Top Great Moments I Didn't Write About But Should Have: 2015 Edition

As ever, a list of some of the great moments from the past year that I didn't get a chance to write about as they happened.

To compile the list I usually go through all of my social media platforms from the entire year and I pick out the moments, later finding images and doing research (into my own life, which is strange and revelatory each time) about each to make sure they're accurate. The process usually takes longer than a) I think it will and b) than most of my blogs do, but it's the only year-end, or rather year-beginning, list I do so I might as well go big, no?

That being said, here they are. Enjoy!

April
Broadgay
The first time I saw it, it was a tiny little note on my Facebook page, but I don't think I made anything of it. Like everyone else, I get a lot of invites to a lot of events (and I send a lot of them myself). But then it was a link sent from HanOre via Facebook messenger. Did I want to go see a Broadgay, comedically staged, all-gay male retelling of an episode of Sex and the City? While I'm not the biggest Sex and the City fan, I live for a good gender bending every day of the week, not to mention one of my favorite performers and writers, Joel Kim Booster, would be playing Samantha. Yes. I was in.

Brandon Scott Jones as Carrie, Julio Torres as Miranda,
Sam Taggart as Charlotte, Joel Kim Booster as Samantha

Not too long after, Joel had tagged me on Facebook: the show's producer/director Bowen Yang needed a photographer for the show. Was I interested? I was! So HanOre and I arrived early to the Jerry Orbach Theatre and got amazing seats, from which I sat and photographed the show. I laughed so much my stomach hurt and eyes hurt as Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte, and Samantha--played with wonderfully over-the-top commitment by Brandon Scott Jones, Julio Torres, Sam Taggart and of course Joel, respectively--ran through the black box of fictional New York, brightly colored purses swinging and flowered brooches growing by the minute (Carrie's flower pin grows so big by the end of the show it is smacking people in the arms and chests, but still with perfect comedic timing). I was hooked. I think people forget how much work it takes to make good comedy--I've always believed that anyone can make you cry, but not everyone can make you laugh.

I had the pleasure of photographing the second Broadgay in August at Littlefield in Brooklyn, as well, with the same results. I had to, at points, prevent myself from rolling out of the chair and clutching my stomach in the beautiful agony of laughing so hard. And if you are in New York on February 25, 2016, there is no place else you should be than at Littlefield for what will likely be yet another evening of Broadgay brilliance. Tickets are only $8-10, and can be purchased here.


June

MV holding up RD's brownie birthday cake

RD's Birthday

If you told me I would end up behind a tree in on a weekend in June to celebrate RD's 30th birthday, that would have been okay with me, honestly. SA and MV had planned the event, a surprise party unofficially called "RD's Dirty, Flirty, Squirty 30," for months, making sign-up sheets for bringing things, sending out e-vites, securing a plot of land in Central Park with the Parks & Recreation department (!), assembling RD-related bingo, making bagged lunches for everyone (!), buying decorations, and so much more. They really did an incredible job, too, because when he showed up and tons of his friends were jumping out from behind a tree yelling surprise, he had absolutely no idea. We sat in the park all day until it got dark, laughing and talking and playing games, eating sandwiches, sipping from juice boxes, and occasionally snuggling with a giant inflatable stegosaurus someone had brought.


August 
Medieval Times

I would say I have a love/hate relationship with Middle America, but it's mostly just a hate relationship. Typical suburbia--with its chains and parking lots and manicured gas stations--is the stuff of my nightmares. So when we were going to out to Medieval Times in New Jersey for SA and MV's joint birthday party, I was skeptical to say the least. I knew it would be rife with screaming children and tourists at the worst, historical inaccuracies at best, phrases like "ye olde" tacked onto things that wouldn't be invented for another 500 years, like plastic cups, photo booths, and light-up princess crowns. I was not wrong on either account, and when I walked in I needed a drink. It was...a lot of stimulation, a lot of light up swords, a lot of The King's Olde Photo Shoppe. But after ye olde chardonnay in ye olde plastic cup, I was having a great time. I cheered loudly for our knight in the jousting tournament, I happily dug my hands (because there was no silverware in medieval times, apparently?) into the giant turkey leg offered to us, I booed the bad knights, cheered for the good ones, and ambled through the torture chamber with glee. I chuckled at the placemat that begged me to call 1-800-WE-JOUST if I wanted more information for my corporate retreats. I left full and happy and just a little drunk, passing out on the air mattress at SA's house, the reigns of my urban snobbery loosened, at least for the evening.

September
Buvette
The first time I went to Buvette, it was a hot Saturday night in early September. I had been working all day and needed desperately to get out of the house. I texted SJT: Did he have plans? Miraculously, he did not, and we resolved to meet for dinner. I had heard about Buvette on more than one occasion, and it was supposed to be excellent: French tapas and small plates by chef Jody Williams hailed by regarded publications like The New York Times, Conde Nast Traveler, and Bon Appetit. Surprisingly, the menu is reasonable, as well. Would SJT want to give it a shot with me? He did.

That evening, around 8:30, we strode into Buvette in the West Village and, another miracle for the evening, were able to find two open seats together at the bar. The doors were open inviting the still-summery warmth into the restaurant. SJT was wearing shorts, which made me feel glamorous being with him: only a certain kind of person has enough grace and style to make shorts look perfectly elegant while in what's considered a high-end (yet still low-key) bistro/cafe of sorts. Get on my high-end shorts and gold-wire-rimmed glasses and polka-dot tote bag level, his visage seemed to say to anyone in the vicinity.

We started with glasses of rose, then made our way through foie gras with cornichons, then tartinettes topped with anchovies (he) and walnut pesto (me) sharing bites along the way, and finally sharing a dense, rich chocolate mousse topped with homemade whipped cream for dessert. It was a perfect, petite summer meal Ina Garten would have loved. We ended the evening with cocktails at the Duplex, a gay bar not too far away on Christopher Street, laughing and singing Eve into the night. 

Hamilton
The Broadway show Hamilton is virtually impossible to get tickets to for the next millennium, probably, but by the good graces of SD, I was able to score a ticket via an offer at her company. I had been excited to see it for ages, not just because of its amazing press but because my dear friend SW was the show's Beatmaster and had been with the production from the beginning, when it was still called The Hamilton Mixtape and when it was first making waves at The Public Theatre. Most of our friends had seen it already, singing its praises over and over, and it was finally my turn. By this time, I could have watched clips of it online or heard parts of the soundtrack or what have you, but I very actively made the decision not to do any of that. I just wanted to walk in and have a story told to me. I was not disappointed.

There were so many things I loved about Hamilton, but my favorite thing was the storytelling. There aren't a lot of fancy set changes or anything, but you don't need them: just by the way the show is written and rapped through by its diverse cast, you can see and experience what the characters were feeling along the way. To quote The Producers, a Broadway show can have lots of "dopey showgirls in gooey gowns," but if you can tell an amazing story without them, the work you've done is that much more powerful. I could say so much more about it, but you should really just get tickets as soon as you can, even if the first available date is in 2017 (which, at this point, it might be). 

After the show, SW was kind enough to take time out of his evening to take me onstage, where I was able to see the set up close, meet some of his colleagues, and ask him infinite questions about the show. Kerry Washington was backstage casually talking to Lin-Manuel Miranda about how much she loved it. I got to see all the costumes lined up for props and changes, and some of the cast were onstage talking to their friends in their street cloth
es, that is to say their non-revolutionary gear. SW and I took the train uptown, talking more about the show. I feel privileged to have seen it, and my belief and hope is that it will change the face and focus of American theatre going forward.

October
Peaches

I began photographing concerts more frequently this year, and one of the best shows I saw not just this year but probably ever was Peaches as she came through New York's Irving Plaza on her Rub tour with Deap Vally. I've loved her badass, brash electropop ever since I heard "Fuck The Pain Away" for the first time, and when I had the opportunity to actually photograph her show I leapt at the chance. For just one person, she dominated the stage and put on an unbelievable show, complete with custom-designed costumes, salacious dancers and props, trips into the audience, and more. Not only that, but I was able to see the show pretty much from the front row the whole time, since after I was done shooting it (the first three songs only is pretty standard), I just stepped to the side of the stage. I was right in front of the speaker so it was definitely loud, but it was totally worth it. Check out more of my images from that night here on Impose magazine.

November
We're going OUT

SC and EH at The Ritz

My dear friend EH is a surgical resident at a hospital in New Jersey, and she's totally killing the game. She works hard, she's smart, and she also barely ever gets a weekend off. When she does, she likes to come into the city and blow off steam. Last time she came in, though, I dropped the ball: I was working weekends, waking up at the buttcrack of dawn to get work done, so I could just barely stay awake by the time evening rolled around. This time she came to visit I vowed things would be different. We. Would. Go. Hard. Maybe even harder than we used to in college, if that was still possible for two professional women in their late twenties? But I made her a promise, and I never, ever break a promise. The evening began with Turkish meze at Beyoglu on the Upper East Side, then a jaunt down to SC's apartment for pre-going-out festivities with B and R. Our festivities went a little longer than usual, and we didn't leave there until 1am, arriving at our destination, the delightfully trashy Ritz in Hell's Kitchen. We drank whiskey and we danced everything out--stress, work, bills, zits, dudes, you name it. That night there was nothing Lady Gaga and RuPaul could not heal. We shook til our bodies hurt and then we shook some more. All of us were a beautiful mess of sweat and alcohol. And we shut the club down, making our way across the street in what was almost a mass exodus to the Galaxy Diner. We ate french fries and eggs and R fell asleep at the table. At 5 am, we dove into a cab, shivering in the loud emptiness of the night and fell asleep by 5:30am. I had kept my promise. 

A Summer Saturday

BK and I meet for brunch. We are both flighty birds about town so the occasion for just the two of us to hang out is rare. We meet at The Wayland, a rad spot in Alphabet City that's decorated with exposed brick, books about blues music and portraits of someone's great-great-grandfather nobody ever knew. The tables are thick and wooden and we sit on stools staring at each other, talking about writing, dating, and wherever those twains might meet. It's cooler for a summer day, and the open windows don't make me feel like I'm going to die. BK is halfway through his iced coffee and already he's talking faster, but my pace is much slower. It's one of the few days off I've had since I started working weekends, and I feel myself breathing. I order what the restaurant calls Sausage Bread and Eggs, and really this is the best name for it because that's what it is--thick, crusty bread filled in the middle with ground sausage bits that melt into you mouth and into the yolk of the poached eggs when you break them open. I dip the bread and egg combo into the ricotta/olive oil mixture it's served with and I taste Saturday. I will be back.

After brunch, we walk over to a mural, an alphabet assemblage of street art BK has been wanting to see. As we walk there, a man shouts to me, "Look at this beautiful Jewish girl!" and BK and I both become palpably uncomfortable but don't say anything for a few seconds.

"How did that make you feel? I'm sorry that happened." he says after those seconds pass. "Should I have said something?"

"Uh, no," I said. "I wouldn't have known what to tell you to say." And really, I still don't. It bothers me more to be called out for my ethnicity than my visual appeal and I don't know how to voice that. Why can't I just be beautiful?

We arrive at the mural, which is bright blue painted on brick and shutters and wraps around a streetcorner. From what we can gather, several different artists have collaborated to do different letters of the alphabet in their various styles. We consider each letter carefully as if we've just wandered into a gallery. I like the letter "L" the best, which is formed from a pink leg leading into a pink ankle leading into a red sneaker.

Heading up Avenue B, we stop into a new vintage spot BK has found, the East Village Clothing Collective. It's two floors and independently owned by three ladies, each of whom has a distinct style and a distinct area of the store. The vintage sunglasses are inexpensive ($5-8 each) but the silken Twisted Sister jacket is less so ($100). There are funny polyester cowboy shirts and paisley dresses abound, and The Stray Cats play on the sound system. There's a room with vintage Gucci heels in it that has portholes for no reason and a room in the back where they set up air mattresses and do movie nights for free.

Time has ticked by, and shortly I must be on my way. I am heading out to New Jersey for the afternoon to visit SJT's family home.

I arrive at Penn Station with plenty of time to get the black tea with milk and Splenda I want so badly, but I am nervous, without reason, that I will miss the train. I don't take NJ Transit often and I know trains always (for the most part) leave on time. I get on the train and transfer at Newark Penn Station which, I must say, is the most disgusting place I have been since moving to New York. The length of the stairways smell entirely of piss, and the waiting areas smell like body odor. I moved through each of these with great speed and fear of vomiting and was rewarded with my train to a place called Netherwood waiting for me on the other end.

SJT picked me up in his car, which did not look too much like it belonged to him save for a Renata Tebaldi box set in the backseat. SJT, a self-described "opera queen" named his car Monserrat Caballé, hoping that it, like her, would have a long, illustrious career (he made the mistake previously of naming another car after the singer Leyla Gencer who had a tragically short career; he crashed this car into a tree). On the way to his home in South Plainfield, which he describes as "rather gay," he points out to me that the area was once known as a location for country homes for those living in the city. We pass gorgeous tudor-style mansions that support this. We pass a cemetery on our left where SJT tells me Dudley Moore is buried. "When I was in middle school, I didn't know who Dudley Moore was, but I did know who Liza Minnelli was and I knew they were friends," he said. He was delighted that, upon Moore's death in 2002, the divine Ms. Minnelli would likely be in his very hometown to attend her friend's funeral. Though SJT could not crash the funeral to see her, he did go visit Moore's grave the next day to stand where Liza had possibly stood and take in her "Liza-ness," as it were.

We turn down one street and then another and then SJT drolly quips, "And this is the Burger King," before turning into his driveway.

A crowd of people has already gathered, and we sit in the grass and on lawn chairs in his backyard. It's not too hot, and the grass is cool on my feet.
"Would you like to sit in a chair like a real person, Elyssa?" SJT says to me.
"Oh, no thank you," I say, smiling, because how often in New York do I really get to sit in the grass and look up at the sky?

For an appetizer, we eat chicken and tomato salad made with items fresh from the garden/orchard we are staring at as we eat. During this time, we are invited to remove any books we like (for the most part) from SJT's room: soon he is leaving for Eastern Europe, a months-long tour of his own design. From a hot room decorated with kelly green spongepaint, I remove We Were The Mulvaneys by Joyce Carol Oates, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time by Mark Haddon, Ada, or Ardor by Vladimir Nabokov and The Rest is Noise by Alex Ross. Other people choose Pushkin or Thomas Hardy or a variety of choral selections SJT had amassed over the years that no longer held interest for him. I return with my haul and sink deeper into the sangria AnSha has made, a peach and rosemary elixir she serves from a Mason jar. She has just moved to Williamsburg--I joke how well she seems to be assimilating and we laugh.

SJT's mother has prepared a feast for us this evening, and shortly I stuff my face with what's easily the best lasagna I've ever had. I'm not a regular pasta eater generally and I don't come from an Italian household, so I don't often have the pleasure of having the dish, much less homemade. It melts in my mouth, as do the Penne Vodka and Sausage and Peppers. I eat enough of everything so when I go home to my empty refrigerator I won't even notice for the entire week. Everyone drinks more, sits more, laughs more. We eat sliced peaches from the garden with Friendly's vanilla ice cream for dessert as the sky turns first to a peachy pink, then lavender, then powder blue, then black.

It is time to leave, and SJT and his mother take AnSha and I to the train. NJ Transit is brimming with people heading into the city for a big night out: they wear tight dresses or jeans and some even wear Hawaiian leis, spangled tops and button-down shirts. And AnSha and I can barely stay awake. We lean our heads against the window as we leave first the Metropark station, then the airport, then Newark Penn, and finally arrive back in Manhattan. I find my way home dreamily by 11pm and fall asleep. Who needs to go out when you've had a day like this?