Moment Magnitude

Candy Darling

Before 2007 fades into history (history, dammit!), Liz Taylor Jr. celebrated her birthday, notwithstanding that her latest amour, a yummy, young fellow, flew up from his Caribbean-isla home, but not before he advanced two cases of Perrier Jouet and three dozen orange roses to NYC. Now that's a statement. Pedro's got my vote.

Who but Surfer Girl to upstage LT Jr., and on the latter's own anniversaire?

And so, to paraphrase, from the story delivered not from the honeyed lips of "she-who-challenges-the-Ditch-Plains-break," but from the distillation of the drunken bacchanal that ensued in honor of LT Jr.  Yep, an email, photos shared.

The birthday dinner (the birthday bash started the festivities the week before at Niki Beach), was held at Phillipe Chow's, a kind-of offshoot from the 80s-dinosaur, Mr. Chow. Surfer Girl commented that she nearly went blind from all the ice on parade (unlike my concern during this procedure), the likes of which would cost as much as her entire apartment building.

I'll bet the blingerati stared harder at our girls, as maitres d' escorted them through the dining rooms, through the kitchen, "Goodfellas" style to the private cellar, where their gussied-up table awaited.

No mention was made of actual food. Drink was. Oh, and...

"When dessert was served, I got up, clinged (?) my wine glass for everyone's attention, and announced, 'If anyone needs sugar for their coffee or tea, I got the goods.'"

At which point, Surfer Girl unzipped the front of her top and flashed all fifteen people at the table, in addition to three waiters, and two other adjacent dinner parties.

"My candy bikini top." (Recall photos, above.)

Her quickie backstory (my asides in italic, parenthetically): "A few months ago, I was getting drunk (I am shocked) in Chelsea with my best gay boyfriend (duh), when our bartender hooked me up with a bikini top made of candy. It's the same candy used to make candy bracelets, the ones that ice cream trucks display, hanging next to the ring pops."

To me, they look a confectionery version of puka shells. C'mon now, retro 70s-chic, I saw a resurgence out East last summer on (ahem) younger fellas. But back to Surfer Girl, baring her almost-all, chez Phillipe's cellar tables.

"There were three people at out table whom I had just met. I doubt they'll be forgetting me. I had to give a Tara Reid apology, the 'nip-slip,' because I had no control over my candies."

Now take a harder look at those photos.

"The waiters told me to come back very soon."

Heck, I just jealous of her tan!

The fur hat-and-jacket poses came later, reportedly four-something in the morning. Note what appears to be an empty bottle of designer vodka. Even if it is a water bottle, I'm wagering the contents were swapped out for something Russian. Da!

January First

I spent most of yesterday traveling, returning from New Mexico, after spending the holidays with Mom and Step-dad.

The trip was uneventful, despite snowy weather and a two-plus-hour layover at Chicago-O'Hare.

I have spend, oh, probably thousands of hours on airplanes and airports, but this is a first.

Once boarded upon the second flight and final leg bound for New York's La Guardia, the bursar, or head flight attendant, or whomever, came on the public announcement system with this information: A passenger, who had told the flight attendants of her "airborne peanut allergy," requested that all other passengers, if they had any food items containing peanuts, to refrain from eating them during the flight.

I raised my eyebrows, and at first, said to myself, "Only in New York." Except that we weren't in New York, yet.

Then I thought of the little white masks I have seen folks wear in Chinatown. Couldn't one with such an allergy wear one of those, instead of making such a request - to a whole planeload of people?

Okay, maybe the allergy is so bad, that this person would go into anaphylactic shock at the merest whiff of a peanut. Maybe. I'm just saying.

The words "high maintenance" fluttered across my mind.

Anyhow, once back in NYC, and back at my loft (sans automobile), I bumped into friend-neighbors, and we set off for dinner at decades-old Florent on Gansevoort Street. Half way through our meal, Ethan Hawke came in with companions. My friends commented that they see him frequently, on the street. We all live in Chelsea after all.

Later, back at my now semi-empty loft, I popped around "My Favorite Blogs," scroll down below the photo albums in the left-hand column, yep, over there (<<<).

I hadn't checked my favorites in a while, and I am so happy to say that (with the exception of one that has been dormant), they are as vibrant, witty, and as wonderful as they have ever been. Bless you, insomnia haiku. I laughed out loud many times. You rock.

I also received my first comment of 2008, on the post, Lemonade, comparing my writing to Susan Orlean (!). Except that there is no bloody way I could ever have a crush on Dick Cheney (urgh), ironic or otherwise (apologies to Ms. Orlean).

Still, that's what I call a nice start to a New Year.