Top Great Moments I Didn't Write About But Should Have: 2014 Edition

For whatever reason, there are some great moments that slip through the cracks every year--ones that didn't get their due being chronicled as really rad experiences. As I do every year, here are some of the great moments of 2014 that didn't make it to the blog during the year, so I'm kicking off this new year with them! For previous incarnations of this list, please see the 2013 and 2012 editions. Happy new year, folks! May 2015 bring you only success, health, and happiness.


Ghoster's Paradise
So technically this is a 2013 event, but it was released in 2014 so I'm counting it! "Ghoster's Paradise," (watch below!) written by inimitable comedy writer Hannah VanderPoel and directed by Michael Schwartz is, as perhaps you can tell, a parody video of Coolio's 1995 classic "Gangster's Paradise."It was written to hilariously call attention to and publicly shame the infinite men (and women!) all over this fine nation of ours who have resorted to "ghosting," or repeatedly telling someone you're interested and then disappearing without having the guts to say you're just not into them. Hannah is a friend of RaGo and I, and back in 2013 she asked us and a bunch of other rad ladies to take part in the video as members of a badass lady gang. On a Sunday afternoon in October 2013, we put on our finest attempts at faux hip-hop inspired apparel and stomped all over a rooftop in Bushwick. When the video was released in March 2014, it went viral, getting picked up by the likes of The Huffington Post and Glamour. I even had people I hadn't spoken to in years writing to me saying how much they loved it and how (sadly!) accurate it was. I didn't write about it that October because I wanted to wait until it was released, but it turns out I was preoccupied at that time as well. So I just did! It was a truly rad experience to be a part of, so thank you so much Hannah for that!

Women's Herstory Exhibition
I met photographer Elaine Hargrove when I was working with an arts collaborative awhile ago. I was instantly taken with her colorful documentary and portraiture work, which I wrote about on my blog. She loved the piece and sent me a photograph of hers to say thank you, and I now proudly display it in my house. When she was assembling a women's only photography exhibition earlier this year, she was kind enough to include me, too. Held at Freecandy in Brooklyn, the exhibition was called the "Women's Herstory Exhibition," in honor of women's history month and featured a variety of performance art throughout the evening alongside the gallery exhibition. SO many people came out to the event, and it was an honor to be included in such a rad collection of ladies.

My work at the Herstory exhibition.
Photo by Elaine Hargrove.

Restaurants: Adrienne's Pizzabar (Financial District) and Fish (West Village)
My freshman year of college cured me from ever really seeking out a slice of pizza for enjoyment--pizza is everywhere when you're in college, and it really took the novelty out of the food for me, to the extent that I hardly ever eat it now. But on a Saturday evening after a concert at the South Street Seaport, HanOre and I were hungry. She recommended Adrienne's Pizzabar, maybe a 15-20 minute walk away on one of the Financial District's historic cobblestone streets. I was nervous we'd be swarmed by de-suited finance guys on the prowl, but I trusted her judgment. The bistro-style atmosphere, complete with candlelight and a long wooden cocktail bar, was not what I expected in a place to get a slice, but I'd soon find out none of that mattered. We shared a grilled chicken and mushroom pizza (they don't do slices), and I swear on my red heels it was the absolute best pizza I've ever had in my life. If I had known pizza could have tasted like this, I would have been eating it as often as humanly possible. I can still taste it as I write this some six months later. When can we go back?

Fish is actually a restaurant Maw Manhattan found before she and Paw Manhattan came to visit in September. My parents are not picky eaters, per se, but they just don't like a complicated menu--any kind of food that would require the suffix "infusion," for example. Finding restaurants to take them to is often nervewracking for me--it takes a long time and I really hate disappointing them when they've traveled so far to have a nice meal. In September I reached the end of my rope, and I said, okay, it's your turn to find something! And Fish it was. Fish is, of course, a seafood restaurant, and it's super low-key, with waiters wearing t-shirts and a funky, grungy atmosphere. It was a fun, welcome change from another place where I have to wear heels to dinner. The food was both affordable and delicious--lobster bisque served in a mug, lobster mac and cheese, lobster pot pie...my mouth is watering just thinking about it. Everything each of us ordered that night was absolutely delicious, and I highly recommend it.


Lancaster
In August, I had the privilege of working on a story out in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. TL and I traveled out to the city, his hometown, together. Though the story itself ended up taking a different direction while we were there, in the meantime I got to see his favorite spots all over the city and experience this place that was so important to my friend. Lancaster is not just Amish country. It's small but vibrant, an almost-startling mix between a funky city like Austin--bursting with galleries and music venues all in a small radius-- and lush, green farmland. Not to mention, it's wonderfully, wildly inexpensive (beers for $1.75, glasses of milk for 50 cents at the Farmer's Market, 40 cent wings). I saw beautiful, candy-colored sunsets, I sat in a backyard overlooking someone's farm in the cool summer breeze, I got stuck in traffic behind an Amish buggy. It was easily my favorite trip this year, if not one of my favorite experiences the entire year. I have been working on an essay about my trip there since I left, pretty much, and hopefully one day it'll be good enough to match the memory of my trip there. Infinite thanks to TL for dragging me around, helping me with this story, putting me up in his home, and sharing his city with me.

Apple Picking
HVP's birthday wish was for a bunch of friends to go apple picking in upstate New York, preferably wearing flannel attire if possible. So we went, flannel and all! On a late September morning, we piled into a van and drove two hours north to Warwick, NY, where there's an apple orchard. To get there, we passed by tons of brightly colored leaves in the midst of changing. Sometimes in New York, whe you're pounding the pavement, you forget completely about seeing the changing seasons, so it was nice to see. There were tons of people at the orchard--apparently this is a popular activity?--and we poked through the trees to get our haul. Not before sampling the orchard's wines and ciders and partaking in a barbeque lunch, of course! The trip was lovely not only for the activity itself but for HVP's lovely friends who made me laugh the entire way, RaGo and her Britney Spears solo sing-alongs included.

Jerseyween
There had been an email chain going for months about what we would do for Halloween. For just as long, I had been preparing my costume, to be Andy Warhol's "Gold Marilyn Monroe" from 1962. I was determined to go out and get it seen, too! We wound up at SA's place in Jersey City, which is a lot less far from Manhattan than I originally anticipated--it's more like the sixth borough in that it took me about as long to get there as it does to get to Brooklyn. I will fully admit, I was not sold on the idea of "Jerseyween," as it became known, when our email chain first started. "Ughhhhhhh whyyyyyy do we have to leave the staaaaaaaate???" I found myself thinking as messages progressed toward a New Jersey evening. But it was lovely! Downtown Jersey City is kind of homey and approachable in the way that the tall glass buildings in Manhattan and the hipsterfied streets in Brooklyn can't be. We got into costume--me as Warhol's Marilyn, alongside Dr. Who, a Vulcan from Star Trek, and living incarnations of Firefox and Internet Explorer--and headed over to meet up with some other friends--Bob Ross and his Happy Tree-- for probably the most candy and junk food I've eaten on Halloween since I was in elementary school. We made our way after that to a Barcade location close by. After a number of photos and drinks there, we came back to SA's to de-makeup and fall asleep while watching Shaun of the Dead. It was easily the best Halloween I've had since coming to New York.

How'd I do, guys?

Ladydate
I was fortunate enough to receive two tickets to see Les Ballets Trockadero de Monte Carlo, a hilarious drag ballet company (yes, that means men in drag on pointe shoes!) and HanOre came with me. The Trocks, as they're known have been in existence for 40 years, with rotating cast of dancers who have impeccable ballet backgrounds and, of course, comedic timing. HanOre and I decided to make a gal's night of it, starting with a trip to La Maison du Croque Monsieur on University Place. La Maison is located in the building that was once home to writer Anaïs Nin, and each sandwich on the menu is named for one of her lovers (Hugh, Otto, Eduardo, Antonin, etc...). Post-Trocks, wound our way to the fabulous Beatrice Inn, whose dark wooden bar and white tiled walls are below street level. We sat near the fireplace drinking martinis. Then another of HanOre's tried-and-true college bars and, followed it with a late-night snack at the wonderful Pommes Frites in the East Village. I love the feeling of a full evening, falling into a cab on the way home knowing you had a fantastic night.


And now on to 2015, kittens!

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.

Window Shopping IV

Maybe it's because I don't celebrate Christmas, but it never feels like "the holidays" to me now unless I go see those famed holiday windows at Bergdorf Goodman. I've only missed one year so far (see my other entries from 2010, 2011 and 2013), and I have to say, now I know for sure it's just not the season until I stand on the corner of 58th Street and 5th Avenue with my hands and nose burning from the cold, waiting patiently for that single tourist to move out of the way so I can take a picture. And I really mean that, and with love, too. Once I've captured the department store's windows in all their glory, I know my trip home for the holidays isn't far off, so I don't mind the process at all.

In the swirl of Friday night traffic (foot and vehicle), I took my pictures of this season's windows, all themed in "The Arts" category. There were windows dedicated to each facet of the field--music, dance, film, painting, sculpture, photography, gastronomy, cartography, calligraphy, architecture, theatre and literature. As it is every year, it's an utter visual joy to see how the Bergdorf's staff interprets each of these subjects into a single window, the glamorous gowns and intricate details that go into all of them, be they cross-stitched portraits of myriad authors (the Literature window), to scads of paintbrushes, easels, and palettes all covered in white paint (Painting), to a glory of bright, shiny silver tubas behind a raven-haired mannequin clad in a nude, crystal-studded jumpsuit (Music), and an explosion of neon lights that were all handmade specifically for the window (Theatre). I'm not a fickle person by any means, but it seems like every year is my new favorite year of windows.

In an interview on Bergdorf's blog, 58th and 5th, window designer David Hoey said of this year's constructions that "the entire set of windows would constitute a sort of eight-lesson course in art appreciation." Hoey also said the entire Literature window was made from needlepoint, soft sculpture and fabric, while the architecture window was only composed of paper and old blueprints. In reality, the entire design of the windows themselves is an art form, one I feel privileged to have seen and photographed for so many years. Take a look below at my photos from this year's windows extravaganza at Bergdorf Goodman, "The Arts." You can click to enlarge.

 

  

 

Morning Gloryville

It was an odd experience to find myself on a train at 7:45am on Wednesday headed to a rave.

Normally I'd guess the experience would be the opposite, that one is heading home from a rave at such an hour. And this probably wouldn't happen on a Wednesday, right?

But there's a new sort of party happening in New York, held by a few different organizations, that of the morning rave. Usually a rave might conjure visions of people in all variety of neon attire dancing, maybe on all variety of drugs, floating like glow-in-the-dark stars through an abandoned factory alongside pulsating, electronic, bass-dropping deep house music. A morning rave is like that but, of course in the daytime and involves smoothies instead of drugs, coffee where there might usually be alcohol, as well as massages and yoga, all before 10am. (Please forgive the photos, they're from my iPhone.)

One such party is Morning Gloryville, which has now launched in 15 cities across the globe. Conceived by events producer Samantha Moyo and bodywork therapist Nico Thoemmes in 2013, the event asks dancers to show up sober, and invites you to "rave your way into the day," to get some exercise in a way that's far more fun and funky than heading to the gym. It's meant to be a positive and uplifting experience, one to challenge "traditional morning culture," where getting up is thought of as The Worst Thing Ever.

I always work up a great sweat when I go dancing at night, so why not give it a shot during the day? It was interesting--even though getting out of bed at the ungodly hour of 7am (sorry, traditional-work-hours folks, it's freelancer's life and everything's relative!) usually makes me groan "WHY AM I DOING THIS?!?" this past Wednesday morning I didn't do that. I had been excited to go to to Morning Gloryville for a few days, and that excitement got me out of bed pretty easily.

Requested to "dress to sweat," I put on my usual exercise clothes--a tank top and black pants, sneakers--and made my way down to the Judson Church. While the Judson is also definitely a church, it is more often than not a secular performance space used by all manner of arts groups, from modern dance to theatre, music, and much more. I heard Morning Gloryville before I saw it. Tell-tale "nst nst" beats flowed from the church onto Washington Square South and let me know I was in the right direction. One sign pointed me toward yoga also offered by the events, but I knew I was just going to be there for the dancing. After checking in at the press table (thanks for having me, Annie!), I went to make my way inside, only to be welcomed by a girl dressed as a bumblebee giving me a great big hug. "Welcome to Morning Gloryville!" she said as her glitter-covered eyes sparkled and her yellow wings shook behind her. Unaccustomed to being hugged before entering a party, I was a little bewildered but appreciated such a kind, unusual gesture.

Entering, I saw an endless row of coats, that promised table offering free coffee, a smoothie bar, and a water bar. There were all kinds of people inside, too--young people who were easily NYU students in workout attire similar to mine; women in baggy, patterned pants and crop tops wearing combat boots and crystals around their necks; a pale man with a single dreadlock tickling his neck; a ginger bloke wearing red long underwear, complete with butt flap; girls in metallic, patterned leggings wearing short crayon-colored wigs; another, muscular man wearing a camouflage mesh tank top and some of the tiniest shorts I have ever seen; a girl wearing a bathing suit over her leggings, and much more, all alongside a shirtless, hairy older gentleman--and everyone was dancing like apocalypse was coming. Hearts full of good vibes, they swayed and twirled and turned and did fancy things with their feet (because, of course, House is not just a style of music, but a way to dance). Some people even did capoeira and ballet because whatever rubs your Buddha, right?

While I normally don't dance to house, I danced with an open mind to every bass drop and "nst nst," I twirled and bounced and swirled with the best of them. Every so often the very energetic and positive emcees would come on the mike and offer a few words to get everyone's good vibrations flowing (and to remind them to hydrate! I found both particularly helpful). I think my favorite was, "When you dance more, you smile more, and when you smile more, you think less." I often feel like I think too much, but even I felt my brain turn off for a little bit and inhale some of those good vibes everyone was so intent on ingesting. There was something very "California" about it all to me--just let go, man! Push the bad energy out and invite the good energy in!--that sort of often-parodied earthy-crunchiness was alive and well here without any sense of irony. And I appreciated it! It was nice to see that people really believed in the positive atmosphere, and that made it an even more positive space to be in, even for an occasionally skeptical New Yorker like me.

If you're into House, you think you'd like a morning workout in the form of a funky dance party, and you dig some good vibes, I highly recommend Morning Gloryville. Many thanks to MG's New York producer Annie Fabricant for having me! Check out the New York chapter here, and get your "nst nst" on.

The Drag Explosion

There are several eras in New York for which I consistently have the sinking feeling, "I missed out on this. I should have been there!" Damn late-eighties birthdays. I've written about my penchant for 1970s New York before, but another that constantly makes me shake my fists toward the sky in frustration is the drag club scene of the '80s and '90s, specifically that out of which the divine Ms. RuPaul, Lady Bunny, and infinite others arose. "Noooooo!" I think to myself whenever I see pictures of them pre-fame at the Pyramid Club. "I SHOULD HAVE BEEN THERE WITH YOU!!!"

Since that is not humanly possible, as of this writing anyway, the next best thing is to immerse myself in a world of photographs where at the very least it feels like I'm there. This has been made possible by the fantastic Linda Simpson, who has been doing drag in New York, and documenting her travels along the way, since the late eighties. She has been called "A worldly wit… A kind of mother superior of the New York drag scene," by The New York Times and "The thinking woman's drag queen," by Paper Magazine, and has made countless national television appearances. She currently hosts drag bingo and performs all over New York and surrounding areas.

I had the pleasure of interviewing Linda for the website FeatureShoot.com about some images in the series, those taken of her friend Page in the downtown clubs, and found at my fingertips an entire world Linda had documented in a live presentation she called The Drag Explosion. When could I go??

Well, the truth is there are several times I could have gone, but things like Fashion Week and traveling kept getting in the way. Finally, though, last weekend, I was able to see the final cut of Linda's slideshow--she has been workshopping and reworking the stories she tells and pictures she shows for a while--at The Wild Project, an arts space in the East Village (195 3rd Street between Avenue A and B). It was a perfect venue: not only is it dedicated to developing an inspired community around arts, it's also not too far from where many of the images where taken, the Pyramid Club at 101 Avenue A at 7th Street, which is the venue that first brought drag into the spotlight during the time.

I brought TDS with me, who was visiting from Philly, and we found ourselves a fabulous pair of seats in the center of the theatre. We were two of a few ladies in the audience, surrounded by men--many of whom, we'd discover, had either been there the nights the photographs were taken, were in the photographs themselves, or knew so many people in the photographs they'd clap and giggle with delight upon seeing them, happy little gasps emerging from their lips. It's like seeing a slideshow of photographs of your parents before they got married--everyone has a story about what they're seeing, and you want to hear all of them to learn everything you can about what their life was like before you existed.

All of Linda's photographs, snapped with a simple point-and-shoot camera, capture the bright, bold colors of unbelievable glamour--faces painted stark white, bodysuits in electric purple, colorful eyelashes spilling forth onto faces, bold red lips, bright green eyeshadow and any other color in the rainbow you could possibly imagine plastered onto a human being. It's like my childhood fantasy coloring book exploded onto the screen (I know I've mentioned several times how I was raised on drag, so please forgive me for saying it again. But in case you'd like to remind yourself, here is an essay I wrote about it a few years ago), and was punctuated with stories I could appreciate as an adult. Wild nights at the Pyramid and other nightclubs (and their bathrooms) like Limelight and Palladium, the rough East Village pre-Giuliani, an affordable apartment on 13th Street. The slideshow documents Linda's first forays into drag in New York, all the way through the end of the first spotlighted drag era in the late 1990s.

When presenting The Drag Explosion, Linda also invites active scene performers from the time to tell stories about different photographs in which they appear. The evening I attended, Michael Formika Jones, previously known as Mistress Formika, was Linda's guest. He told wild stories about the fabulous, inventive Jackie 60 parties, his Wigstock performance on the Christopher Street piers, and so much more. I felt like I was there, but was also horribly envious that I wasn't. It was perfect.

If you're interested in a night of wonderful drag history and images, I urge you to check out Linda's Drag Explosion! Check here to see where you can find it next. That is, if you think you can handle the fabulousness.  

Let's Have MoSex.

Both AS and I were shenanigan-less Friday night, so we decided to do a thing. We didn't know exactly what thing, and I was bored with our typical dinner/drinks scenario. We had to do something else, something different. But what?

On the list of events in New York that weekend, I saw that the Museum of Sex, which I had been wanting to visit since I moved to New York, was open later on Fridays. I guess I've always been fascinated with the way humans interact with each other, so why not explore another, often-taboo facet of it?

The museum is actually the nation's first museum dedicated to the "preservation and presentation of Human Sexuality," which includes its history, evolution and cultural impact. Opened in 2002, it aims to provide an open, uncensored discourse on sexuality and works with academic researchers at the top of their fields. Learn more about the museum here.

I suggested a trip to AS, and she approved. We would meet at MoSex, as it's known, on Friday night.

As I walked toward the museum, I saw a giant, bright red sign reading 'FUNLAND' floating above it. I did not know what to expect, but I presumed we would laugh a lot. Entering the museum through the minimalist black-and-white gift shop, the first thing I saw were embroidered hand towels with the words 'cum rag' written on them, each towel wrapped in a sweet little gold ribbon. A sense of humor and attention to detail? What more could one ask for in a museum? Especially when engaging with a topic that can often be provoking, opening with a laugh seems like a good way to get everyone acquainted.

Inside, I found AS perusing a modern Kama Sutra book. "Oh hello!" she said, adjusting her glasses. "I was just catching up on my reading."

We paid for our tickets (a 20% discount on RetailMeNot, by the way!), and began perusing the museum's three floors.

There was an interesting exhibition dedicated to Linda Lovelace and the premiere '70s "porn chic" film Deep Throat, featuring photographs of Lovelace by famed photographer Milton H. Greene, an original movie poster, the original film reel and canister, and of course a clip from the film of the titular act. We found ourselves simply uttering a bemused "wow," while watching and continued perusing the other artifacts.

'FUNLAND' was next, and it did not disappoint. After winding our way through a hall of mirrors to find the G-spot (which was actually at the end of the hall in the form of a giant sculpture), we were greeted by a museum attendant in front of a carnival game entitled 'Foreplay Derby.' "How are each of you with a set of balls?" he asked, cheekily nonchalant. The game was a reinvention of Skee-Ball, where a sunk ball in each hole would move an erect penis across a playing board, just like the childhood games of yore that may have featured a water gun and a horse. We both lost to the attendant, happily, amidst many a pun about balls.

But the best part was the bounce house made of boobs. Yes, boobs, of all colors and sizes, on the walls and on the floors of this bounce house. I really couldn't remember the last time I was in one of them, let alone how much I laughed in one like we did. We flung ourselves against the biggest ones in laughter-induced reverie, climbing and pouncing and taking pictures of this utterly ridiculous boob extravaganza.

AS frolics amongst the boobs

Last of our FUNLAND adventures included 'Grope Mountain,' which was a rock climbing wall where the 'rocks' were made out of genitals. We laughed, groped, climbed and photographed accordingly.

Their permanent exhibitions were also quite interesting, which included The Sex Lives of Animals (did you know a duck's penis can be anywhere from 13- to 16-inches long, and that there are more than two genders across a variety of species?) and various artworks from throughout history depicting sex, including works by Keith Haring and Pablo Picasso.

Throughout the museum we noticed several people were on dates, interspersed with the occasional foreign tourist. "What a way to get to know someone," AS quipped, and rightfully so. They held their coats in their hands and stared at the exhibits uncomfortably, rarely making eye contact with each other. It's a brave thing to do, I think, with someone you've just met or are just getting to know. You can learn a lot about someone by the way they interact with the exhibitions! As a fabulous friend-duo, we found it to be fun--we laughed, we made ridiculous comments, we learned, and we had a marvelous evening, and even took pictures in their photobooth to commemorate the vist. 

In fact, if you follow it with Mexican food and margaritas at the kitschy and delicious but inexpensive Hotel Tortuga (246 E. 14th Street) and head over to dessert cafe Just Sweet for hot bubble tea and chocolate fondue (83 Third Avenue), it might just be the perfect night (providing your date is willing to laugh and learn along with you at MoSex), for friends or otherwise! But you can't take either of us, because we've already been.

The Reason I Didn't Meet Nan Goldin

To write the words "Nan Goldin is a photographer" feels like such a lie. Not because she is not that, but because saying that's all she is feels lacking in depth, at least to me. There are some people who can capture an image, of a party, let's say. You see balloons, people dancing, and the swish of a skirt just fine. But there are some people who immerse you in their viewpoint, and looking at their images you hear music playing in the background, you feel the carpet under your feet, your tongue is sticky with the weight of one too many drinks, your nose stings with the scent of sweat and one too many cigarettes. Suddenly it's no longer a party, it's a moment immortalized, and you almost feel like you know everyone there. That's what Nan Goldin's work is to me.

I recently had the pleasure of seeing Nan Goldin speak at a photography conference held by the Lucie Foundation, whose mission is to honor master photographers as well as promote new artists.  I trekked through the rain and wind to arrive at 75 Varick Street's Splashlight Studios, arriving a half hour early so I could guarantee myself a seat. There was no way I would allow myself to miss it. 

James King backstage at the Karl Lagerfeld show, Paris, 1995
by Nan Goldin

I remember the first time I saw her work was in The New York Times, in a grouping of six photographs. The one that struck my eye was a photograph of the model James King, who was 16 at the time the picture was taken in 1995 and touring the world during the global Fashion Week seasons. It was originally part of the 1995 story "James is a Girl" by Jennifer Egan published in The New York Times Magazine that year. I think maybe I was in high school at the time I saw the reprint, seeing this 16-year-old girl painted up with her blonde hair in a big bun on top of her head, purple eyeshadow and dark red lips, a cigarette dangling from her hand. It was so much more than the photograph of a model. It was a portrait of youth abandoned for adulthood much too early. It was both beautiful and terrifying. I have never forgotten it.

When I got to college, I began studying photography. Any visual education exposes you to a variety of work, for both history and inspiration. When I saw Nan Goldin's work, I was done. If I could have stood up in my photographic history class and pointed at the screen and said "YES. THAT. HER. WHAT SHE'S DOING. THAT'S WHAT I WANT TO DO," then I would have done it. I remembered Goldin's name from that first image of James King I saw and I realized how much it stuck with me, too. There would be other photographers whose work I'd be interested in, of course, but I never felt as strongly about any of them as I did about her. Her book "The Ballad of Sexual Dependency" still has some of the most haunting, challenging, and provocative images I've ever seen, if not for the rawness and honesty of the actual content then also the angles and natural light she uses throughout. She photographed her friends and loved ones and the lives they lived together. The images weren't pretentious or celebratory or demeaning, they were just a record of life, stories told in another way. I resolved to do my best to tell my own stories through images the way Goldin did, and I still do today.

Goldin at the Lucie Foundation Lecture

Which brings us back to the lecture. In conversation with renowned culture writer Glenn O'Brien, Goldin, her hair still reddish and curly as it was in her earlier photographs, shared in her soft but forthright voice what brought her into photography, and then into the art world; her disdain for social media; and what her "process" is like. I remember her talking about the last item, confused by the man asking her the question, not to the point of not understanding him but rather thinking his question was pretentious. She didn't seek to photograph anything in particular; there wasn't really a "process." She just wanted to capture moments and take pictures of her friends. O'Brien called for more questions from the audience and my brain froze. I had admired this woman for so long and I couldn't think of a single question. I just wanted to sit there and listen to her talk, to absorb what she had to say. It felt like she had done this so many times before, given so many lectures and had maybe become bored with the process. And that's fair. Sometimes you can only talk so much about your own work before you start to feel like a blowhard.

At the end of the lecture, I of course wanted to meet her. But so did everybody else. This time, pushing through a crowd was not the problem. In fact, there were multiple times where she stood right in front of me, facing me, talking to someone at my side--at coat check, in the bathroom, in a gallery hallway. But I couldn't open my mouth (which, at this stage in my life, is for better or worse not usually a problem for me). I saw all these people going up to her--moms in their 60s wearing mom-ish mom clothes, photographers from small presses Nan had never heard of, people dropping names of others she vaguely knew--and they all looked so pathetic. She smiled and nodded cordially yet blankly and shook hands, like I'm sure she's done so many times before, all the while continuing to move forward toward a VIP area waiting for her. I couldn't open my mouth because I didn't want to be one of them, where nothing I would say would possibly affect her, nor would she ever remember me, because she'd heard it all and seen it all before. I couldn't bear to be meaningless to someone who had so deeply impacted me. I sort of just aimlessly wandered around the studio trying to get up the courage to say something but it didn't come until it was too late. I saw Nan walking down the hallway with a friend and this tiny little voice came out of me-- "Excuse me. Excuse me, I--" Nan didn't see me but her friend did, making eye contact with me. "I'd like to speak to--" motioning to Nan. But the friend, realizing what I wanted, then pretended not to see me and turned away, ushering her toward the closed doors of the VIP area.

I felt like nothing. My eyes watered and I quickly walked toward the elevator, praying it would come quickly before the tears fell out of my eyes in front of all these people. Outside, cold wind chilled my ears and my nose and I cried. I had met people whose work I loved before with no problem, but I couldn't do it this time. None of them were a part of my day to day experience of thinking about photography, none of them were the first name I cited when people asked me about my influences, none of their pictures gripped me over and over like Goldin's did. I was beyond starstruck, I was overwhelmed and overcome by just being in her presence. She was everything, the reason I had any vision at all of what I wanted my work to be or the direction I wanted it to go in, the ultimate inspiration. And how do you say that to someone? Especially without sounding like a total creepshow?

I don't know what Goldin would think of my photography. I don't know if she would love it or hate it. And I don't know even now if I could say anything to her worthwhile that she hasn't heard before. All I could probably do is say thank you, even though there's no way that even begins to cover it.