was a rather generous shot, though of the deliciously smooth Don Julio. More time passed, more laughs, more discussion, and it was just we three in the bar, closing it down. The gentleman had so enjoyed our company, he said, and then in an act of kindness and generosity we very much appreciated, treated us to our cocktails. He and SE traded business cards, and we shook hands, gave hugs and said thank you, separating into our respective evenings. If you had told me our evening would have gone this way when we started, I would have been delighted but I wouldn't have believed you. But, as ever, evenings like this are why I moved to New York.

Syndicate(d)

syn-di-cate
noun
/sindikit/
1. a group of individuals or organizations combined to promote some common interest

When I first moved to New York, one of the things I wanted most--in addition to your usual success, apartment, ravishing style sensibilities--was a crew. That group of people I could call whenever I wanted to hang out, to go to a concert, to dinner, for drinks, what have you. Basically I wanted my life to be Friends. This was, however, contrary to the way I had lived my life to the point I arrived in New York and continues to be this way--I had always been more of a floater, close with several people sprinkled in different groups. Other people, though, are very good at and have always been good at maintaining a close circle, and one of those is Akeem Duncan.

I met Akeem many moons ago now when I was working with an arts collaborative. His magazine, an arts publication called Quiet Lunch, covered one of our events, and he and the publication stayed on my radar ever since. Akeem's crew, his syndicate, is a group of passionate individuals who don't think in terms of boundaries, but only possibilities, always seeking to continue developing the magazine as a network and an arbiter of taste. I have had the privilege of seeing Quiet Lunch grow, their connections in the art world blossoming to impressive heights. Akeem is one of those people who truly has an eye for unique talent--he featured artist Shantell Martin in the magazine long before Converse hired her to do artwork for their billboards, and I saw band Tei Shi in the publication eons before its lead singer was in Elle Magazine. In short, the man not only knows talent, but knows where to dig for it.

I was not surprised, then, that his first solo-curated exhibition, "Selfish" at Brilliant Champions gallery in Bushwick, was a stunning success. Every work in the show, be it painting or photography or mixed media or collage, was a self-portrait that inspired interest in process, was a stunning visual, and was a bold insight into the artist's imagination. It is, as the gallery says, "a vivid exemplar of imaginative introspection." Akeem, a curator in his very soul, brought together new artists (so new their first works were featured in the show) with artists he had met at different fairs around the country like Art Basel. I was especially taken with the photographic paper sculptures of Nate Lewis, the photo collage work of model/artist Louise Donegan, and Megan Tatem's delightfully deadpan and provocative self-portrait on a toilet, though I would say almost every piece in the show is strong. Akeem has never been afraid of new work, of new artists, and promotes them whenever he has the opportunity which is, sadly, not the case with most of the art world. I would highly recommend checking out the show at the lovely and petite Brilliant Champions if you happen to have a moment or several to spare.

On the night I was there at the opening, there was a gorgeous peacock, Dexter, who happened to be one of the pets of another artist. Walking outside, Dexter was perched on the artist's shoulder, a study in absurdity and elegance on a leash. But then again, I shouldn't be surprised. That's just how Akeem and his crew roll.

**

I had heard about this Bushwick spot--a restaurant/movie theater/cocktail bar in a former industrial space? Yes please!--in an article praising its cocktails and thought it might be fun to go. But I couldn't remember the name or the location of it. However, leaving the "Selfish" opening at Brilliant Champions, SE and I walked down Bogart Street to the train when we spot Syndicated. "Oh! That's it! That's the place I was telling you about!" I said emphatically, slapping SE on the arm of his black leather jacket. SE, who has a such a penchant for cocktails that his home bar likely rivals more than one bar in the city, was game if I was, so we went inside. There was gorgeous, art deco detailing on the steps as we entered, which was duplicated inside with sconces and light fixtures behind the bar, a welcome juxtaposition against exposed turquoise pipes. The ceilings were gorgeously, unspeakably high for any location in the five boroughs, but that's one of the benefits of making a restaurant in a former industrial space, after all. Windows topped the space and a giant bar in the center was stacked, pyramid-like with high-end liquors. The bartender was a fellow whose name was Tom but went by Cat, and I decided I would like to come back as such a man in another life. We ordered cocktails inspired by classic cinema--a Lawnmower Man for me (Hophead vodka, cachaca, market green juice, chili syrup, carrot juice, and lemon) and a Steve McQueen (Old Overholt rye, Carpano Antica, Dolin dry vermouth, whiskey barrel-aged bitters) for SE.

In the back of Syndicated, there is a movie theatre where they screen classics (and "classics") like A League of Their Own, Leprechaun, and Clueless for $3 per ticket, $5 for a double feature. But we perched ourselves at the bar and happily sipped our cocktails: mine, I'm happy to say, was easily one of the best cocktails I've ever had. As someone whose face morphs into something like Edvard Munch's The Scream upon the mere idea of drinking a green juice, I think that says quite a lot. The veggie taste was made subtle by the chili syrup and cachaca but, having had little to eat before I drank it, I was shortly, yet very happily, in my socks. We ordered grilled mojo skewers of chicken, lamb, and beef and Scrumpets, corned beef short ribs served with russian dressing (which had hardboiled eggs in it! How wild!). SE beared with me as I gushed (slurred?) about their crispy, juicy, meaty deliciousness. In the short space of an evening, this place we dove into on a whim became the second syndicate worth returning to Bushwick for.

Romy and Michele Go To a Holiday Party

It felt like Fifth Avenue in the height of tourist season. Throngs of people milling about so closely packed together that my red heels consistently nicked the legs of the people around me. I did my best to walk in the space like a fairly regular human being with some semblance of fine motor skills, but occasionally failed.

I was given two free tickets to a holiday party uptown, billed as one for "young professionals." I didn't really know what this meant, save for the fact the party would probably filled with people who were approximately my age and that there would be an open bar. I have seen several parties advertised this way around New York, but have never actually gone to one before.

I brought as my partner in crime my fearless partygoer RaGo, and together we milled about the space, she dressed like a punk nun in a black velvet dress with studs at the neck and wrist, and I like a 1930s bohemian entertaining at home, sheer red draping top and matching heels with wide-legged grey trousers in the middle. If you know either of us, this is par for the course--we are, not to toot our own horns, creatively minded individuals, people who love not only to develop original work (RaGo once wrote a tale from her youth entitled "My Genderqueer Rabbit" which I sincerely hope she publishes one day) but appreciate it. I like to think this is regularly reflected in our attire.

And everyone else there was wearing black. Black cocktail dresses with black leggings or tights and riding boots. And the women snarl at the servers, asking them for specific appetizers from the giant tray of all the same appetizer, as if somehow some are actually better than others and they simply must have the best ones. The men stand in the background, button-up shirts and contrasting ties, putting up with the women, not being at all too particular themselves about the appetizers.

Shortly, RaGo and I understand where we are--we are at the holiday party equivalent of a singles' weekend and, save for the open bar, we almost instantly lose interest. That is, until the very rad DJ served up the newish, posthumously released Michael Jackson-Justin Timberlake collaboration, "Love Never Felt So Good."

"I love this song!" RaGo says, as we perch on the wooden stage, sipping our vodka sodas.
"Do you want to dance with me?" I say.
She hesitates, but eventually answers in the affirmative.
"Yeah. Whatever, let's Romy and Michele this place."

It's the perfect reference for what we are about to do, this reference to the utterly classic 1997 film "Romy and Michele's High School Reunion," in which two utterly clueless former high school outcasts  and best friends return home for, well, their high school reunion. Multiple times in the film--at their prom, at a club, at the reunion-- they don't have anyone to dance with, so they dance with each other, the only other person either of them has ever really needed.

So RaGo and I get up and dance. Encouraged by our movement at this otherwise dead party, the DJ spins dance track after dance track and soon we have easily been dancing non-stop for 30 minutes. And after said time, we are still the only people dancing. He loves us, smiling and winking and clapping at us and offering us cocktail napkins when we get very sweaty. We inspire a few people to move around, but they stop after one or two songs and it continues to be really only us twirling around the space throughout the entire evening. I feel people staring at us and I couldn't care less. Yes, watch away! Look at what your life is missing! Not me, per se, but the dancing! Why aren't you dancing?!

I decide I am a filter now. That anyone I would possibly want to talk to at this party would be a person who actually had the guts to start dancing with me. So far, and wonderfully so, the only person is RaGo. After each song begins, we say, "Just one more then we'll go have another drink," but the songs are so good we just keep dancing.

Eventually, vodka sodas call to us and we sit down and take a break. A girl comes over to us who has lost her friends. "Wow!" she says. "You guys look like you're having so much fun dancing! I wish I could do that!" She is, unsurprisingly, also wearing all black.

And I just think to myself, uh, why couldn't you, able-bodied individual? And then I remember the uptightness and homogeneity of the crowd and I understand. These people aren't like us. They have no bone of Romy and Michele in their bodies. They don't understand what we're doing.

We chat with her briefly--RaGo is pleasant but I become disinterested almost immediately. One of my worst qualities is that I have zero tolerance for lack of imagination. But, mercifully, we are granted a reprieve from this person's thoughtless drivel ("So have you met any guys here?" she asks us before asking us what we do, or even our names. Seriously?) when the DJ starts playing Britney Spears's "Work Bitch." To call RaGo a Britney fan would be a disarming understatement and she immediately throws up her hands and squeals with the delight. The DJ sees and laughs uproariously but appreciatively. In an instant we are up and dancing and this other girl disappears. We vogue and pose and shimmy to Britney; RaGo's arms are up in the air, trance-like and twirling, as if summoning all the goddesses of the universe toward her. She is the best thing at this party, and the only reason I'm happy I'm here, open bar or not.

Shortly, we are sweaty again and we sit down to take advantage of the bar once more. A man tries to talk to me by asking me about my family heritage--nosy, impertinent questions like, What tribe does your family belong to? What's your family name? Where is your mother from?--as if he's looking to buy a show dog from a breeder, holding me up to the light to see if my whiskers are growing in the right direction before making his purchase.

It takes everything in me not to wrinkle my brow at him, roll my eyes, and say "Who the hell are you, guy??" Surprisingly, I hold it together and soon the party is over. Not without a glass of chocolate liqueur over ice, which RaGo and I share.

In line for our coats, I meet a funny, intelligent man who feels similar befuddlement at my nosy gentleman story. "What, like he expected you to know the exact shtetl where they lived?" he laughs. At least someone understands. He's kind, holding my bag while I reach for my coat, helping me put it on. At least not everyone here is looking for a show dog. We trade phone numbers.

RaGo and I laugh our way out of the party, recounting our adventures and misadventures--the DJ, dancing, watching the women pick out appetizers, that really good chocolate liquer. We stop into an Italian restaurant and stuff our faces with pasta and bread and olive oil, hungry after not having been able to push past those women at the appetizer bar all evening. At a party where I could have easily been overwhelmed by not only the sheer number of people but the sad lack of originality in all of them, my dear friend RaGo was pure perfection.

"I'm so glad you were there," I say again as we cram the last bites of linguine into our mouths. "I don't know what I would have done without you!" I cannot say it enough.