It’s official. Fall is here. Saturday night I broke out the uniform for the first time this year before we all went out to some bars for Diva Girls birthday celebration. We made a huge night of it and I don’t think I got to sleep until around 3:30AM. For those of you who don’t know about "the uniform" it’s basically what I end up wearing every day when the weather gets cold. Black turtle neck sweater and jeans. It was just a week ago that I said to Diva Girl: "Everything feels wrong, I can’t wait until I can wear the uniform, then everything will be right again."
So yes, I went to a bar with a turtle neck. This is why I am single.
Regardless, Saturday was the Beantown Jazz Festival and I ventured down there later in the day to see what was up. Columbus Ave was packed with people and great music. I stood alone and listened to one band that was more like r&b jam band than the old school jazz I like, however they were really talented and I planted myself near them for a while. I was fortunate enough to have a roughly 40 year old Jamaican guy named Dennis come up to me (he was a close talker) and hit on me. What is it with guys and jazz anyway? We talked about jazz for a while until he asked for my number, which I gave to him because I felt bad and am not used to people asking for my number so I wasn’t prepared with lies or a fake. And anyway, I think fakes are somewhat callous.
Let’s hope he doesn’t call.
In other news, spent the last week writing a 1500 word essay for the Vanity Fair essay contest. I sent it in today, finally letting go of my previous week long labor of love (hate). If I possibly win (yeah right) I’d get $15,000 and a week long writer’s retreat in Tuscany. I know, hang on just a minute while I attempt to get my head out of the clouds.
Saturday night Sweet Girl and I drank wine and watched The Way We Were with Redford and Streisand before we went out. Boy, isn’t that movie (and by movie, I mean Hubbell) great? She (Katie) is a crazy, passionate, political independent that no one understands. He (Hubbell) is a beautiful know-it-all that every woman wants and to whom life comes too easy.
I really hate Hubbell...but love him at the same time. Maybe it’s because I find myself identifying with Katie. Which reminds me, I need to get some more black turtle neck sweaters.
Also: International Girl has left us again for Germany. I hate her too, but love her at the same time. However that’s just because she’s awesome and I’m really going to miss her.
He asked what I had been drinking, motioning to the empty glass I was holding, without bothering to offer to get me one. I said vodka soda. He seemed confused.
He was a jazz fan (apparently) and was impressed by my knowledge of Miles, Monk and Mingus. He hugged me when I said I liked Brubeck as though he had found the last person in the world who still actually liked Brubeck.
He asked questions: What do you do? Where do you work? Do you like it? Write? You write? (Look of unimpressiveness) Like, write what? Do you have anything published? Whatdoyoureallyexpecttohappenwiththat?
For once I’d like someone to ask: Who do you read? What’s your take on world politics? When’s the last time you left the country? If you could have any super power what would it be?
I avoided the incessant questions about the direction of my future, which he seemed to deem bleak and non-promising, and talked more about jazz.
He hadn’t the slightest clue as to what I was talking about, so I kept right on talking.
I went and saw Candace Bushnell last night for a book reading for her new book, Lipstick Jungle. While I’ve never read any of her novels, and never caught her column Sex and the City in the Observer, she’s a writer that I admire- not only for her success but her fabulous fashion sense as well.
She showed up 25 minutes late wearing a red silk dress that looked more like she was ready for cocktail hour not talking about her book. It was a fancy affair, high to the neck with pleats above the empire waist that was cinched in the front with a bow. I have to admit I was somewhat disappointed. Where was the Narciso Rodriguez?! Where was the Dior?! She is, after all, missing Fashion Week in New York to be in Coolidge Corner signing books, she should be wearing some minimalist Michael Kors. Regardless, she of course had on a pair of Manolo's which she went on to say were, "Very comfortable to walk in, but after twelve hours...eek!" she said making a shrieking noise and shaking her hands in front of her like she was throttling a small child.
She was loud and obnoxious and totally elitist and I loved her. Her voice is deep and raspy due to years of smoking, and now, going on 46, she said she’s in a place in her life where everything makes sense.
She read from her book for about five minutes, basically because her book is trash and she knows it’s trash and she knows she’s fabulous- so the rest of the time was dedicated to q&a, in which she talked about how she showed up in Manhattan when she was 19 with a cowboy hat on a $20 in her pocket desperate to write. For some reason I don't believe her. She's from CT and went to acting school in NYC, so I have a feeling she was getting a little help along the way. I think she likes for people to believe she definitely didn't have anything at all and really climbed up from the bottom of the pit before reaching super stardom in order to really encapsulate and prove that the New York City dream really does come true.
The whole time she walked and talked like a motivational speaker, her blonde hair an unmoving helmet on her head, her waif-life arms gesticulating wildly, and I wanted to be her. She gets up at 4, sometimes 6AM to write for 8 hours a day and produces roughly 10 pages a day. She says her first drafts of novels are 400 pages, and then she goes back and re-writes the whole thing. She says she loved writing her column in the Daily Observer in her early thirties, but hated the pressure to have to go out every night and stay out until 4am.
She remembered one night a girlfriend (apparently all her real friends are like Samantha, which she mentioned when someone asked what her friends are like), called her at midnight from a party in Midtown and said "You gotta get down to this party! I just had sex with an NFL player in a cedar closet! It smelled amazing! If you haven’t ever had sex in a cedar closet you have to get down here!" Candace didn't go.
The last question asked was what advice does she have for those young women aspiring to be writers, much like herself. To which Candace stared thoughtfully at her heels for a moment before responding, "You're not gonna like the answer, but the reality is, you have to give everything up. You have to be willing to give up money, and marriage and children and commit yourself to it." Some of the women were somewhat taken aback by her candid response, I felt strangely invigorated by it. She has a drive and passion that is missing from so many people, and it made me want to run home and write. I loved her for being driven and dedicated to being a writer, that when, at 32, her friends told her to give up and get an office job, a real job, she said no, that she wasn't going to give up.
She said Manhattan is a place you go to when you want to write. You feel like you're part of the city's plan. That perhaps you're nobody when you get there, but living there holds the promise, that one day, you'll be somebody.
In other news, when I got home last night after having had too many vodka sodas at a bar on the Hill, I received another submission rejection letter, from yet another magazine.
Even a rejected writer knows good irony when she sees it.
The city definitely has more life now that Fall is here. I guess more people signifies more life and with that the ease in which I can navigate the streets decreases. Something about the cold weather and the smell of Autumn in the air makes me want to buy number 2 pencils, crayons and a trapper keeper. I don’t know why that is.
In other news, I fell Friday in perfect Classy fashion, at the end of a meeting at work, of all places. I had arrived 10 minutes late after encountering all sorts of road construction on my walk in, making me choose a different (longer) route. After I got over the embarrassment of walking into a crowded, silent conference room full of my work associates, I took a seat (awkwardly) on the side of the room and tried to hide my red face in my hand.
Two hours later around 11:30 when the meeting wound down and we all stood up to leave, I, naturally, got my foot caught on one of the legs of my chair and tripped, throwing my notepad (full of notes mind you) and barely catching myself on the side of the table, salvaging myself from a full-blown, face-on-the-ground, fall.
Some man asked the dreaded question, "are you okay?" to which I smiled, nodded and said, "yes of course."
I am, after all, used to it.
Friday night Sweet Girl, Cousin and myself went and hung out for a few drinks (and poorly made shots that got us more drunk than we were planning) on a friends roof deck, then made our way up to the Hill to the Squealing Pig for a few drinks. We ran into some friends and sat with the doorman, Peter, who is a really splendid guy and teaches learning impaired children full time.
Saturday was a full day of sports in which the Yankees lost and Agassi won. Saturday night Sweet Girl and I went to Jake Ivory’s on Lansdowne for a friends birthday gathering. Three vodka sodas later I still wasn’t drunk enough for that place to be a good time. A short little Italian man and his friend asked to buy Sweet Girl and I shots, to which we declined, to which he leaned in to my ear and whispered something over-done and semi-offensive that I won’t bother repeating here, in one last attempt to make me talk to him, then left. Suffice it to say I will never go back there again.
Sunday the Yankees won and Agassi lost. I almost cried. At least the Yanks are only three games down, and to my dearly beloved inspiring Andre- there’s always next year.
In what was probably the greatest tennis match I’ve ever seen, Agassi beat Blake two nights ago in New York, keeping me up until the wee hours of the morning and leaving me on the edge of the couch, mouth agape, for all 5 sets, and a tie-breaker for the ages.
I know Blake has been the new favorite with his comeback this year, but I’ve followed Agassi since he had long hair and fell to his knees in a win on center court at the Open in 1994. At 35 this year is his year. He was behind by two sets and those who didn’t have faith in his ability, or forgot how great a player he is, thought it was a done deal. Agassi made a comeback to win in the closet match ever 3-6, 3-6, 6-3, 6-3, 7-6 (6). The crowd was on its feet, the chair urging them to be quiet for first serves that went off without the typical pin-dropping silence that has always accompanied them and bothered me. It was reminiscent of the 5th set in the 1977 Open against Bjorn Borg when Jimmy Connors brought much needed life back to tennis, rallying from four games behind. He pumped up the crowd, enabling them to become involved in a sport that has forever been based in pseudo-elitist etiquette, watched over by a single icy Ump looking down from their perch.
As the clock hit 1:10AM and I watched Agassi’s forehand winner in the tie breaker cinch him a spot in the semi’s tomorrow against Robby Ginepri, I felt confident that Agassi has never played, (and perhaps never will), play a better match.
Federer plays Hewitt tomorrow as well, the winner of each advancing to the finals. Agassi will beat Ginepri, but I don’t know if he can take Federer after the energy lost on Wednesday. However I have faith in the fact that despite age, talent reigns, and the best man will win. Regardless, Round 5 brought an energy back to tennis that has been missing for a long time, and was as good a match as any final could be.
In other news, Boston is playing a 3 game series against the Yankees in the Bronx. With NY four games behind and a game behind Cleveland for the Wildcard, I don’t feel as confident about their spot for this year as I do for Agassi taking home an Open win. Of course, everyone around me in this city is okay with that. As Wells steps to the plate at the Stadium tonight, in Boston the crazy fans will come out. They’ll head to the bars, they will yell and curse and riot, because this isn’t just any team they’re playing, after all, and these fans aren't just any fans.
