Fashion...rocks?

The phrase "Fashion Rocks" is not one that graced my lips before this fall. The idea was more of an oxymoron than anything else. As a former Sociology/Journalism student from the University of Liberals, "fashion" usually conjured up wafer thin CK models from the 90s or flashbacks of ill-fated Dr. 90201 re-runs. But, like Kate Moss to a pile of coke, I was sucked in to Fashion Rocks by the promise of a free, celebrity-studded concert at Radio City Music Hall and, even more tempting, passes to the after party.
Ok. So I'm shallow.

The show was about 4 hours long and I got a seat close enough to see the creases in Adam Levine's pants (which were also shallow). There we all were: Aerosmith, Fergie, Tommy Hilfiger, J-Lo. It was, against my will, a thrill.

At the after party, dancing my way across a packed Rainbow Room at 1am, sipping a Belvedere & tonic, soaking in lights twinkling through the water around Manhattan, I grabbed onto a piece of what everyone comes to New York City to find: glitz, glamor, sparkle, perfection, magic.

At that moment I felt that, if only for one night, I had made it.


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Rest in Peace

Last summer I came to New York with a healthy dose of curiosity and a wanton song in my heart. To my surprise, I found someone worth forsaking the choir for. A charming, chivalrous Jewish boy from Connecticut. The picture of East Coast thorough breeding (tennis racket included!), he charmed me with his strange, contrasting blend of cuff link professionalism and child-like wonder.

This Friday night left me alone, in the middle of Times Square, digesting a street meat hot dog and the remnants of our one year relationship. It received a proper burial (not the hot dog) with all the trimmings. A decent amount of crying, the inability of either of us to yet remove my toothbrush from its weekend spot and the follow up call the next day.

Just as with any ceremony, I began to bury the things I had as well as the things I will never have.


Give me a break; I'll be funny next time.



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