Ramon At Large

Winter Cocooning

2012-02-13T21:41:00.005-05:00

Blake stayed in bed for two days, with a cold that suddenly developed into "pneumonia". Although that didn't stop him from multiple episodes of The Wire, Prime Suspect (vintage), and his new passion, Damages.

(Ensconced in bed, with remotes, Netlix, Vanity Fair, and cashews)

Since there was no space for me, I busied myself with cooking elaborate meals to coax him out from under the covers. It was too cold to venture outside anyway.

But let it not be said this winter has been a total goodbye to the world!

(At the Smyth Hotel, Tribeca with Yvette R., and our cheekbones made prominent by an amazing trick of light and practiced pout)

(At the Vanderbilt wearing a raccoon poncho, with Sam L-E. in black leather)

(In front of Wallse in the West Village, to prove that yes I did show my face in the daylight, with Noel dlR., PJ P., Ipe C., and Mariko J.)

And my resolution to myself-- bring the camera out of the pochette more! But it's so hard to operate, when one is be-gloved.

Postcard from Marrakech #4: Lost in Space

2012-01-27T21:28:00.009-05:00

What does it take to make me realize that the world does not revolve around my comings and goings? A departure from the norm, an immersion in the unexpected, a separation from anxiety, perspective from a different perspective-- that's what happens when one does not have a map. I thought the unmarked alleys of the Marrakech medina would look familiar over time, but it stayed as confusing as on day one. Soon, we were even welcoming the aggressive underage touts who would offer to be guides from point one to point two. It was either that or just embrace being lost.

(Embracing being lost, somewhere in the medina, searching for that small barely-marked door that leads to that fantastical fabulous restaurant, the harder to find the more glamorous the ambience! Photo credit: Puss M.)

And the north star of our compass-- the "big square", the Jmaa el-Fnaa, an over the top collection of snake and monkey charmers, trannie bellydancers, prophet clowns, trick pigeons, endangered species pelts, food stalls, grapefruit juicers, dentists, flotsam and jetsam, camera-happy tourists, flirting boys, deformed beggars, horse-drawn carriages, and representatives from all across Africa and this crazy world.

(After midnight at Jmaa el-Fnaa, black motorcyle jacket, chocolate corduroy pants Balenciaga, scarf Hermes, and an uncharacteristic three-day stubble)

With so much that was foreign, we craved familiarity, and high-tailed it to the Churchill Bar at La Mamounia Hotel! If there is one thing that takes me home, it is a well-made martini in one of the world's best hotels. A delicate selection of tiny bites didn't hurt either. These certainly were better than the Essaouira "space cakes" (aka "happy cakes")!

(On zebra-print chairs at the historic Churchill Bar, blazer Cheap Monday, shirt Thom Browne.)

(The courtyard of our Riad, grown wild with banana trees, a temporary refuge)

(Shopping for slippers, purchased in colors aubergine, pistachio, and coral)

An Interlude: Essaouira

2012-01-11T23:48:00.000-05:00

We felt obliged to see at a little more than one place during a week-long stay in Morocco, so took the bus for a day trip to coastal Essaouira.

After navigating aggressive young men touting identical fish stalls, we settled on the one with attitude-- a more aggressive lobster whose claw gave one tout a sore finger. We put the naughty lobster on our lunch tray.

(Lobster with his friends: sea urchins, prawns, sea bass, and spider crab, a fresh-from-the-sea lunch I only dream about)

The spider crab does not want to die so I must wrestle it for the camera.

But they all end up, quickly, in messy piles. We did away with bread and fries, all that was needed were a few lemon slices.

And then afterwards, a vendor with a selection of happy cakes, aka space cakes! Did I mention that Jimi Hendrix was a much-documented Essaouira visitor? I wanted to buy Puss a selection of pastries for the bus trip back to Marrakesh, but alas that trip was not to be a Trip.

(Perched on a window in a fort, with Essaouira in the background. Photo credit: Puss M.)

Seafood, old medina, seagulls, happy cakes. It was too much exertion for one day.

Postcard from Marrakech #3: Food NYC versus RAK

2012-01-10T21:54:00.001-05:00

We immediately noticed some differences between Marrakesh (airport code RAK) and NYC.

Whole Foods' onion displays are nothing like this!

Dean & Deluca doesn't have quite this selection of dried fruits and nuts (and woven rafia bags)!

And who serves snails like the guys at Jemaa al Fnaa!

But more importantly, why state am I in where it is ok to eat these snails?

(With new friends Rowan and Daniela, picking out tender pieces of antenna-extravagant snails, in a murky brown broth, from small shells, and somehow eating them)

If you can't beat them, then join them. So instead of lamenting the arrival of yet another tagine dish, we decided to create them, via tagine cooking school.

(Displaying our hard-earned side dishes--eggplant and peppers-- with the demanding Fatima scowling in the background)

Tagine overload?

Postcard from Marrakech #2: How to Ride a Camel

2012-01-09T21:19:00.003-05:00

1. Watch with trepidation as camels approach the oasis where you are currently taking a little nap. Follow them with the corner of your eye, Oh my they are taller than I thought!

2. Gently touch camel with tip of finger. Notice that the front knees bend a different direction from the back knees, and that camel is not in a mood for any nonsense.

3. Get on camel. This is not easy--one must first straddle the camel, and half-leap onto the saddle. The camel then gets up only with much encouragement and much complaint. It is such an achievement that even the camel herder breaks out in a relieved smile.

(Puss on Jacques the camel, our guide amused)

4. Live out short-lived Lawrence of Arabia fantasies, as camels slowly circle oasis at a mile an hour, versus sprinting across the Sahara. Hey, we're beginners!

5. Take a break for the next five hours, in a lounge chair in front of a Berber tent.

(Asleep at Le Pause, pants Rag & Bone, jacket Y-3, Hermes cashmere scarf worn as a keffiyeh, boots Timberland)

(And after a little taste of the desert, a sudden desire to explore its solitude)

Postcard from Marrakech #1: Night and Day

2012-01-07T20:46:00.002-05:00

Who says that medieval cities in North Africa don't know how to have fun? All you need is a few stiff drinks, a little kif, and a partner in crime.

(Puss planking in front of the Bab Doukkala mosque)

(Me creating graceful shapes with my body)

Is this trip becoming less Sheltering Sky and more Ab-Fab?

Of course even six hours away direct via Royal Air Maroc, the sun comes up eventually, and with a vengeance.

(Puss the morning after our arrival and the usual over-doing of the first night, at breakfast on the rooftop of our riad)

We came to Marrakech with no agenda, except to wander, recluse, and yes, to escape.

We found respite in a courtyard in a maze in an old city in a newer city in a desert in a place so far removed we looked at each other and said, Where are we?

Literally, Where are we? This crazy city has no street signs, no map, no visible landmarks, no rhyme or reason, and with a population that has somehow figured it all out leaving tourists like Puss and me to our own devices and doom.

Ya Habibi!

2012-01-05T13:08:00.003-05:00

After a few drinks at a dinner party chez moi, Puss proposed we take a vacation and one destination suggested was Morocco. Goodness gracious that was Sunday, and today we depart. And what a fabulous 33rd birthday gift from a dear friend!

So goodbye everyone for a week, we are off to Marrakesh to haggle heavily for caftans and pointed slippers!

Coming Soon: Oh Dog!

2011-12-23T12:58:00.002-05:00

And a toast to all those brave souls who say, Enough is enough, good-bye and good ridance to All That! My fabulous friend Pussie Mandu is joining the ranks of those of us who have decided the only people worth working for are ourselves, and destinies are best taken in our own hands. Oh, and by the way America, we are creating jobs for you!

So welcome to Oh Dog! Opening date: February 2012, in the dog-obsessed Warwick, New York.

When I came up to visit a few weeks ago the space was still a construction zone, but progressing rapidly.

(Puss in the middle of a work in progress)

There will be doggie apparel, specialty foods, and eventually, high-quality grooming. And the space is going to look fabulous-- a giant green astro-turf bone will anchor the floor, because what else do dogs obsess about other than bones?

The inspiration for all this is Amadeus, Pussie and Marcos' Cane Corso. Amadeus weighs just slightly less than I do, and enjoys little things like humping my knee, smelling my backside, and taking every opportunity to try to eat me when Pussie is not looking.

And of course Amadeus lives very well-- dinner is lightly cooked organic chicken breasts, with assorted vegetables in broth. Treats abound in the house, and toys (or parts of them) are everywhere. Dogs after all are the new children.

(Preparing dinner for the master of the house, Amadeus)

(Then it's gone in ten seconds)

From experience I can say that it's going to be a long, hard road ahead, but what price freedom?

Furry Friends

2011-12-20T22:06:00.002-05:00

Hello to my newest pets: raccoon, mink, and sweet white fox. Hello winter, I'm ready!

Blake and Friends

2011-12-18T23:55:00.004-05:00

Bless the beasts and the children! Dogs and kids love Blake, perhaps they sense a kindred soul. Dressing alike helps too.

(Blake and Asher, in winter jumpers)

(Blake and James, in RL polos and seersucker shorts)

And then there's me. Perhaps my scent, Santal 33 by Le Labo (other fans: Karl Lagerfeld, Simon Doonan) repels the innocent, but for some odd reason I don't get the hugs nor the the wet friendly noses.

(Me and Asher, cocktail party at Lia D's)

Well, kids will be kids. When they are old enough to join the adults' table, I will be more than happy to share my life lessons and some restaurant recommendations.

(Dinner at the Berger-Damle's, shirt Thom Browne, corduroy trousers Balenciaga, lozange Hermes, holding a Venezuelan cocktail 50% rum created by Yael B-D)

Gifts of Giving

2011-12-16T23:39:00.004-05:00

Lady Gaga's "workshop" has taken over the fifth floor at Barney's, but my favorite windows continue to be that of Bergdorf. This year's theme is Carnival of the Animals.

This window has hundreds of types of paper, folded intricately to make life-size animals. Oh and of course there is the Rodarte dress, for $12,000.

A few blocks down the global flagship of Uniqlo has opened it's doors, and they lead to never-ending displays of surprisingly appealing clothing. Thank goodness that I am not in the middle of a cashmere drought.

(the escalator down to the entrance, a hundred customers every ten minutes, the Japanese conquer NYC)

In front of Uniqlo, taking a breather.

(orange wrap-around cashmere scarf Hermes, leather jacket provenance unknown, trousers Balenciaga, boots John Varvatos)

And then, my favorite things of course come in orange boxes tied with chocolate ribbon. Delish, oh and thank-you Blakey!

Tablescapes Et. Al.

2011-11-30T22:13:00.001-05:00

A rare string of autumn evenings when my dance card was full:

1. Thanksgiving at "The Verley"

Menu: Roast turkey (brined), onions in cheese, brussel sprouts, green beans, pumpkin pie, walnut cake
Location: Greenwich Village
Guest List: Old New York/ Hermes/ Belgian Shoes/ my sister was the baby sitter for the Kennedys up in Hyannisport it was Ethel who was the bitch
Topics of conversation: The Kennedys, Broadway shows through the years, Occupy Wall Street

2. A date with Blake at Maharlika

Menu: "Filipino moderno", lechon kawali, arroz caldo, kare-kare, bangus, garlic fried rice
Location: East Village
Guest List: me and Blakey-poo
Topics of conversation: Don't you dare take a picture here you will annoy everyone and especially me! *click*

3. A family dinner at the Torres-Springers

Menu: Asian spiced braised short ribs, fried forbidden rice, wasabi mashed potatoes, banana challah bread pudding with dulce de leche sauce
Location: Park Slope, Brooklyn
Guest List: Yale, Yale, Yale
Topics of conversation: Potty training, ways to get pregnant, crazy college friends, Occupy Wall Street

And my lamb astrakhan hat. Tell me about the lambs, Clarisse.

(With Mali L. Photo credit: Blake)

DC Weekend Number 100++

2011-11-24T12:28:00.009-05:00

My favorite restaurant in DC is Heritage India, where Blake and I have been going faithfully for years. We go through the charade of looking at the menu, even though he always orders the sag paneer, and I end up with the either chicken masala or chicken tandoori or the Begumi platter:

Served on a silver platter and silver cups, vegetarian selections heavy on cream. And a martini to wash everything down.

(Blake has a new Cartier watch, which I wore with a selection of his bracelets-- a silver and leather one from Tiffany's, and blue cord and silver from Jill Platner, which was a gift from me for his birthday. He hates it when I drape any article of clothing over my shoulders, so of course I had to wear my fur vest as a capelet. And of course who goes to dinner without a pink cashmere sweater.)

We took in the 30 Americans exhibit at the Corcoran-- a focus on African-American artists which actually was quite good, despite the occasional heartfelt comment posted on their feedback board:

I was tickled pink to see Nick Cave outfits on display, intricate constructions of fur or sequins or both.

Nick Cave inspired my sartorial adventures for a week during summer of 2009, which led to outfits like the pale pink tunic hand-beaded with shells worn backwards for Imara's birthday part in the Lower East Side. It weighed seven pounds, but that's what happens when you wear a hundred sea shells.

Blake always has a list of things to do, handwritten on State Department stationery.

A thimble of Aquavit at Domku on a cold Saturday night.

Amtrak back to New York City Penn Station on Monday morning.

Nine years of going back and forth to DC, thankfully there is always something new to do. Although often the familiar habits comfort and relax.

Age Appropriate

2011-11-17T21:51:00.004-05:00

And in this picture I look like I have two black eyes-- which probably is the case since my trainor and I have been doing a lot of muay thai boxing, and he revels in having his glove make contact with my face. I protest, but to no avail. When we strap on the gloves, all bets are off, health insurance be damned!

(Over a streak frites dinner at Le Singt Vert. V-neck t-shirt Amercian Apparel, cashmere cardigan Adam, silk scarves around neck provenance unknown! Photo credit: Imara J.)

Imara and I watched J. Edgar at the Clearview Cinema, with a crowd of theater-goers who may have known Mr. Hoover in real life (once my hair goes grey, someone please take a gun and shoot me with pigmented ammonia). The back-and-forth between a young Leonardo Di Caprio, and more importantly a young Armie Hammer, and their prosthetically aged +40 year equivalents, was jarring to say the least.

Do we all need to grow old? Do muay thai boxing bruises turn into permanently burst blood vessels and age-appropriate freckles? How many jars of $350 night cream before there is nowhere left to hide?

(Imara J. attempting to hide, over his lamb shank and salad)

Mazel Tov!

2011-11-15T20:30:00.002-05:00

At the end of the wedding, a glass wrapped in cloth was placed on the floor. The groom took a deep breath, and stomped on it. We all shouted, Mazel Tov!

(My gorgeous friend, a radiant Kristina K. with her groom, Daniel G., beneath the chuppah in a Manhattan loft)

Arriving right before the ceremony started, I sat too far at the back to hear everything. I think the rabbi mentioned the symbolism of the breaking glass was to remember the destruction of the temple in Jerusalem. But also, even in moments of what we think is perfection, there is always something broken.

Cocktails on the rooftop before dinner, and a stunning sunset. The scientist sipping a red wine beside me said, Dust particles reflecting the sunlight. My thoughts were more in the lines of, Ascending to Heaven at the end of the world.

Life is not about what is perfect, but more about what is imperfect, what we strive for, what we seek to change or adapt to. And that's not a bad thing, just a reminder that we are alive.

(Another reminder of what is broken: my wallet, as I meditate in front of the Hermes store on Madison Avenue. Photo credit: Puss Mandu)

Bloody Mary is the Girl I Love

2011-11-13T21:03:00.001-05:00

Sandy my darling, when did we ever say No to a Bloody Mary, especially on an overcast Saturday afternoon?

(Sandy A. at Cafe Falai on Lafayette, post-wax but pre-blow-out and pre-pedicure)

We didn't say No to eggs with salmon, a sauvignon blanc chaser, and the dessert menu, either!

Avenue C

2011-10-28T18:22:00.002-05:00

How much do I love my mauve suede shoes? Summer ended long ago, and it seems Fall is here for half a second, but I'm still enamoured with color, color, color.

(And in green pants, on Avenue C after dinner at Edi & The Wolf, an Austrian restaurant of course; photo credit: Yvette S.).

Dinner for Two and Twelve at Ben's

2011-10-28T09:35:00.001-05:00

Ben invited us over for a drink and snacks at his Tribeca apartment. Which of course meant a catered cocktail party for 12 people, with a uniformed waiter and courses ordered from Zocalo. If all of us were expecting a private tete-a-tete over a self-made martini and crackers, we certainly did not let on. And I've learned that when invited to Ben's, always dress for company (even if he does not).

(With Ben G., in his "dining room", now converted to yet another stage set for his accumulated treasures)

Oh goodness I never smoke anymore, but if there is a pack of cigarettes by my elbow and the host says, Light up indoors, well what's one after I've had thousands over the years?

And a wider shot, to capture a tiny portion of Ben's apartment where he has eradicated any empty surface or wall space. It is Hoarders/ I'm Part of the 1% edition. A trove of antiquities and kitsch, I would love to be his cleaning lady and spend hours dusting ivory crucifixes, porcelain hands, cuckoo clocks, copper pots, follies made of twigs, action figures, Hermes ashtrays, sterling silver brainteasers, etc, etc, ETC.

Oh, and there was just too much Gucci footwear going on, including Blake's blue velvet slip-ons with gold horse bits.

Thank goodness exploding manhole covers are so 2010!

Text Exchange

2011-10-27T18:21:00.002-05:00

Did I mention my mother was in town? She emailed me asking for a brow threading appointment, which of course implied she was going to be in NYC.

While she busied herself with the latest issue of Hola magazine, I took a glance at her phone to see what she had been up to lately. I had to take a photo of this exchange and send immediately to Blake:

"GMA" are the initials of the former president of the Philippines, and of course gma2 is different from gma1, which ostensibly is the president's old phone number. Well, the Philippines is known as the text capital of the world, why should heads of state communicate only via red emergency phones?

Blake texted me back from just outside the White House Situation Room, where he was waiting to enter a meeting. He wrote, That's ridiculous. And then of course a moment later Barack Obama walked in front of him and said, Hello.

My mother was in town for but a moment. We had breakfast at Balthazar, and then she headed to Patagonia. I will text her tonight to see if she is having a good time down there.

Shhhh

2011-10-26T20:57:00.003-05:00

... but I'm back, maybe just for a few minutes. I'm almost surprised that sad little blog was still up, but here it is. Existence certainly is longer on the interweb.

Nothing much has happened, really. Perhaps most notably, I've discovered the ultimate night cream: Dr. Sebagh's Supreme Night Secret. It is $350 for 1.7 ounces, so praise be to everyone that my PR agency gave it to me for $0. The ingredients? Secret of course. But oh my god my skin looks and feels amazing.

Alas what do I do when the small jar runs out? The compliments will fizzle out as well, and where would I be?

What else has been going on?

(Pretend singing with PJ P., with Sam L. and Warren E. looking askance. Black suit with green cabbage rose Lad Musician, mauve suede shoes Bally, royal blue shirt Comme des Garcons)

Should I stay or should I go?

Photo Memories

2011-08-27T17:26:00.004-05:00

So summer is quite over, and well where did it all go? I remember the beginning of summer and will make sure that I remember the end, but the middle is a black hole.

I did manage a quick vacation, to of all places Las Vegas since it wasn't hot enough in NYC. Blake and I visited his sister Kara who was about to give birth.

A big part of my memory loss is due to an uncharacteristic lack of picture-taking. The idea of carrying around a camera seemed tedious at best, and my old scratched-up iphone did no one photographic justice.

A handful of moments were captured, and hence I remember bits and pieces:

1. After we arrived at The Aria, we decided to try one of the many big-name restaurants in the hotel. It has always been my dream to eat at Masa in NYC, but the $400/ person before drinks price tag has always been the small detail that is difficult to overlook. But there was a Masa in Vegas too-- we crossed our fingers and hoped for a more reasonably-priced menu.

(Still in traveling costume, of blue Edward sheer t-shirt underneath a distressed sheer beige sweater, embroidered drawstring pants, ostrich pedal-pushers, in front of the dramatic entrance)

Well, let's just say that Blake told the waiter he already had dinner, and we shared a bowl of shrimp fried rice. Prices know no state boundaries it seems. We decided not to try the other brand-name chefs unless the slot machine gods were kind.

2. Under a no-shopping lock-down, I was doing so well until Blake insisted we check out the Madison-Avenue quality shops at Crystals Mall. Hello lavender suede shoes! I can resist everything except for temptation.

(Amidst the slots, wearing my new Bally lavender suede lace-up oxfords)

3. Blake was so thoughtful he gave me a little gift from Kabul. I was instructed to stand in front of the mirror with my eyes closed. Of course I scrunched up my face too because god knows, he might have been meaning to slap me.

I got a traditional Afghan hat made of boiled sheep wool, like the one Hamid Karzai wears. So chic, I can't wait until Fall to wear it!

(Trying it out in front of the mirror, with red Easter Island souvenir shirt, black skinny pants, silk scarf)

I discovered the iPhoto has a "Retouch" function, where you can rub a little icon over a portion of the photo to retouch and it magically disappears. I started with trying to get rid of a small patch of shine on my forehead, then decided that it might be good to just make most of my face disappear from the photo. It wasn't my best angle.

Summer Visitors

2011-08-05T20:11:00.003-05:00

One of the loveliest aspects of living in NYC is that it is quite the vacation destination for friends from back home--in catching up and keeping up with the latest news, it's like I never met Manila.

My dear friend Rajo L. was in town to visit his boyfriend Nix who was here for several months. Rajo is writes one of my must-read blogs on StyleBible.ph, called of course Rajo's Blog. Here is one of his many NYC entries, a lunch at Tartinery then I dragged him to my favorite scent shop, Le Labo in NoLita. I'm glad he loved it, and now we share a scent!

Rajo's candid photo of me in front of Le Labo ("Stand na there Ramon, basta look casual!")

(Shirt Calvin Klein, short Tailor, vintage cravat, straw hat Lisa Shaub, velvet slip-ons Stubbs & Wootton, belt Hermes)

And with Nix who is always so wonderfully put-together.

Another documented night out with Rajo and Nix we found ourselves at the Boom Boom Room of the Standard Hotel. I think it is one of the most beautiful bars in NYC, the lighting makes everyone look beautiful, thin, and rich!

I truly am going through a hat moment, perhaps because I have not time for a haircut, but hat shopping is so much fun.

Year One!

2011-07-27T20:45:00.005-05:00

Goodness gracious, I can't believe it's been a year since I opened Strip and Browhaus! In a year (which coincided with the crest of our great recession), we've done over 15,100 services. And from being unknown, to being Best of New York 2011 (NY Magazine, Metro US), and in Allure, Marie Claire, New York Times, Fox News, Teen Vogue, Style.com, Refinery 29, TimeOut, etc. etc. And yes, that was Olivia Wilde who came by for an appointment.

So I gave our customers a discount and we closed the store for a hot, hot Saturday evening.

My staff knows that I hate being touched, so of course they en masse picked me up and carried me ala a cheap Cleopatra. Beulah peel me a grape! Thank goodness my legs were freshly waxed.

I have 22 beautiful, gorgeous, amazingly talented people working for me. Where do I go when my mind is awake at 3 in the morning? I feel... responsible, accountable, impatient, out of breath, thankful, frustrated, exasperated, inspired, panicked, zen. But never, ever indifferent. And when I admit it, never bored.

Body Analysis

2011-07-22T19:13:00.003-05:00

I've been taking pilates for some months now, with the most amazing teacher. We meet at her apartment every Monday evening at 5:30, where she has the instruments of my spinal expansion: the Reformer, the Cadillac, and the dreaded Chair.

Every session starts with soothing tea, or if it is warm, a glass of fizzy pomegranate lemonade. We talk about what the day has been like (which is redundant, since she pretty much can tell my mood from the way I climb the stairs), and then begin an hour-long session that is alternatively soothing and straining.

All for the betterment of my core, both physically and mentally speaking.

She photographed me on two occasions, then emailed an analysis last night.

The analysis reads:

"They (pictures) can help us see so many more things so much more clearly. I've seen from these pics a couple of things that I'd like to even out in your pelvis. I'll point those out to you, but the easiest thing for you to see will be higher up on your torso.

Allow me to take the time to remind you that I use pictures - just as we use the mirror - as a tool of learning and instruction. They are not instruments of self-recrimination or -flagellation. Period. And so we begin:

As I said, the easier thing to notice is on your torso. If you look at the space between your arms in the first image, you'll see that your left arm is closer to your body than your right arm, indicating that your spine and ribcage are shifted over to the left. This shift appears to be coming from your pelvis, and that's the part that you may not be able to see as well. If you look at the space between 6 o'clock and 3 o'clock (your pubis and left hip point), when compared to the space between 6 o'clock and 9 o'clock on the right, the space on the left is shorter and consequently tighter. We know that your right hamstring is tighter than your left, and I know that your left hamstring isn't as strong as your right...

That may sound like a confusing mosaic of seemingly unrelated issues, but they all point to the fact that there's a rotation in your pelvis, not terribly uncommon at all, but for you, it can play a big role in the tightness and discomfort in your shoulders.

We can look at this more specifically when I see you on Monday. There are a couple of things that I'm going to make sure to do every week to help you understand what we're now working toward. I know you'll be disappointed to hear this, but it may mean a few less push ups for a while..."

It is nice to know that there is someone who peruses my pictures with just as much intensity as I do!

And after each pilates session is over, I hop on a table for an hour of acupuncture. We are working on managing stress, which means bigger and bigger needles!

Grazing

2011-07-15T18:22:00.003-05:00

Dinner tonight:

I'm not into big one-plate meals. A little bit of everything is quite nice. This is my "goatherd's selection": cheese, salami, quince paste, heavy crackers, an orange, a glass (or four) of wine. I'm fantasizing about being on a hillside, a character in Don Quixote.

My mind is grazing too-- a movie on TV, W magazine on the bed, an email to a friend, a To-Do list, Pandora radio, brandishing my feather duster... why focus on doing one thing when I can be distracted by five different things at the same time?

Going To The B

2011-07-14T19:14:00.004-05:00

Blake and I have a code word for bathroom, we call it "The B". It's so much more civilized to say, I'm going to the B, rather than, I'm going to the bathroom. Right?

Right now my B is a mess. It looks like Space NK exploded in the middle and landed on every available surface.

On rotation now:

Morning regimen for Face--
1. Cleanse: La Roche Posay Toleriane purifying foaming cream OR Vichy purifying exfolianting cream
2. Shave: Kiehl's Close Shavers Squadron shaving cream
3. Balance: La Roche Posay Effaclar astringent
4. Moisturize: Malin + Goetz replenishing face serum
5. Protect: Clinique City Block Sheer SPF 25
6. Lash: Eyelash Perfection strengthening serum
7. Eye: Kiehl's Abyssine cream SPF 23
8. Lip: Malin + Goetz lip moisturizer

This regimen I have perfected over the years, and it takes less than five minutes from start to finish. But, don't ask about the Evening Regimen, which benefits from the luxury of time!

To keep me company I have a few tilandsia (air plants) in a Japanese raku bowl.

And by the humble sink, a practical mess. Who can live without floss, toothpaste, an electric toothbrush, a stone carving of a Hindu goddess, and Iraqi silver from the 1800's (a gift from Blake)?

I only use white towels, but there are a few light blue ones for guests.

And of course the walls must not be bare.

(My portrait as done by JVA)

(Framed photos from Ecuador, and a classic Marlboro print ad)

Not seen: clawfoot tub, rainforest shower, indoor sauna, carrara marble, foot-lighted vanity, hardwood cabinets, persian carpets, massage table... perhaps one day, the B of my dreams!

Stop Work Never Work

2011-07-03T19:05:00.002-05:00

I rarely take taxis anymore--the subway is cheaper and infinitely better people-watching. But on the occasions that I splurge, it's city-watching not people-watching.

After a late dinner at Yerba Buena and bowing out from heading to the Urge, I saw this on Bowery:

Somone asked me last night, Are you going to work tomorrow? I had to pause, while i think about "work" almost every waking minute (and sleeping minute too), it's just not "work" anymore. It can't be work when I'm enjoying myself too much doing it, right?

What is a Scotch Egg?

2011-07-02T09:30:00.001-05:00

Scotch egg = hard-boiled egg, wrapped in sausage meat mixture, coated in breadcrumbs and deep-fried. Of course we had to order it!

Tricia C. eyeing the sliced scotch egg, at Fat Radish in the LES, with our shared Scotch Egg. And oysters. And tequila + ginger cocktals.

We came for a drink and stayed for dinner, without a reservation in one of the hotter tickets downtown. Needless to say the staff came over every so often to say someone else had reserved our table-- in my past life I would have been annoyed, now being part of the service industry, I get it. Everyone please make your reservations, come on time, and for the love of god don't linger for hours!

Hats Off

2011-07-01T20:59:00.007-05:00

My new favorite thing is a wide-brimmed straw hat from Lisa Shaub. It's aubergine in color and quite difficult to match, especially in the dark airconditioned room I usually get dressed in. The brim is uneven, and the peak is off-center, and I try to think of the hat and myself as "jaunty".

On gay pride day, escaping from the parade which always sounds like a nice idea but turns out to be long and tedious, beside the Maritime Hotel where we fled for a visit with Dr. Sancerre:

HAT + crisp white shirt made out of a pillow case, red ostrich driving shoes by Warren Edwards, and my other favorite accessory, Goyard pochette. Photo credit: David L.

Imara's birthday brunch, at home in Bushwick:

HAT + black suit jacket by Lad Musician, navy curdoroy pants Rag & Bone, plaid shirt Steven Alan. With Imara in his sheer shirt and form-fitting denim, hair freshly and meticulously braided. Photo credit: Ana Z.

My fab friend Nix is in town from Manila, studying at Parsons for a few weeks. We went to an opening featuring pictures of Filipino personality BB Gandanghari

HAT + red gingham shirt by American Apparel, shorts Idol Racek, glass of vodka with a few olives thrown in, with Nix A. Photo credit: PJ P.

What an interesting story BB Gandanghari has: once a matinee idol who set young girls hearts a-flutter, the former Rustom Padilla (no relation) comes out on live TV in the Filipino version of Big Brother, then chooses to live a life as a transexual. And like everyone else who wants a full reinvention, moves here to NYC. She looks fab!

Alas in this photo I do not look very fab at all, so I made it smaller and less in-focus. HAT + Nix A., BB G., PJ P.

At 11 p.m., Mr. Hat looks a little exhausted and worse for wear--a straw-based creation, he likes staying out in the sun, cocktails and loud music make him very tired...

I Do I Do!

2011-06-25T20:16:00.004-05:00

It finally happened! Many of us are still quite in a state of shock.

And I had no idea any of this was going to happen, until I saw someone's FB update earlier in the day saying a vote was imminent. Then of course it was absolutely the only thing I could think of the entire afternoon and evening--like the rest of gay New York I was obsessively checking my iPhone, while at dinner, while at drinks. Then finally, while walking up Bleecker with my friend Bernard Z. en route to a party, the news!

The city exploded, and continues to explode-- we had to walk through Sheridan Square and goodness gracious what a scene--New Year's eve, Mardi Gras, Gay Pride all in one.

(Everyone must be out tonight, but I'm just too... exhausted!)

A slice of pizza at three in the morning.

Cheers, and darling Blake, Van Cleef and Arpels is on the corner of 57th and 5th. I can call them ahead with my ring size.

Oh and as far as wedding venues are concerned, I'm certain that less than 24 hours later, there is already a long waiting list for the Temple of Dendur at the MET. If it's good enough for the Costume Institute Gala, it's good enough for me!

Xoxo and Thank-You New York!

Pizza Purchase

2011-06-19T20:38:00.002-05:00

After drinks at The Lion, I returned home and realized that I had no food. Well, the thought occured to me as my train crossed the East River, but something deep inside hoped that there was a left-over steak somewhere. Instead, a freezer full of Trader Joe's impulse buys.

I put a margherita pizza in puff pastry, in the oven. While it spent its five minutes there I read the box and realized with horror that this piece contained 35% saturated fat--muffin top city! Needless to say it was tasteless. Now, what in the world do I do with my freezer full of Trader Joe's impulse buys?

Blake remarked that I never publicly acknowledged his gift to me of a brand-new iPad, so here is a picture of it:

Thanks Dear Honey Badger!! I just discovered the books ap--who knew all these unreadable classics were available for free?

Rubber Chicken

2011-06-18T20:32:00.006-05:00

This morning I strolled over to the Saturday green market in Grand Army Plaza, to select farm-fresh produce with Brooklyn vegetarians, recyclers, animal-rights-activists, and assorted do-gooders.

I bought fresh strawberries (although I dislike strawberries, I was enamoured of their smell and just the idea of buying a basket of strawberries), bok choy, a bundle of spinach, green peas, and... a freshly killed chicken. The chicken looked a little skinny, but then doesn't that mean it truly is free-range?

At home I washed it, patted it dry with paper towels, and seasoned with salt and pepper. I stuffed a lemon up its ass, and roasted in the oven. It should have come out perfect, but instead, well... now I know what a rubber chicken tastes like.

My goodness what a waste of time and dishes! Thankfully I had a leftover bottle of Sauvignon Blanc to salvage the situation (at 11 a.m.). Perhaps the stringy little fellow would have been more appropriate for a coq a vin. After gnawing on a leg, the $12.50 poor thing ended up in the trash bin, cluck cluck.

With absolutely nothing to do this afternoon, I decided to see lay at the end of Atlantic Avenue.

(This immaculate pair of white underwear on the bike rack was quite poignant)

And a 45-minute walk away, Brooklyn Bridge Park. It was a long trek, in espadrilles.

Required Reading

2011-06-17T18:03:00.002-05:00

I opened my mailbox today and out tumbled homework.

Vogue, Allure, Marie Claire... I haven't even made headway through last month's Vanity Fair. I study each issue like a textbook, eye and mind alert (although a glass of wine helps the pages turn more quickly). The mastheads contain names of editors who have visited my salon, it's only polite to keep up to date with their goings-on. If I'm going to have a conversation about face, lip, or eye, god forbid I'm still in Summer when everyone else is Fall. It's research, it's necessary!

And once I've worked my way through, it's back to iPad Books. Re-reading Julius Caesar for the first time since high school. I read and I wonder: You blocks you stones you worse than senseless things oh you hard hearts you cruel men of Rome...

(My 9th year anniversary is coming up... what should I get the Honey Badger? I'm at a loss. Perhaps a set of steak knives? An Hermes belt that I too can use? A gift certificate to Browhaus?)

Memories Medium Rare

2011-06-16T18:20:00.004-05:00

Tonight was all about left-overs, made special because they were left-overs from a dinner at Bobby Van's. Behold bone-in rib-eye:

I must have barely touched my meal last night, because there's so much of it left. I put it in the oven at 300 degrees for fifteen minutes, and it came out a shade darker than the original medium rare, but dripping delicious.

And I jazzed it up with a little side dish:

Nothing like steak and eggs on a Thursday night! This meal will have to be kept a secret from the team in charge of my fitness and well-being: Kelly (health coach), Marcia-Elizabeth (pilates and chinese medicine), and Steve (training) will probably all express mild disappointment at my evening choice. Now that I've polished off the rib-eye, I too am mildly disappointed with myself. Chomp chomp.

Dinner last night was with former cronies from the Marlboro bar team--we get together every so often and pretend we are still on expense account, reliving the fantasy that was working at Philip Morris.

(With Lou A., Angie R., and Waddy P., in the alley right by Bobby Van's in the Helmsley Building that lies smack in the middle of Park Avenue).

Philip Morris was an employee's paradise, and we relived some choice moments-- such as a team-building trip to Seattle where we took seaplanes to a private island for a clambake, then a yacht back to the city with an open bar, an extravagance for 12 people. Like an old flame remembered, we wondered, Why did we never appreciative enough what we had, and also, Why exactly did we leave again?

Oh well, reminisces are always sweeter, when combined with martinis, rib-eye, and a seafood tower.

Swim in Style

2011-05-14T17:14:00.001-05:00

Some of us come to New York to make our mark on the world. We aim high, sharpen our elbows, clench our fists, then jump in headfirst. Daunting, yes, but inevitable too. It's a never-ending trial of fire, or sometimes gorgeous glowing flame.

My friend Wendy P. is entering NYC with a bang, with a meeting with Vogue editors her second day in the city. Well, the line is gorgeous: Por Do Sol. It's sexy swimwear with some amazing slihouettes, think Versace and Alaia meet, hold hands, and step into a pool in Miami!

(Wendy in her showroom in Manhattan, in front of a rack of her pieces)

The cover-ups in diaphanous materials were stunning too--beaded caftans, off the shoulder sheer, goddess robes.

(Wendy in the chicest accessory of the season: a fur vest, and me in my uniform for this month: shrunken black blazer with pocket square, striped tissue-paper Tim Hamilton sweater, black pants--I must have five variations on this theme. Oh, and my new black rimmed but amber lined Paul Smith glasses from Ilori)

A recipe for success: talent or an amazing product, persistence and unrelenting drive, an inability to take No for an answer, and of course grace under pressure (or at least, Don't freak out too much). God help us strivers all!

Was it Woody Allen: 80% of success is showing up! And who said, No guts No glory!

Salt of the Earth

2011-05-09T19:41:00.003-05:00

Dinner chez moi, while flipping TV channels between Dancing With The Stars and Lawrence of Arabia:

Lamb seasoned simply with salt and pepper then roasted in the oven, boiled sweet corn on the cob, toasted bread, and kimchi. A glass of red wine and a glass of water. A Le Labo petit grain candle and rose-scented hand moisturizer. A paper napkin.

Now I know why my health coach has requested that I keep a food diary. Somehow when I write it all down, it seems ridiculous.

I also had a small vial of salt on the side. Today while walking in the West Village, I found The Meadow. The tiny shop only carries salt, chocolate, wine, and flowers, but it's the salt that's the star.

There are 100 salts available for tasting and purchase, truly who knew? When I saw the wall of jars and testers, there was absolutely no way I was going back to my one container of Baleine sel de mer gros. Where once there was none, now a disatisfaction was created.

I purchased two: a very fine, almost flour-y Amabito no Moshio from Japan, made from seaweed infused sea water. And then, the highly recommended Pangasinan Star fleur de sel.

(My two small jars--at $10 an ounce, they are like gold!)

I was taken aback by the Pangasinan Star, since Pangasinan is a Philippine province where my grandparents had a place by the beach where we would spend many holidays. I tasted a tiny bit and it reminded me of being on that beach, salt drying on my lips from a day in the water (then again, well of course, it's salt!). Pangasinan also means, Place where salt is made. I never made that connection, and how strange it took a too-precious too-specific store in NYC to bring that home to me. Now I will have to text my mother to bring bags and bags of it next time she comes to visit!

I will also have to make plans to attend the Himalayan pink salt block cooking class at that store...

JVA Cooks

2011-05-03T21:48:00.004-05:00

My oldest friend and houseguest, JVA (Julia Vanderbilt Actress) cooked his signature breakfast dish this morning: bacon fried in maple syrup, for a salty-sweet crunch. We ate enough to feed an army. And also, left-over roast duck fried in with rice and garlic. And of course, a fried egg.

Alas the timing is terrible--my health coach has instructed me to start keeping a food diary. How can I possibly include this entry without embarassment? Does it help that we followed the "little snack" with an hour-long nap, at 9 a.m.! I love Tuesday mornings.

Dear Food Diary, Instead of blood oranges, yoghurt with honey, and steel-cut oatmeal, I slurped up an oil slick this morning. I'm sorry. I enjoyed it for the five minutes it took to eat a 12-inch plateful, but to avoid remorse, I took a nap. And then there was the digestive cigarette. Regrets, I've had a few. Xoxo.

April Obsessions

2011-04-27T09:24:00.004-05:00

A couple of things that I've added to my list of obsessions--

Le Labo fragrance. As if Creed were not enough, now Le Labo has officially entered my orbit. Their tiny store in Nolita compounds the fragrance when purchased, the essential oils measured carefully, mixed, and bottled. The staff member dons a white lab coat to create it. The eau de parfum is thus "fresh" and wonderfully potent.

And of course they spend quite some time creating a personalized label which had my name and the name of the compounder ("Kate"). The packaging was quite involved, like transporting a small bar of gold.

I selected Bergamot, a safe choice. There was one scent that smelled like a Manhattan, all oaky and smoky, perhaps for next time. And I could only afford half an ounce. The expiration date says 4/25/2012, but I suspect this vial will barely last me to the start of summer.

And then there is Rodin--

Created by a former model, there are only three items in the line: a lip balm, a face oil, and a body oil. I open and close the heavy compact all day, and my lips are in the pink of health. The face and body oils, in a tiny bottles with tiny droppesr, are now part of my evening pre-bed ritual. It is luxurious to slip under the covers smelling like jasmine.

Postcard from Budapest #3: And All The Rest

2011-03-30T21:21:00.002-05:00

And this is what enters my imagination when I think about Budapest, or any Central European city for that matter. How strange it is when reality and assumption coincide perfectly.

Overcast skies:

Bullet-ridden facades, remnants from Communist revolutionary times:

Heart-wrenching reminders of the Holocaust:

Never-ending cold, rainy winter:

On a perch in a medieval castle, clutching an umbrella from an art deco hotel, dressed in Yohji Yamamoto, swathed in Hermes. When reflection fails, cling tightly to all that is good, beautiful, and cashmere.

Postcard from Budapest #2: Death Becomes Them

2011-03-29T18:02:00.001-05:00

One of Budapest's biggest attractions is the Church of St. Stephen, which of course has on display the hand of St. Stephen. For only three euros, the vitrine containing the miraculously preserved hand can be lit up. Alas it does not photograph very well.

(Saint Stephen's hand in a silver vitrine)

Thank goodness there was a poster nearby that had a picture of the hand:

(I'm not drooling, it's my Malin+Goetz lip moisturizer, that I haven't got the hand of applying yet).

Apparently his entire arm was miraculously preserved after death, but divided amongst European royalty of the time. So somewhere are elbow crease must be on display. Lucky for Budapest they got the more photogenic and accessoriz-able (it was wearing a ring) hand.

This one church had an entire knight, posed in repose, so elegant!

But Budapest had nothing on the royal sarcophogus of the Empress Marie-Therese, in Vienna.

She must have been entombed with her entire entourage, the coffin was so large.

Upon my own death, please tell whomever is in charge of my remains to cremate immediately, I can't stand the idea of being encased in copper, iron, oak, or god forbid, plywood. The thought of being underground is equally frightening. Please, scatter my ashes, anywhere!

But keep my best asset (my shaped brows? the uncreased corners of the eye? a healthy pink fingernail?) in a vitrine, on display, to remind all, that I once was. I will try very hard to stay preserved!

Postcard from Budapest #1: All Seasons Four Seasons

2011-03-27T20:59:00.001-05:00

I would have been perfectly happy to sleep in, during our weeklong visit to Budapest. The Honey Badger was feeling generous and booked us at the Four Seasons Gresham Palace, quite possibly the most beautiful hotel I've stayed in.

I am an Art Deco kind of guy, but a big dose of Art Nouveau, done with the grace and style it deserves, is not something I say no to. And combined with strong drinks in feather-light glasses, seven-course extravaganzas intricately plated, a mosaic pool with views of the Danube, and someone to pay for it all, well what's not to like?

As god is my witness, I will one day have a bathroom with double mirrored doors, a marbled bathtub, floor-to-ceiling mirrors, and lighting so flattering it de-ages by 15 years, all in the space the size of my current living room. Everyone should dream big.

Well, we did manage to explore the world outside the palace...

(Blake with Budapest stretching out in the distance)

(A rainy night with St. Stephen's in the distance, in Rick Owens and Lad Musician.)

Yes, it was cold and wet, but isn't that what Central Europe is all about? Cobblestones are prettier.

Postcard from Vienna and Budapest: Honey Badger and Friends

2011-03-26T20:53:00.004-05:00

The Honey Badger was in his element, sprinting from church to museum, nose in his guidebook reading voraciously about the Austro-Hungarian Empire. He ordered from menus saying the German words with appropriate pronunciation (umlauts, "sh" instead of "s", something about that weird B letter) and kept me on a strict schedule, pushing me along from behind when necessary.

It's no surprise that we encountered a few of his soulmates along the way:

(With old-world blue hairs, his Barbour jacket a direct lift from their wardrobe. His style, like theirs, set for all eternity.)

Leave me alone, I'm reading Proust!

(A statue embodying Attitude, at the Royal Palace in Buda)

And his knowledge of fin de siecle architecture clearly went to his head.

(Honey Badger with a coronet, on a corner in Pest)

Not amused, I often resorted to drink and Ce Lo Green.

(Watching, waiting, wary, on the train from Bratislava to Budapest)

It's been years since I was last in Europe, I can't even remember the last time. Perhaps because of late, I've preferred either the very old (Petra, Jerusalem) or the very new (Seoul). But a little bit of 17th century, a little bit of 21st, cities on Insight Guides itineraries since the 50's, blah.

I did visit Austria years ago with my family, we rented a car in Vienna and drove all around the country in search of sites from the Sound of Music. Imagine our surprise upon discovering the Austrians preferred to celebrate Mozart over the Von Trapps. I don't think they've ever really caught on to this thing called popular culture. This time around, it was I who adjusted to them: Egon Schiele, Freud, Mahler, Empress Maria Theresa... a cast of characters that demanded attention, reflection, and respect. Well then again, so do I!

(Downtown Vienna, rush hour)

Post Card from Bratislava #1: Why Are We Here?

2011-03-25T19:52:00.004-05:00

Sometimes you are somewhere and you marvel, Wow what an amazing place how did I get here and how lucky I am! Bratislava in Slovakia was not one of those places.

In fact, when the Wikitravel profile of a country reads like this, it is often a signal to reconsider the itinerary:

"It shouldn't be necessary to mention that the 2006 film Hostel, whose plot takes place in 'Slovakia' is a complete work of fiction, and the probability of tourists being kidnapped and tortured is the same in Slovakia as in any developed city in the USA or Western Europe."

Clearly there is risk involved!

The main train station, 30 minutes from aristocratic Vienna, did not inspire confidence, with it's NYC circa 1970's vibe.

Thankfully the Radisson did not qualify as a hostel, with even lower chances of being kidnapped and tortured. And I suspect that hardwood floors are not exactly abattoir material.

But still!

Cold, overcast, rainy central european weather

(Central square in old city Bratislava)

Sights that were not quite camera-worthy.

Leopard-print nightclubby blouses in ultra-flammable yet non-breathing faux-chiffon

Un-ironic graffitti offensive to those who love to wear man-suits.

And then a section of that much-publicized Blue Danube of waltz fame:

The Danube, drab and choppy, with the "oo-fo" (UFO) restaurant perched atop a bridge in the distance. Yes, I am partly in a "man-suit", one of several I brought with me.

Sorry Slovakia, but I did feel like I was kidnapped and tortured.

(OK, OK, there is a castle-- but if you were a princess, would this be your first choice?)

Postcard from Vienna #4: High Cuisine

2011-03-24T13:54:00.001-05:00

If I bothered to track my cholesterol, I would probably have discovered that it was elevated to rarefied heights by the Central European diet, heavy on the frying and the boiling.

Fried breaded pork fillets at the Bratislava train station (eat if you dare!):

As everyone knows, fried breaded pork is called Wiener Schnitzel in Austria. Wiener schnitzel at Figlmuller, with a plate of Vienna Sausage, which I thought were usually finger-sized to fit in the little cans:

Another Viennese favorite is Tafelspitz, or boiled beef. I am not sure why the Viennese say it is distinctly theirs, when every country in the world can do beef boiled in water, except of course the very poor ones. Tafelspitz served in a copper pot at Plachutta:

Hungarian cuisine was more satisfying, if equally obnoxious with the calories. Every restaurant pushes their beloved goose liver. A half-portion at the New York Cafe:

On our last night in Budapest, we ate at the historic Gundel. The Honey Badger was of course completely mortified when I took out my camera in the Michelin-celebrated restaurant, but I just had to capture that moment when I was unable to take a clear picture with a point-and-shoot camera, due to a shaky hand from gross over-eating and drinking:

Three types of foie gras as an appetizer will do that to anyone. And of course the five-piece roving band playing Hungarian rhapsodies to the squealing delight of tourists like myself.

(Honey Badger eating squid)

Postcard from Vienna #3: La Sonnambula

2011-03-23T13:14:00.002-05:00

Vienna is said to be Europe's capital of classical music, and opera queens from all over the world make this a place of pilgrimage. And the main reason why we are here: to Watch Opera.

Blake has dragged me to many a dreary epic (why do these things last over four hours?) performance at the MET or the Kennedy Center. He is an opera season subscriber, I have opera cape fantasies. His pre-show exercises include reviewing the storyline and studying performers' bios. I bring in box of strong mints to fortify myself, and Blake kindly gives me a hard nudge when my head droops or a "famous" piece is coming up.

I was not particularly looking forward to this one, especially since Blake translated the title as "Sleeping Beauty". I was expecting dancing dwarves and depressed princesses, humming along to some deathly climax, then a fey prince dressed in white tights.

But then... Ah non credea mirarti, si presto estinto, o fiore!

La Sonnambula turned out to be one bel canto showstopper after another--fat ladies and skinny ladies going crazy and grabbing their hair, with exaggerated trills and hitting high, high notes. Forget about the storyline, it was a wedding cake of music, operatic instant gratification. I wish I had a wine glass in my pocket to hold up to the sound waves and see it smash.

I did manage to grab a glass during intermission, champagne in their grand salon.

(Do I look old? It's the jet lag and the lighting)

And yes, it means The Sleepwalker, and not Sleeping Beauty.

(There was an instance years ago when my mother saw me sleepwalking down the stairs. She asked, Where are you going? I said, Nowhere. Then turned back around and went back to bed. And this is why I sometimes put a glass right in front of my main apartment door--hopefully it will fall over, smash, and wake me before I sleepwalk onto the street, dressed in my jammies.)

Post Card from Vienna #2: Keeping In Touch

2011-03-22T17:55:00.004-05:00

The Honey Badger is now somewhat less of a luddite, with his addiction to his US-government issued blackberry.

(Upon arrival at Vienna airport, dressed in an unfortunate sweater that fortunately is made of cashmere)

(On the train en route from Brastilava to Budapest)

(At a cafe in Budapest, where even uber-rich pastries could not peel his eyes from the screen)

As Acting Political Officer of Embassy Kabul, he must keep track of all the goings-on in the war-torn world, even while sampling the delights of Old Europe.

He has also acquired a small camera, which he uses sporadically.

Postcard from Vienna #1: Last Night

2011-03-21T14:23:00.003-05:00

Blake left this morning, and it is one last day and night in this old city that bears little charm for me. Perhaps it's the never-ending stream of churches, museums, palaces, in a haze of heavy cuisine and small glasses of wine, but I decided to take a break from Culture.

Almost guiltily, since Blake was prodding me to see even more Egon Shiele and Gustav Klimt, I decided to do "errands", and indulge myself in favorite pastimes from home: which of course are the grocery and the drugstore. Without the Honey Badger tapping his impatient feet and rolling his eyes, I had a luxurious afternoon trolling shelves and perusing European food and beauty brands.

The first stop was to fortify myself, in a destination popular with the young and trendy of all European nations:

There certainly is something comforting in knowing that every society needs a wide selection of anti-aging moisturizers, aspirin, chocolate wafers. And there is nothing that gives me more joy than holding packaged goods in my hands (that is, except from the joy of holding Luxury goods in my hands... and taking them home, hee hee), examining unintelligible ingredient lists, going through testers which somehow they don't have in Austria.

At a nearby drugstore I bought an intensive almond oil hand mask, an exfollient and moisturizing face peel-off mask, and a keratin hydrating hair mask. Hands, face, and hair must be refreshed before tomorrow's flight.

At a nearby supermarket, I bought a basketful, more than I can eat in 12 hours, alas:

Fresh orange juice, strange cold cuts that are "bio" i.e. organic, chocolate wafers, a Greek salad with exactly 12 leaves of lettuce (for an exorbitant 3.49 euros), a selection of processed cheese triangles, buy-one-get-one-free dinner rolls, a sandwich of kase paprika which I belatedly discovered is more processed cheese, a bag of paprika chips, a bottle of Gruner Veltliner, and this strange thing:

I think it's one giant pickle in a glass jar, but it looks like a

And One More

2011-03-12T07:40:00.002-05:00

And here is the piece de resistance--

Loafers in brown crocodile, handstiched of course, with a leather leopard-print sole. Unable to wait for warmer weather, I wore them to putter about my apartment, with my blue waffle-cotton bathrobe.

I'm also packing for a trip. It seems haphazard and unplanned and last-minute, although Blake has been preparing for it for a month now. Clearly the lack of preparation is on my end. Oh well, I can always criticize the itinerary once I get there.

The look is going to be jackets.

Blue Rogues Gallery + striped Tim Hamilton + blue curduroy Rag & Bone. Black Kostym + black cashmere Polo + black denim Rick Owens. Green Y-3 + pink cashmere Polo + brown curduroy Balenciaga. So tiresome.

A Plastic Bag on a Branch

2011-03-10T22:24:00.004-05:00

A plastic bag on a branch--that describes the first piece that greeted guests upon entering the Winston Wachter gallery. My fab friend Lara L. was hosting a reception for the artist, Sean Ryan.

I gave it a quick once-over before heading to the open bar. Really, a plastic bag on a branch? Couldn't there at least be emeralds in the bag, to justify the price tag (not cheap) or just the fact that it was exhibited in a high-profile Chelsea gallery.

Incensed after a drink or three, I cornered the artist and asked him, Why. He responded with, How.

For one, it wasn't a found object. The plastic bag was actually... hand-made. He took me aside and explained the process, which sounded intricate and involved and borderline crazy. The lettering was hand-painted in reverse, then the bag itself was assembled and sewn together. The twig is made of cast plastic.

He also had pieces that looked like crumpled beer labels, and it turned out that they too were hand-made, with touches of silver and gold leaf.

Well, I guess art isn't easy after all.

Alas I already have my own plastic bag on a twig, unfortunately it's the real thing.

(the view from my front window, of the bag that has taken a full year to start disintegrating)

At the Scope art fair last Sunday, I was close to purchasing this piece by Luis Lorenzana, exhibited at the SilverLens gallery booth, straight from Manila:

After a frenzied email negotiation the morning after the show, we were unable to agree on a price. The painting left with the gallerists, back to Manila. Perhaps that was for the best--it was after all three months worth of rent. Although I fully expect that in five years I will see it at auction, for twenty grand.

Skin-Deep

2011-03-08T23:30:00.004-05:00

The temperature is still in the 30s and fur still de rigeur, but already my thoughts are to what is going to be a long hot fabulous summer. And what better way to get in the right frame of mind than some shoe shopping:

Here are my new babies, all from that amazing cult brand Warren Edwards. Super-popular in the 70's and 80's, and always a staple for the shoe-obsessed, now a new generation is ready to discover him. Miley Cyrus was in his upper east side store a few days ago, and today was my turn, hee hee.

Having nothing better to do tonight after I got home from my store at 10 p.m., I arranged them for a mini-photo shoot in the bedroom. Driving shoes in red ostrich neck, and driving shoes in black ostrich diamond with red cleats. Loafers in black textured calf, and loafers in brown lizard.

I love the details-- shoes are lined in leopard print leather, and even the soles of the driving shoe are leopard print, who cares about Louboutin red soles these days, so crass! The shoes were wrapped in red cloth, then crinkly leopard print paper, before nestled in their distinctive boxes.

The red cleats on the driving shoe are sewn on, as everything is done by hand. Thank goodness Warren himself (and beautiful wife Sam L-E and an entourage of assistants) helped me with the selection, and was a guide for the after-care. I was intent on being able to use them as a subway shoe, he and his staff hid their horror. And why indeed would one subject something so beautiful (albeit sturdy) to the filth of a NYC subway?

Of course they fit like second skins, a worthy and noble end for dearest ostrich, calf, and lizard...

Belated Resolutions

2011-03-07T23:09:00.000-05:00

I'm obsessed with finding a nutritionist. Suddenly he or she is the key to the pre-cure to the cancer I'm convinced I will get in five years.

All around me creep pathogens, up from subway car floors, down from building awnings, through leather winter gloves. Forget about cigarette smoke, what about breathing in second hand air? If someone else's lungs have processed it, are there strange things afloat that come in when it's my turn to breathe in?

I'm yearning for a cleanse. There is the years-old juice fast, that frankly might be too popular to jump on the bandwagon now. Perhaps just a regular religious fast might do the trick--abstinence from nutrition, commencing on Ash Wednesday which I believe is tomorrow.

I'm pining for dietary discipline, a rigorous set of rules, or even better, a menu from which I cannot stray, down to the number of bites and chews. On one hand, failure if a blueberry is replaced with a strawberry. On the other hand, success, as measured by... well, energy? clearer skin? absence of aging?

Whatever the solution, my body can take only so many limited decades of alternatively snacking and binging. Perhaps one day it will actually refuse bacon and fried eggs and fried garlic rice (yes, my home-made breakfast this morning).

I did take one small step towards change:

My weekly bottle recycling will not include Stoli and Ketel One empties. Martinis now bore me to tears. All vodka that doesn't come from plastic liter bottles, taste pretty much the same. And straight-up with olives or lemon peel is just dull, dull, dull. How did I allow the cocktail revolution that swept NYC over the last few years to pass me by? In any case, I'm giving up vodka for the bottle the hides behind it. Well, at least for Lent, or when I run out of brown bottled sunshine, whichever comes first.

Unflattering Photo

2011-02-19T00:33:00.002-05:00

Suddenly the idea of aging is not a laughing matter. I'm haunted by the thought that, any day now, I will start to look noticeably old.

It is impossible to take a good picture on the iphone, and over lunch today at Les Enfants Terribles, Imara took a terribles one of me.

Even with the aid of back-lighting, my visage is off-putting. Hair looks dry and lifeless, there are creases underneath my eyes, and one crease is quite deep. My skin looks dry, except at the T-zone, where it seems oily. There is no rosy youthful glow, except for the glow at the tip of my nose. My lips have become uneven. Eyes are dull, spark-less.

Is there a limit to the science of skin care? Have I reached that limit? I've sworn (to whom?) that I will never allow a syringe or scalpel to my face, but what is that adage about desperate times?

Imara himself stays shrouded in shadow.

After lunch we took advantage of the one warm day in a cruel winter season, for a walk up Orchard Street. I told Imara to walk in front of this restaurant, so I would remember the name since it looked promising.

It's called the Fat Radish. The interior is cute, but then everything in this odd neighborhood is interesting. The menu, though, is been there/ done that, but who knows, maybe they've reinvented reinvention.

2011 Obesssions

2011-02-18T19:57:00.006-05:00

I think a two-month hiatus from this self-serving, navel-gazing, but ultimately relaxing (for me) and quasi-cathartic (for me) series of entries is a good enough time. In my twilight years, when I look back to Dec 2010 to Jan 2011, it will be a blank, the "lost months". If only something actually interesting happened to merit the intentional ommission of a record.

Well, I did receive a new addition to my collection of obsessions:

With Blake in Afganistan, I did not expect much of a gift this year for my birthday--perhaps something quick and easy like a direct deposit. But certainly nothing like his command, Go to your favorite place. Needless to say my favorite place in NYC is the Goyard store at Barney's, so I brushed it off as a silly throw-away.

But then a voice inside me said, Who knows? I took the 6 train uptown, walked into the store, and the elegant Asian (of course) saleslady said, We've been expecting you.

Me: Oh really?
Her: Yes, he said you would be running here!
Me: Gasp.
Her (reaching into a closet for the package): He's not here in the city, is he?
Me: No, he's in Kabul, and is that for me?

And of course it was:

It is supposed to be a travel document holder, but goodness gracious was an adorable clutch it makes! Enough room for a notebook, phone, keys, metrocard, and if I smoked, a pack of cigarettes, all in a slim 8 1/2 by 11 sleeve to carry between the upper arm and chest. And best of all, it's in RED! Well, Blake knows what keeps my heart beating, and it's certainly not blood.

Well, I'm back, clutch clutched.

Other new obsessions in my wardrobe rotation for January, worn incessantly and uniform-like:
1. Bess studded jeans and studded boots
2. Y-3 emerald green track jacket
3. Balenciaga skinny corduroy pants in dark chocolate and milk chocolate
4. Rag & Bone pleated flannel shirt with three-quarters length sleeves
5. Rick Owens stiff and distressed black jeans with acid stains
6. John Varvatos lace-up boots
7. Yohji Yamamoto high-tops
8. Steven Alan button-down shirts

(Oh, and thank-you JVA for the reminder text, that yes there is someone who actually who reads this crazy log...)

Family Stamps

2010-12-18T20:20:00.005-05:00

My lolo's on a stamp, to celebrate his birth centenary. There are two versions--one as a Senator, and the other when he was captain of the Philippine basketball team at the Berlin 1936 Olympics.

Of course I had my own stamps made too (alas I had to pay for them myself):

Me and Blake in front of the Dome of the Rock, coming soon to a holiday card near you, if I can find the time to actually buy holiday cards and write in them...

Holiday "Office" Party

2010-12-16T22:33:00.003-05:00

After the store closed at 7 on a Saturday night, we put a little Mariah Carey Christmas album on the sound system, and dimmed the lights. I ordered six pizzas from Lombardi's down the street, and bought bottles of wine. Chips, dip, strawberries, and chocolate cookies were arrayed on the front desk counters.

Welcome to the first ever Strip/ Browhaus NYC holiday party!

It was a simple celebration, but my goodness did we have fun with party games. And then my staff surprised me with this:

Which quickly turned to this:

And what exactly does the mutilation of a celebratory cake say about my leadership style? Or maybe this is a better gauge:

(In front of one of the wax installations in the store. Black curduroy suit by J. Lindeberg, I did look a little like a cross between Quentin Crisp and Freddy Krueger)

Sometimes I wonder, How lucky am I?

Brows Brows Brows

2010-11-22T22:51:00.003-05:00

And now thankfully it's back to reality!

I'm back to the world of brows and lash, and those that strangely enough see me as some sort of expert, like the gorgeous people at Stylecaster

And here's the text:

Brow Resurrection: Above The Eye Revamp
By Fiorella Valdesolo
When it comes to your brows, expert Ramon Padilla let us in on the truth about what you should and shouldn't attempt at home.

What does having bangs have to do with my eyebrows? Well, it means that sometimes I forget those arches are even there because they happen to be constantly covered by a layer of fringe. Until, that is, this summer when sweltering temperatures regularly forced my hair up and off my face, and left my unkempt, long, straggly brows exposed to the world. Needless to say, I began to pay much closer attention to them –a task made easier by the recent opening of Browhaus. Sharing a space in Nolita with Strip, the hip Singapore-born chain has become a mecca for hair removal and grooming and they take eyebrows very seriously. Here, U.S. owner of Strip/Browhaus Ramon Padilla answers a few brow-related queries.

What are the top brow mistakes you see people coming in with?
Overplucked brows; people often don't know when to stop —you can take a hair out, but you can't put it back in again. Another mistake we see a lot of are uneven or misshapen brows —it’s difficult to get control of your shape when doing it in front of a mirror on oneself. And finally, of course, unshaped, messy brows —people spend a lot of time on their hair, but brows are just as important.

I know you guys offer a brow rehab of sorts; what does that entail?
It is called Brow Resurrection. It is a signature treatment that reconstructs brows from root to tip. For brows that are sparse or lack definition, or brows that are over-plucked or unbalanced, the procedure is transformative: 3-D, lifelike brows like they've once had or never had before. A Singapore-trained specialist does a consultation with the client, then draws on a brow until the client is satisfied with the shape, thickness, color, etc. Then, the brow is created by hand, strand by strand, using a special tool and inks that do not change color over time. The resurrected brows last for two years.

How do you choose between tweezing, waxing, threading and sugaring for brow grooming? Are certain means better for certain people?
For a quick clean-up of brows, we recommend waxing or threading, which is especially popular amongst men who don't want to alter the shape of their brows. Tweezing is used to create a shape after a consultation with the specialist to determine what is most beautiful given the shape of the client's face and what her/his preference is. Our most popular service is a combination Thread + Tweeze, a marriage of two classics.

Any tips for how to trim your own brows?
Yes –don't do it! Unless of course you are also the type of person who cuts her own hair… But if you must, less is more —pluck to clean up, not to shape.

Anyone whose brows you would love to make over?
I’d love to get my hands on Frida Kahlo, Martin Scorsese and the Mona Lisa…

What about your favorite eyebrow icons?
Megan Fox, Zac Efron, Taylor Swift, Demi Moore, Jennifer Aniston, and Rihanna.
[Click through the slide-show to see Ramon’s favorites]

And I added in my own personal favorite – Brooke Shields!

Postcard from Israel #5: Driving Around

2010-11-11T08:00:00.002-05:00

Upon the advice of some Israel old hands, we rented a car and spent a few days driving around: Bethlehem, Jericho, Nazareth, Acre, Caesarea--a veritable "who's who" of Bibilical destinations. Blake took the wheel, and I "navigated" with the help of an English-speaking GPS. I also provided him with many tips on how to drive in Israel, which of course he very much appreciated, in his own stoic, grip-the-steering-wheel way.

In Bethlehem there was a manger explosion!

My travelling costume of bare legs was inexplicably not welcome at the third holiest site in Christendom, the rock where the original manger once stood. So I had to fashion a skirt out of a Palestinian headpiece.

Going down the steep stone staircase to the grotto, of course it came undone and fell to my ankles. What's a pilgrimage without wardrobe fail?

And that got us started in retracing the steps of Jesus.

Next stop, Nazareth, where he grew up (hence "Jesus of Nazareth"). There is a massive basilica dedicated to the Virgin Mary. This being a land where faiths alternate between coexisting and colliding, others chose to make their thoughts known:

(Sign in front of the Basilica of the Anunciation)

"And whoever seeks a religion other than Islam, it will never be accepted of him, and in the Hereafter he will be one of the losers." If there is one thing that defines my life today, it is the strong desire not to end up a Loser!

Another good piece of advice, this time from the Mount of the Beatitudes:

Or, as Blake's aunt would say, The meek shall inherit the mink!

On the sea of Galilee, we tested out the waters, just to see if there was some sort of trick to this walking on water thing.

And just so that we were clear on what we were seeing, helpful signs everywhere.

Thank goodness we didn't bring a dog! Or dress like munchkins.

The garden of Gethsamane, site of the last temptation, was closed during a three-hour lunch break, but we snuck in.

(The doors to the afterlife?)

And on the Mount of Olives, graves as far as the eye can see.

(Blake on the Mount of Olives, contemplating infinity)

Apparently on judgement day, everyone has to fall in line. They will start by judging those who are buried on the Mount of Olives, and then work out from there. Lots of people want to be among the first in line, so we were told that grave spots are going for as much as US$30,000. Here's a tip: there are going to be two bridges post-judging, one made of iron and the other of paper. Do Not take the iron one, it's a trap! It will collapse and not lead to the afterlife. Take the paper one. Or, for the case of the gays, the Rainbow Bridge.

What to do after reflecting on mortality?

Go up on a mountain.

(Blake atop Masada, site of a mass Jewish suicide)

Get lost in a souk.

(In the Arab city of Akko, or Acre)

Say a little prayer.

(In front of the Lord's Prayer written in Ilonggo, and a hundred other languages on tile)

Sit on a beach.

(Tel Aviv)

Postcard from Israel #4: Jerusalem--The Christian Quarter

2010-11-07T11:19:00.001-05:00

And now--

From mosaics to grafitti, there's no doubt what this part of the city was about. On the Via Dolorosa:

Unlike in the Philippines, when a pilgrim carries a life-size cross it does not lead to an actual crucifixion. The stations of the cross were on a street that winded through the city, making for tight situations as everyone (tourists, school children, nuns, coffee shop habitues, etc. etc.) competed for limited space.

The culmination was the Church of the Sepulchre, a thousand-year old church with each section controlled by a different order or sect. Alas the various religious communities are not necessarity brotherly towards each other, and guard their territory ferociously. Any repairs need to be made by consensus, resulting in that the church looks like it hasn't been updated since the 1000's.

There were dark stairways and nooks and crannies everywhere. One set of stone stairs led to another led to another and suddenly we were in a crypt.

(Blake took a picture, with a creepy figure in the corner)

It was touching to run my fingers on Crusader graffiti--hundreds of years of pilgrims had gone before me.

We also lined up to see the Sepulchre itself (the domain of Greek Orthodox). There were lines to see tombs, kiss holy stones, buy candles. And my goodness does everyone in the world have a digital camera that they use for video, complete with running commentary? It was a little like a holy Disneyland at times. Then again, perhaps it's all in mindset--I wasn't able to find a quiet place inside, the outside cacophony took over.

Still, what does it mean when you can purchase your own crown of thorns?

(Blake near the station where Pilate declared: Behold the Man, or in the language of the day, Ecce Homo. And now two thousand years later, I repeat: Ecce Homo)

These Boots

2010-11-06T07:36:00.000-05:00

My sturdy pair of Timberland boots have brought me everywhere with comfort and a secure grip: from their premier treking through pre-historic Mali in 2001, to the Amazonian rainforest, windswept Easter Island, Monument Valley, and occasionally NYC post-snow slush (but very rarely--they are HIKING boots after all). If those grains of sand embedded in the permanently embedded in the sole could talk.

They would probably scream, Say no to crack!

(Resting on the steps of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre)

Postcard from Israel #3: Jerusalem--The Jewish Quarter

2010-11-06T07:15:00.002-05:00

At the Wailing Wall, no one is allowed to approach unless the head is covered. They had little disposable yamulkes just for this purpose:

You can go up and whisper things to the wall.

And for good measure, write out an intention, roll it up, and insert in one of the cracks.

What I wrote... a secret! But apparently Barack Obama wasn't as fortunate to be anonymous--his little slip of paper found it's way to the front page of a local tabloid. Anyway apparently he had great handwriting, for someone who's left-handed.

After I returned my borrowed yamulke, I asked Blake to take my picture, but I wanted to cover my head all the same.

Sha-sha-shalom.

Postcard from Israel #2: Jerusalem--The Muslim Quarter

2010-11-04T13:35:00.005-05:00

Old Jerusalem is divided in four sections--the Jewish, Muslim, Christian, and, um, Armenian quarters. It's a warren of streets with limited signage, the perfect place to get lost.

The Muslim quarter is the largest, and it felt like the most chaotic too, with clothes kiosks, butchers, tea shops, souveneir stalls, and people everywhere. It was a little bit of a surprise to realize that this is still a working city, despite the throngs of wandering tourists.

Blake took charge of finding our way around, with a badly-created map care of Lonely Planet, and I took charge of second-guessing his directions. After, shouldn't one rely on gut to find the way around a foreign city? I never trust maps, nor directions!

Figuring out where to go, or at least how to get out of the madness. I really don't know why he can't properly read street signs.

Perhaps this is the magic street?

There is a lamp here somewhere that will help us.

Delicious-looking goodies everywhere, but buyer beware. No one wants to run around this maze looking for a bathroom.

Somewhere in between looking for the Al-Aqsa mosque, we discovered that my camera actually had a video function! Of course we couldn't manage to record right-side-up.

No, I didn't add the soundtrack. That came from a loudspeaker attached to a minaret, par for the course in old Jerusalem.

We finally found our way to Temple Mount, and were rewarded by the breath-taking Dome of the Rock. It's Islam's third holiest site after Mecca and Medina--alas non-Muslims are not allowed to enter the mosque, and can only spend a couple of hours in the grounds around it.

(Photo credit: the only other gay couple we saw in Jerusalem that day, they were dressed in tight white jeans and faux-Vuitton shoulder bags. Me: Ben Sherman shirt, too-tight In God We Trust cotton pants, vintage lozange)

Postcard from Israel #1: Borders

2010-11-03T12:59:00.001-05:00

It was good-bye to the Hashemite Kingdon of Jordan, a handful of days was not enough! But Blake's arrival heralded the need to go someplace we both had not been to. So we got in a taxi and made our way an hour west to the border.

There have been very few times when I've crossed a land border-- Thailand to Malaysia, Germany to the Czech Republic (before they were part of the EU), both times on trains. The experience has always been somewhat disconcerting. Perhaps because the border crossing is real, and often for a minute or two one is in a no-man's land. An airport is a scrubbed environment, you arrive and look out the airport window, it is already Seoul or Copenhagen or New York City. With a land border, things unfold more slowly.

First of course there were signs directing us to the King Hussein Bridge leading to Israel, one of the three authorized crossing on a militarized border. At the Jordanian outpost, there was a little confusion of where to go and whom to see and what fees to pay. Endearingly, the Jordanian border officials called us by our first names as they gathered and then distributed back travel documents in the compact immigration outpost/ rest-stop.

Then we found ourselves in a little bus that made its way to the little bridge connecting the two countries over the Dead Sea.

(A TV on the bus was on a noon-time channel, explaining the intricacies of hair styling).

There were eight of us on the bus, silent as we passed metal barricades and barbed wire, holding our passports on our laps. I was tempted to take pictures to document the crossing, but Blake gave me dagger stares.

Israel is a security state, and we entered in an orderly fashion:

Checkpoint 1: Right after a bridge, a short wait at a gate. We were asked to get off the bus, and show our passports to a young lady dressed in fatigues sitting inside a booth. Then back in the bus. Strangely enough there were flies everywhere, and a few boarded with us.
Checkpoint 2: Getting off the bus at a terminal, our passports are checked and larger bags matched to owners, as the bags are sent their own way through a separate screening.
Checkpoint 3: Passports checked before entering the terminal.
Checkpoint 4: Security check, and passports looked at again.
Checkpoint 5: Finally, immigration. There are no lines, but some holding areas for people going through secondary inspection. The ceiling is high, and most officials are in some sort of military uniform holding guns (which don't really bother me, as Manila is rife with them, although our bank security guards prefer primitive shotguns over armalites the size of canoes). A sticker is affixed to each of our passports.

I went first--
Immigration officer (glancing behind me): Are you travelling together?
Me: Yes.
IO: What is your relationship with him?
Me: He's my boyfriend.
IO: Oh your boyfriend. Where are you visiting in Israel?
Me: Jerusalem.
IO: Where else?
Me: Tel Aviv
IO: Where else?
Me: Umm, (looking back) BLAKE, where else are we going?
Blake: (stepping forward) Galilee (then stepped back)
Me: Galilee
IO: Are you planning to visit the Golan Heights?
Me; Huh?

Checkpoint 6: Barcodes on stickers are scanned. Thankfully we pass!
Checkpoint 7: Some sort of line to get into baggage claim, where many other people suddenly appear, as if from some other entrance, lots of crying babies and oblivious children running around.
Checkpoint 8: Customs, and we're in!

OMG, I needed a cigarette!

Even within Israel there is a border of sorts, a wall with parts still under construction, that separates the Palestinian Territories.

(Leaning against the wall, with the Palestinian side strewn with all sorts of graffiti, including a painted-on menu from a border-side Chinese restaurant)

We had to go through the wall in order to visit Bethlehem.

(Blake going through the barred path to the checkpoint that felt like a scene from Locked Up. This time I forgot to bring my passport, but strangely enough a New York State drivers license was enough ID to get through.)

It's quite a complicated situation, I'm sure. We can only hope for the best.

And of course, ensure one is presentable at all times!

(The border crossing travelling costume: Idol Racek blue cotton trousers, Gilbert & James hidden-button-down plaid shirt, vintage checkered lozenge, carring Blake's bag, finally in Jerusalem)

Postcard from Jordan #2

2010-11-02T12:12:00.000-05:00

I took a taxi to Jerash/ Gerasa, an hour outside of sprawling chaotic Amman.

Yes, I had my ticket!

At 8 a.m. the tourist bus hordes had not yet made an appearance, and the Roman ruins dating from 100 A.D., sometimes known as the Pompeii of the east even though no volcanoes were involved, were quiet. There were men weeding the space, with little hammers and hoes, which I felt could only be damaging to the stone. But then again, a few more cracks here and there probably won't make much of a difference at this point.

The main Forum is oval-shaped, unusual for a Roman city.

(Today's travelling costume--pink cashmere of course)

The main street still had grooves from chariots.

(Function over fashion, on the main drag Cardo Maximus. Originally there were 500 columns, of different heights corresponding to the heights of various stores.)

It seems like the borders of the ancient world and the modern world are somewhat fluid, at least in Amman. While spending some quiet "profound time" thinking about generations past and the lives they lived, now forgotten, and superimposed with my own of-the-moment concerns that seem monumental but in the course of history are somewhat irrelevant (phew), my reverie was interrupted.

A car took a short-cut, through the temple of Artemis. Minutes later a taxi came through as well. At least I knew there would always be a way back to the hotel...

Oh, and I'm so glad they are finally finishing these public works construction. It's been a ruin too long. The poor taxpayers have been waiting for hundreds of years.

Hungry after hours traipsing about the ruins, lunch was in an Iraqi restaurant. Amman is a city full of wealthy refugees from the war.

Chicken rice with a curry on the side, potatoes floating in it. Carrots, cucumbers, boiled almonds. Flat bread. A glass of water, as alcohol consumption was frowned on. My guess is that Iraqi cuisine is not going to be the next trend.

Postcard from Jordan #1

2010-11-01T15:28:00.009-05:00

There are some occasions where I think, I've been here before--a sense of de ja vu, an echo of a memory where there really was none to begin with. It could be a block in an unexplored NYC neighborhood, or somewhere across the world. After a 10-hour flight from JFK and then a three-hour cab ride and a five-hour fitfull albeit ambien-enabled sleep, I arrived in a place that I thought would be familiar, but instead was overwhelmingly foreign. And how rare is that in this too-small world where somewhere genuinely surprises.

First, there was a narrow mile-long path through a gorge, here called a siq.

It was chilly at 7 a.m., and between the high walls a few degrees colder. Thank goodness for cashmere, boo for hiking shorts.

The sides were many shades of rose, and at times almost closed up above me. There were niches carved in places, where pilgrims a thousand years ago placed offerings. Occasionally there was a little bit of a breeze, or a pebble falling noisily from above to break the silence.

And finally after what seemed to be forever, around a corner there was a small sandy plaza--Petra.

Yes, Indiana Jones. And no, it didn't look familiar at all. A city before Christ was born, and a city for 500 years, references to the movie faded quickly away to the reality of it. The Nabateans certainly knew how to build for lasting first impressions! The facade is just a facade, inside is a tomb. This was the entry to a sprawling complex built in the middle of the desert, amongst caves and rocky mountains that seemed like the last place anyone would want to live.

It was a little lonely seeing this all by myself, thank goodness for a few friends...

(Little Nabatean kittehs)

And this one fellow who followed me around for a while and kept me company...

(Little Nabatean doggie, took forever to get him to look at the camera--I had more shots of doggie than of ruins)

There were temples and palaces and arenas and even more tombs carved into the sandstone cliffs. There were stairs that led up to mountaintops, and paths through other mile-long siqs. My guidebook recommended three days to discover everything, but after a while I started to get annoyed at why people would chose to live in caves rather than real houses.

(Thank goodness I've figured out how to use my camera's auto-timer, and that there were enough random fallen ancient pillars to perch my little Casio camera on. Here's the main Petra drag, or at least what's left of it after conquests, disappearance of trade routes, and a couple of cataclysmic earthquakes, with more five-story high tomb facades in the distance)

A metal door led to a mysterious room--I decided to skip this one.

(I wonder what was in here? Souvenir shop? Portalet?)

One 800-step (!) stone stairway led straight into the sky. No, being overwhelmed doesn't make me stupid, I paid 16 dinars to ride a donkey up the mountain. As they say in NYC, why walk when you can take a taxi?

(My exploration costume: plaid cotton "burlap" shirt Edward from Odin NYC, Idol Racek shorts, and my trusty Timberland boots)

And on top of the mountain, at the end of the world:

Ma'a salaama!

Fashionista?

2010-10-07T17:18:00.002-05:00

Excuse me, but I'm on Fashionista.

And yes, I have been stopped on the street and photographed before, but usually it's for a esoteric Danish magazine, or gasp, what not to wear!

Here is the text of my profound interview-- the Proust questionnaire it's not!

Name: Ramon

Occupation: Owner of Strip: Ministry of Waxing

What is your current favorite song? It’s not current, but “La Vie En Rose.” I rock to it on the subway all the time.

What are the most prominent colors in your wardrobe? Primary colors. Red, blue, anything primary that catches my eye.

How would you describe your style? Monaco tax refugee meets Filipino Preppy

What is your favorite dessert? Chocolate pound cake

These Boots...

2010-10-06T17:10:00.001-05:00

... are killing me!

I bought a pair of boots at Bess on Lafayette. They are reclaimed army boots that Bess has placed aggressive studs on. Who is meek and mild now?

They were too small but the sales lady said they would stretch half an inch. Not sure why I believed that steel-toed army boots would stretch, but well desire is a strange thing. And so after wearing them just twice, my !TMI ALERT! big toe nails are dead and will fall off in a few weeks!

Oh, and Barney's sells them too now. Bess clothing is all about bondage and leather, punk and chainmail. It's a nice little alternative to preppie.

Fall Uniform

2010-09-25T20:48:00.003-05:00

My look for Fall involves plaid shirts and little silk scarves worn tight around the neck and under the collar, like a cravat.

I'm discovering new designers care of Opening Ceremony and Odin: LadMusician (a Japanese brand that fits absolutely perfectly--the most gorgeous black suit that feels like it's poured on), Edward (plaid shirt), Gilbert & Lewis (plaid shirt and deconstructed tweed blazer), and finally purchased something by Rag & Bone (a pair of blue skinny curdoroy pants).

And 12 vintage silk scarves and pocket squares.

While walking in Chinatown I saw a car cozy:

And a bicycle too, chained to a street sign:

Filipino Food Trips

2010-09-24T20:21:00.000-05:00

My Brooklyn apartment is not made for entertaining. The ceilings are too low, the floors too creaky, the kitchen too close to just about everything. It is made for coccooning, piles of books and folded clothes and current-month magazines, reading in bed and watching old movies, mud masks and collagen eye packs and moisturizing. It's a nest.

So it is a rare occurrence when the doors open to let people in, and of course any visit by Arturo is equivalent to laissez-faire pass.

(Dave, Imara, and Arturo, with Ana behind me smoking a cigarette)

I cooked Filipino food, two types of adobo-- chicken adobo in coconut milk, and beef short ribs adobo. Also a salad of heirloom tomatoes in vinegar and fish sauce, tossed with red onions and cilantro. And of course the ever-present white rice, omnipresent in every Filipino meal.

I was hoping to eat the left-overs for days after, as adobo gets better the morning after and then some, with the key soy sauce and vinegar ingredients acting as preservatives. But somehow we were hungry! That's what happens when one laughs too much, I suspect.

And then there was dinner at Nuela with real Filipinos! A Latino restaurant, it nevertheless tickled familiar tastebuds.

(Lindy C. behind the lechon we ordered. We didn't want to eat the head, thinking it might just be decorative, although a favorite Filipino dish Sisig is comprised of pig head/ cheeks chopped up and served on a sizzling plate with onions and spices, yum!)

What's Next

2010-09-12T21:18:00.004-05:00

And here's the list for the next 12 months:

1. Israel and Jordan
2. Sri Lanka
3. Indonesia
4. Mozambique
5. Southern India

How many will we actually visit? Forget about Eat, Pray, Love, this is all about Drink, Smoke, Shop. Then again, since I barely drink anymore and don't smoke and have no $$$ for shopping, it is... Eat, eat, eat?

Speaking about Shop, shop, shop, NYC is in the horrible clutches of Fashion Week.

(The front of the Chanel boutique on Wooster street in SoHo, awaiting Karl Lagerfeld's arrival)

Fashion Night Out on Friday was madness, a cross between New Year's Eve and Gay Pride Day. Next year it will be completely unbearable.

Thank goodness for Brunch, Chat, Giggle. The day after I met up at Bar Pitti with a real-life fashionista/ socialista/ conversationista Wendy P.

(Wendy betwen bites of an amazing pasta with truffles, while I Ate, Slurped, Devoured my own pasta with Godzilla-sized chunks of lobster)

We did a Walk, Prance, Stroll towards the Christian Louboutin boutique, then Alexander McQueen, Yigal Azrouel, Jeffrey for more Touch, Drool, Dream (at least on my part!).

Truly The Last Day Of Summer

2010-09-06T19:19:00.004-05:00

While Blake was on his 14-hour flight to Dubai (and from thence to Kabul), in business class of course and probably in a happy Ambien haze, I committed to spending time outdoors for the last day of summer.

Puss brought lunch, in a wicker hamper naturally. Prosciutto, salami, olives, pistachios, cracked pepper crackers, German potato salad, pasta salad, couscous salad, four kinds of cheese, gold fish crackers, a bottle of wine... I can't believe he forgot the eclairs!

The Sheep's Meadow is my favorite picnic place. I like to be reminded that I'm still in NYC, even with blades of grass between toes.

And finally we walked to the pier on 70th street--one more place I never had the chance to explore.

(Shirt Troglodyte Humunculus, shorts cinched at back Garments Engineered, red plastic Jesus sandals Havaianas)

Goodbye Summer, and tomorrow, hello Fall!

And Blake Is Off!

2010-09-05T19:46:00.005-05:00

While some of us are busy setting up salons for the beautification of New Yorkers, others are off to war zones to save the world. Today Blake leaves for a one-year assignment in... Kabul!

I took the map from Lonely Planet, although it's not exactly the tourist destination of 2010. In fact, he is barely going to leave the US embassy compound, and must live in a "trailer", or really a large container configured to house human beings, two to a container! They can be seen in this satellite image.

View Larger Map

Needless to say options for dining (embassy cafeteria), entertainment (one onsite bar and internet access), or even downtime (they will work six days a week, or more since really there is nothing much to do there except work) are sparse. Well, it is not Embassy Paris, or Embassy Manila for that matter.

And no, he did not pack his burqa! Apparently suits are de reguir, even in failed states.

What is the mission? Working in the political section to observe, analyze, uncover, and report back on Afghanistan's relations with it's neighbors, which include Iran and Pakistan. Thank goodness he is calm and collected by nature. I can do all the panicking and hysteria for both of us!

On his last weekend before a year of deprivation, the nearest and dearest (and others) gathered for cocktails at the Hotel Felix in DC, on what might have been the last humid night of the summer.

(Blake cooling off indoors, bathed in strange lighting)

Then the next day we had our first and last barbecue of the season! Sy and Yael B-D hosted the end of summer with steaks, corn on the cob, pasta salad, and beer--how better to remember America!

Bon voyage Blakey! I'm so proud of you, and miss you already! Please buy me a carpet when you get the chance.

Whither Summer

2010-08-29T20:47:00.004-05:00

Summer just didn't exist for me this year! Magazines are now heralding the last days of summer and fall fashions, and I didn't even have time to blink before it all disappeared.

Although this weekend I made an effort to experience the outdoors.

First I attempted to bring the outdoors in. Diptych has turned into a complete obsession for me, and like most obsessions there is no justification. I'm certainly in no position to be purchasing sixty-five dollar scented candles! At Space NK they had a scent I had not seen before: Mousses, or as the sales lady translated for me, Moss.

It smells fab, like the nestling in the cool under a tree on a sunny day.

And this afternoon I (finally) went to the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens. It was a very sunny day and I wanted to find a tree I could nestle underneath.

There was a kind of water lily that had square leaves, somewhat bizarre and goldfish certainly enjoyed nibbling on it (perhaps the leaves weren't square, just the goldfish like to nibble them into a square shape).

Then finally Prospect Park with thousands of other people to commemorate Michael Jackson's 52nd birthday. A stage was set up and one MJ song after another was played on a loud speaker. Everyone sat around and just, well, primarily sat around.

(Me and baby Mika H., shaking our shoulders to PYT and Billie Jean)

It reminded me of the week after MJ died, where it was Michael Jackson songs all day, every day. I even bought a Michael Jackson t-shirt, I even wore it. And then Thriller and even Billie Jean became unbearable, a year was enough time to get over it.

Anxiety Reducers

2010-08-27T20:58:00.005-05:00

Perhaps I'm just wired to be prone to anxiety-attacks. There always seems to be something that jolts me awake at three a.m., heart palpitations and all, sometimes practical (has my Saks gift card already expired?), sometimes existential (what does infinity mean?), sometimes just silly (what if I wake up tomorrow with a third eye in the middle of my forehead).

Lately I've been obsessing about current events:
1. The botched hijacking of a tourist bus in Manila that left nine dead and tourism in shambles (Why are we so enamoured of grissly spectacle, tacky hysteria, then defensive over-analysis?)
2. The botched final answer of Miss Philippines during the Miss Universe pageant, cringe-inducing which led to a fourth-runner up finish when she had a shot at the crown (Why are we so eager to please, that enthusiasm becomes an acceptable substitute for content?)
3. But more than anything else, the drama of the 33 Chilean miners!

I spend hours imagining myself in their situation, trapped in a hot underground bunker with little light for the next four months. It is a dark fantasy that involves all my phobias: fear of small enclosed spaces, fear of being in tight quarters with strangers, fear of not being able to brush my teeth, fear of being underground, immobilization, constriction, isolation.

So I was so pleased when my friend Amy, visiting from Chicago, invited me to dinner at Park Avenue Summer. There is nothing like a trip uptown, to the beautiful pre-war assemblage of the Upper East Side, to lift a pall of gloom and replace it with more prosaic and common mere envy.

The concept is ridiculously involved. The restaurant changes with the seasons--not just the menu, but the entire restaurant: color scheme, flower treatments, artwork, place settings, uniforms--it is like four separate restaurants in one space, one after the other. Of course last night it was still Park Avenue Summer, in a week they will transition to Park Avenue Autumn. The space is stunning and impeccably lit. I was lit too, after a couple of martinis infused with rhubarb and lime, then a bottle of Chablis (shared of course). I had hamachi tartare then halibut with medallions of truffles shaved atop.

Life, as we know it, is too short.

Eat and Regret

2010-08-26T21:25:00.000-05:00

Why did I buy this? I don't even particularly like strawberry ice cream.

I think I was enamoured of the five ingredients. But then why did I also buy two eclairs and two pot au cremes at Ceci Cela?

And then I ate this:

Burgers, fries, onion rings. They were absolutely delicious, but then later my body didn't agree.

Fugu And Other Surprises

2010-08-08T21:52:00.003-05:00

When I saw it on the menu I absolutely had to try it: the infamous fugu, deadly fish of Japan, which prepared the wrong way leads to certain and painful death. Apparently there are fugu masters who have learned the art of cleaning the fish, ensuring that none of the deadly liver gets into the other edible parts. Fugu afficionadoes, it is said, savor the tingling in their extremities as hints of the poison left behind make their harmless way through their bloodstream.

It wasn't much to look at, though:

(Fugu on the right, with fried eel spines on the left)

It didn't taste like much either, just regular fried fish, a little gelly-ish on the inside. I did feel a little dryness in my throat however, but that was cured with three earthen flasks of delicious sake.

We were at Sushi Yasuda on 43rd street near the UN, a restaurant Blake has been obsessing about ever since a retiring NY Times food writer said it was his favorite place to go for sushi.

And so we had sushi and sashimi, and admittedly it was quite good.

When we got there for an 8 p.m. reservation, a quarter of the sushi/ sashimi choices were already crossed out. I guess they don't stock up much, there were only about ten tables and a buttery wood sushi bar with chefs like army sergeants lined up behind it. Our waitress looked like Hello Kitty and talked in a lispy whisper.

The menu was full of instructions: don't dip in soy sauce, don't mix wasabi in soy sauce, in fact, don't even touch the soy sauce. It also told us to eat the sushi and sashimi with our fingers. Yuck, I don't touch raw fish with my bare hands, excuse me!

(In front of Sushi Yasuda, dressed conservatively in Calvin Klein, Idol Racek, and Ferragamo, inspired yet again to take up ikebana classes)

This morning, on a slightly more reasonalbe budget, we headed to the Cuban restaurant around the corner where Blake did something that truly shocked me. The person who has vowed never to eat fruit, reached into this bowl of fried plantains...

And ate one!

My eyes were like saucers. The last time Blake ate a piece of fruit was when he was nine years old and his sister dared him to eat a piece of melon. He ate it, and his entire family stood up and screamed.

We're Open!

2010-08-05T19:08:00.004-05:00

My goodness, we're open! Five and a half months after I left the corporate world--sometimes it feels like I blinked, sometimes it feels like I've been at this forever--the doors opened.

It was a strange moment to look at the door and wonder, Is anyone actually coming in? I planned to make myself the first customer, booking an arm waxing on an empty appointment book. Then one of my front desk staff said, We have no paper towels! I ran outside to buy some, walked back in, and... someone was having his brows threaded. So much for being guest number #1, still it was a thrill to see a real live customer!

(Still in a state of shock and exhaustion, five days later, dressed in a Little House on the Prairie-inspired outfit; photo credit: Arielle B.)

I'm not running around 12 hours a day anymore, I'm not breathing in construction fumes anymore, I'm not working alone till the early hours on a laptop at my dining room table anymore. On Monday morning July 19 one roller coaster ended and another one began...

Oh and we got some press too!

On Style.com: Downtown's Best Asian Import Since Uniqlo

On Daily Candy: De-fuzz In A Hot New York Minute

And today in Time Out New York: New Stores

It's just the beginning, what an adventure it has been, and now can I please have a good night's rest?

Construction Zone

2010-06-22T21:45:00.004-05:00

To mask the hive of activity, I put up posters on the windows of my store:

It feels fabulous to see people pause in front of the advertising, smile or laugh, comment or even take a picture.

And inside, construction is going full swing! I've begun to learn the technical language of architects, contractors, electricians, audio engineers, security specialists, and the dozen other vendors that need to touch the space (and bumbling 50% of it, but with confidence and elan!). And of course it's a literal babel in there too, at least today--Chinese construction workers, Russian security technicians, Jewish IT engineers, and oh, the hot college kids from New Jersey installing sound systems for the summer!

The past few months I've been living an Avatar-like existence: running around the city during the day, then at my "desk" in the evenings during Singapore working hours. Well, who said being an entrepreneur was going to be easy? Now I know what the phrase Blood from a stone, truly means!

Stacked versus Simple

2010-06-19T20:26:00.000-05:00

I've been resisting the banh mi sandwich craze for some time now, but Blake insisted in visiting a little hole in the wall in Murray Hill.

Here is what the banh mi theoretically contains:

And here is what it looks like in real life:

When I was in Vietnam ten years ago I certainly don't remember such over-filled sandwiches. In fact, everyone there was stick-thin. Since when did their cuisine become inspired by Subway?

The version I ordered had chili sauce in it, and I have to admit it was quite good. I only was able to finish half of that monster, but the other half made for a delicious lunch the day after.

I'm not typically a fan of Dagwood-type concoctions. I prefer things simple, the fewer ingredients the better. Case in point:

Vodka + vermouth + olives on a plastic straw. And of course who better than David L. (legs shown) to share it with, at the Viceroy on 8th avenue, on a lazy Saturday afternoon.

Babies Down Fifth Avenue

2010-06-14T17:54:00.001-05:00

After brunch at Schiller's (where strangely I was the only one with a Bloody Mary), we discovered that all the cool people were wearing blue!

(Yvette S., Wendy P., and me on the corner of Rivington and Norfolk, photo credit Blake)

Yvette and Wendy are fabulous cousins who have chosen divergent paths, Yvette as a corporate lawyer and Wendy as a designer (her line of bathing suits must absolutely be introduced to NYC soon!). We decided to spend the afternoon at that union of commerce and creativity: Bergdorf Goodman. The shoe section was on sale (if pairs of shoes discounted to $1,200 can be counted as a sale), and Wendy remarked, I want to move here! I wasn't sure if she meant NYC or the shoe section of Bergdorf's.

I paid a quick visit to the Goyard boutique, my old stomping grounds but now generally off-limits since it is difficult to justify four-figure purchases when one has No Income. At Barney's, Wendy lingered amongst the Valextra bags. Perhaps when I graduate from logo-encrusted vulgarity I can enter the even more rarefied world of understated Valextra.

Oh, Blake was with us too. While the adults imbibed at the Bergdorf Men's store bar, he took baby Chloe on a tour of Rick Owens, Paul Smith, and the best of Italian designers.

(Blake and baby Chloe)

We are adding baby Chloe to our collection of "pretend" babies! I even took the big step of pushing a stroller down Fifth Avenue, the stroller was an accessory and it was a weapon. Everyone move back, there is nothing more high-maintenance than a gay with a stroller!

Yum Yum

2010-06-03T17:19:00.003-05:00

Over dinner at Bond St Sushi last Friday, my friend Bernard Z. introduced me to a horrible little iPhone app. As VP of cosmetics for L'Oreal Paris, his day job is to make people look beautiful, so it was with particular irony that his latest delight centered around... Fat Booth.

A face-on picture, a little adjustment, and then a "yummy, yummy" message as the evil application does its job, and... voila:

(This is actually taken in Blake's bathroom. No, I did not wear a ratty green shirt to dinner at Bond St Sushi, but I did immediately purchase the app the morning after)

Sandy A. who was at dinner with us that night (skinny as a reed in a Lanvin blouse with a sequined snake running down one shoulder, and test-driving her new Chanel purse), wanted a Fat Booth picture of herself too, so she can stick to a diet of sugarless gum.

Rebel Yell

2010-06-02T19:37:00.005-05:00

Kids love trains, so it made sense for us to take Metro North up to Stamford to spend the evening with one of Blake's favorite cronies, Michelle and her kids, while her hubby was at a Dave Matthews concert.

He was still groggy even though it was late in the afternoon. That's what happens when you are chatting online and visiting god know what sites until god knows what time while I was in a deep, deep Advil PM sleep.

I, on the other hand, had sufficient time to assemble a travelling costume.

(In the middle of Grand Central Station on Memorial Day Weekend. Shirt Comme de Garcons, white pants American Apparel, brown leather pedal-pushers Prada, straw hat Prince Street)

After a quiet train ride through the wilds of Connecticut and suffering the cab driver who still thought he was in Port-au-Prince (as Blake closed his eyes and pretended he wasn't in a taxi), we looked forward to a relaxing evening with Michelle M. who thoroughly believes in the parenting principle that kids should be seen and not heard.

Well, I wanted to say something too!

(Thomas and me making our views clearly heard, amid the din of popping wine corks)

I forget how much kids have to say, and how much they want to say it. And to them, is every conversation equally important or unimportant? One has to be careful with small talk, however, as I think sometimes they take things literally and seriously (e.g. Thomas why don't you spray Blake with your water gun? Hee hee)

Someone was knocked out on the ride back home.

And it's a lonely train car after 1 a.m., still one must continue to try to keep up appearances.

I felt I was in The Ice Storm as nothing seems to have changed on Metro North since the 70's of cinema.

Short Shorts

2010-05-23T20:56:00.004-05:00

My legs are unpresentable, but behold them anyway.

On Orchard Street on Saturday, with Landon E. and Dipal S., visiting from DC.

(Shirt Dries Van Noten, shorts Idol Racek, too-cute white shoeses Vans; photo credit: Blake)

After lunch at our favorite Congee Village ($15 buys food enough to feed a village), we stopped for gelato on Orchard and Delancy. What is more twee, gelato or cupcakes? My gelato was chocolate with Thai chili. It tasted like chocolate, the Thai chili was a burning sensation on the tongue five seconds after each spoonful--strangely delicious.

And then later in the day a party in Brooklyn to celebrate a friend's graduation.

(Shirt Ann Demeleumeester, and yes, there are strips of cloth hanging out from the cut-off sleeve. One of the strips is beaded with the message, Eyes Closed Tight. Whatever that means, and I haven't figured out how to wear the shirt properly either. Photo credit: Mali L.)

I feel that my knee is too big and protrudes too much. There really is nothing to be done about it. Then again, isn't protrusion part of the essence of the knee? Alas the season where Nothing Can Hide is right around the corner.

A transformer on Spring and Sullivan had a familiar name in graffiti:

Summer is almost here. Tomorrow it will be ninety degrees, and I don't yet have an A/C.

2:27 a.m.

2010-05-20T02:27:00.002-05:00

Jetlagging and awake at 2:27 a.m., I wonder is it still evening so that means a glass of wine, or morning so bacon and eggs?

Home Again

2010-05-18T18:06:00.003-05:00

On American Airlines from Asia to the US, that Guantanamo on wings, there are precious few luxuries in economy class. Even the little glass of wine I was looking forward to was absent-- $7 a glass, credit cards only, and with my card in a wallet in a pouch in a zippered pocket in a bag in an overhead, it was a sign that I should do without.

I had a little kit of items I could not do without:

Toothbrush and toothpaste, Visine drops, Kiehl's lip balm, Kiehl's coriander hand moisturizer, Kiehl's facial fuel, mints, and aspirin and sleeping pills. Somehow the three ounces in a plastic sandwhich bag disappeared and no one told me, a large atomizer of purified water could have helped too.

For added comfort:

A neck pillow and my favorite eye mask.

My friend Christine A. recommends the SK II facial treatment mask for long-haul flights.

But then you look like a terrorist or a serial killer, at least in economy. A dose of Ambien suits me just fine.

More Singapore Food

2010-05-11T07:43:00.000-05:00

Yes it is true that I'm here for work. But I'm also trying to engage in non-stop eating.

Noodles with chili sauce, soup with fish balls and various fish parts and pork, in plastic bowls at a hawker stall.

Chili crab at Longboard, a lunch extravaganza.

Ramen, for breakfast.

White pepper crab.

Shu mai at Din Tai Fung.

Nails and Skin

2010-05-07T08:26:00.003-05:00

While I am busy busy busy, someone is living a life of leisure.

At the Strip branch in Paragon, Blake has a pedicure after a 90-minute deep tissue massage.

The fabulous founder and managing director Cynthia C. concocted a shower gel just for Blake from a selection of essential oils. I said he needed something that would liven him up, so she put in lime and basil essences. It smells delicious. I am holding on to it for the meantime. She also classified his skin type as Happy. It's not the first thing that comes to mind when I think of Blake, but then it would be inappropriate to put Grumpy on a shower gel label.

(She also mixed a shower gel for me--my skin type is "Successful"! Key oils in mine are frankinscence, patchouli, and palmarosa. It smells yummy.)

The Tippling Club

2010-05-06T09:55:00.005-05:00

I've always been suspicious of overly-thought-out cuisine, or even, horrors, the molecular cuisine "movement". I have foodie backlash, and prefer simple perfectly-cooked dishes (restaurants, however, are welcome to be over-designed and over-wrought). So it was with trepidation that I joined my new friends and business partners at dinner in the Tippling Club, which was connected to their beauty and entertainment complex called House.

The restaurant concept is one big chef's table, with seats arranged around a staging area where intricate preparations and plating are on view. And the best part is that cocktails are given equal weight of attention as the food. We selected a five-course menu with cocktail pairings, which really was ten sets of dishes and drinks. Certainly not for the faint of heart or liver!

This dish had some sort of pepper that needed to be dipped in a mayonnaise-type sauce made to look like an egg yolk. Not sure why I had to use tweezers to do this, but there was the pair of tweezers on the granite slab. The shot glass on the upper right had onion rings that I was supposed to put in my mouth and then simultaneously sip (something) from the curled straw that looks like an earthworm. The silver mint julep glass on the upper left had water frozen it in, and resting on the ice were three grapes soaked in absinthe.

I don't remember what was in this drink, but the glass was only filled half-way. But the essence of something was captured in a decanter and the essence was periodically poured in the top half of the glass (see: smoke), so I could get a fresh whiff with each sip.

And this was one of my favorite courses: it is foie gras underneath that curled biscuit, with apples three ways: fresh, freeze dried, nitrogened. I liked the empty space, it made it seem as if we weren't eating a lot even though it was like having a firehose of calories straight into the mouth. This went with a drink called the MB Apple Pie-- calvados, vermouth, cinnamon, liquers, citrus--served in what looked like a tetra pack. It tasted like apple pie, but liquid!

And an amazing pigeon.

Note my accumulation of drinks all in one row. The tall bottle was stoppered with a piece of wood. When the stopper was taken out, it smelled like a cigar inside. And the drink was a delicious whiskey. To its left is a mojito. And to the left of that is a drink made with coffee and rum. The cup in front of the row contains sake and champagne. And of course the glass of red wine.

Did I mention that each of the courses came with a cocktail? Thank goodness for the endurance training that came with countless happy hours over the years. The three hours we spent tippling was an Olympic endeavor.

And after dinner, happy.

(Dennis S., moi in navy, baby blue, and powder pink; KB C., Blake, Joel C., and Cynthia C.)

Oh, and I think photos of food were verboten. Thankfully everyone in Singapore always has a cellphone out, so it looked like I was checking messages when in fact I was taking surreptitious pictures. But I didn't know!

Hawker Center Gluttony

2010-05-04T05:19:00.000-05:00

In humid, steamy Singapore, I lost my sleeves. But I didn't want to go too casual, so kept the tie.

(Red plaid tie on blue plaid shirt, channeling Little House on the Prairie, with tan trousers and Weejuns)

We went to dinner at a "hawker center", an outdoor plaza surrounded by food stalls where you can order specialties like Hainanese chicken rice or chili fish or satay, served on styrofoam plates. During the day the heat is unbearable, but late in the evening (dinner at 10:30), the temperature drops to 90 degrees. Perfect with a cold Tiger beer.

Helpfully, each picnic table gets a picture menu.

(Blake is confronted with a limited selection, his judgement dimmed by miasma)

Dave S. and Jerry d.S. guided us through all the offerings. They made some very good choices--one of each! We just grabbed chopsticks and eagerly attacked. Each stall is rated on cleanliness, from A to D, and of course the ones with the most tasty food were also those of questionable hygiene. Still, who needs to know which dish came from where?

(Dave designs trendy jewelry, and his work is found in Takashimaya. While Jerry designs stores and advertising campaigns and product lines, and well, everything!)

Singapore is super-clean, but Jerry brought a silver platter wrapped in plastic to hold his pristine Prada valise anyway.

Note to self: this is a great idea for filthy NYC sidewalks.

Good Morning Singapore!

2010-05-02T19:35:00.004-05:00

The skyline is full of skyscrapers and everything is new, or looks new, or sometimes, is new and made to look old. But outside of the downtown area, everything is nicely spaced apart with lots of greenery, including a pristine rain forest in the middle of the city-state.

I could not stop staring at this building:

It is a casino from the same owner as the Las Vegas Sands. What a lovely cuckoo design, as if a very high tide deposited a slim ocean liner atop three glass towers.

In the evening I went for a fabulous omakase dinner with my business partner.

(Squid sushi, and a chilled glass of sake)

We then went to his sleek modern sprawling house, a rarity in a city where 99% of people live in high-rises. I admired his wife's collection of a hundred shoes, a hundred bags, a hundred pairs of earrings, a hundred vintage watches, and...

A hundred bottles of nail polish!

Arrived Alive

2010-05-01T10:08:00.005-05:00

Even though I never lived through them, I grow nostalgic for the days when airline travel was a classy affair--a sliver clipper making its way stop-by-stop across the Pacific, a journey in style of several days. Instead I had to suffer through CX 841, or what should be called CX 666. Squeezed into a seat in roach class, I was two chairs away from the aisle and crammed against a window. The seat in the refurbished plane did not recline, no, the seat slid forward, so an incline meant less legroom.

Oh, and there was no space for my monogrammed Goyard Boeing under the seat in front of me either. Poor little bag, you were meant for better times. But then again, when I peeked into business class, they were packed in like sardines too. From nose to tail, dignity knows no home in the skies.

Typically a couple of doses of Ambien takes me to good places, where every class is First Class. But for some reason my insurer did not update my coverage profile, and needed 24 to 48 "business hours" to get it done (and yes, I called them out on "business hours", who are they fooling? Yes, it is 3 - 6 days), and I was left at the Duane Reade clutching an unfilled prescription, with my other bottle with Blake somewhere between HK and Kuala Lumpur.

So, after a tepid glass of wine, I popped two Unisom PMs. And then a couple of hours later, another. The limit is supposed to be 10 per day, and I seriously considered just going up to six, but then my arms started to feel tight and my legs tensed up. Was I taking an over-the-counter sleeping aid or a paralysis drug? Who knew. But I was awake, and my vision was blurry, unable to read Vanity Fair, unable to watch Nine. I felt like I was channelling Helen Keller.

Well, SIXTEEN hours later, I finally stepped off the plane groggy, disoriented, mute, and sorely tested.

And promptly got on another flight, for five hours, and arrived on the other side of the world.

This little boutique hotel is cute enough, and deserves more exploration tomorrow. There is a pool here somewhere. But the room does not have enough hangers:

And I almost ran out of counter space in the sleek bathroom:

I absolutely must travel with just the essentials. And even then I forgot to bring my whipped Aveda body cream that smells scrumptious, and a Le Labo scented candle.

Rain And Notoriety

2010-04-28T22:27:00.003-05:00

Since the last few Spring days have been incessantly rainy, I decided to hit the streets dressed as Eponine from Les Miserables.

(On Greene Street in Label raincoat. Photo credit: Blake)

A good raincoat is hard to find. This one fit me perfectly, with the perceived strength that comes from belts and bands in various places. And as an added bonus, it's actually water resistant! It was worth temporarily suspending my belt-tightening license. I can't stand carrying around an umbrella. Now I just need a small dark brimmed hat to transition into 40's film noir fantasies.

And I've been listening incessantly to Here Lies Love, an album by David Byrne and Fatboy Slim, featuring Cyndi Lauper, Tori Amos, Martha Wainwright, and other cult personalities). Strangely enough, it is a "concept album" about the life of Imelda and her little-known (real?) yaya Estrella Cumpas. It's groovy, and oh so odd.

I'm still amazed at how Imelda continues to be a source of fascination for many, and a source of inspiration too for projects like an obscure song cycle. Well, a combination of beauty, power, and shoes is lethal and lasting.

Yes, We're Coming Soon!

2010-04-21T21:37:00.006-05:00

Oh my goodness, it's a mile a minute and if not for an ambien every now and then, I'll forget to sleep!

And here is what's in store for the future:

www.strip-usa.com

www.browhaus.com

I'm exhausted, tired, pooped, droopy-eyed... and still three months to go. At least I can look forward to being twiggy-thin, slim as a reed, since that's what happens when all you eat is sugar-free gum.

Public Art

2010-04-12T21:12:00.004-05:00

My friend Alex, who lives in Hong Kong and writes for the Globe and Mail, Asian Wall Street Journal, and even the NYTimes, is in town for a week. She writes a lot of arts and business stories, often combining both, and had a full schedule of gallery and studio visits and meetings. But of course there was time to spend a Sunday afternoon with an "old" friend.

We've known each other for quite some time, since we were both in college back in 2004 (this is typically where the fact-checker comes in, I really can't do everything). Alex was the Managing Editor of our weekly newspaper, The Guidon, and I was the Features Editor. I had a column that I think was titled Burning Bridges, or something trite like that, where I wrote about... I don't remember. Probably some trying-hard pseudo-witty drivel, but cute and fun. And I had my staff write articles like an expose on gays in our school (quite controversial for it's day, especially in a Jesuit university), bar-hopping and interviewing prostitutes in Olongapo City, aetheists, etc.

And then while joined the masses in the corporate world, Alex became a real journalist, and a good one! We breezed through the last five years since we last saw each other, over lunch at Mesa Grill. Then we walked to Madison Square Park to see the Antony Gormley installation called Event Horizon.

(Alex S. perusing one of the street level sculptures)

There are 31 of the casts of his naked body, complete with the dangling pee-pee, in unexpected, unmarked areas around the park, a few at street level, most literally on tops of buildings. It was creepy, and fun to find them, like an Easter Egg hunt, except with 6'2 casts of his body.

(Me holding the hand of Antony Gormley's cast)

Well, my art critic friend was not impressed, so we decided to lay claim to a park bench and go back to catching up.

Find the Gormleys on these buildings:

It's like they're watching us, but not really because they don't have eyes.

My old neighborhood, previously unnamed, is now being called NoMad, or North of Madison Park (what happened to the P?). Whatever! Too cutesy, but not as cutesy as DUMBO (Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass), which is also my favorite New York neighborhood acronym.

S/S Wardrobe Build-Up

2010-04-10T08:05:00.004-05:00

OK, OK, so I did tell myself that this year would be all about fiscal contraint and that there was more than enough in my wardrobe to last me until the end of the world in 2012. But fashion is a funny thing, suddenly what was cute in 2009 is now dated for 2010. I don't want to walk around NYC looking, gasp, dated, like those containers of Fage yoghurt sitting in my fridge. Besides, who can resist perfectly fitting trousers, and yet another jacket that's like a second skin, with high armholes and a clean, clean line.

While browsing at Inventory on Lafayette street I discovered a designer whose stuff fits absolutely perfectly (well actually too perfectly, the waistline has no room for error, a 28 is a 28 is a 28. Fabulous gym motivation. Dry clean only lest they shrink a micro-inch).

So here are my Idol Radec purchases, together with a Cheap Monday jacket:

The material is cotton, cut very slim, and giving me a little bit of the ass I never had. From the website: "Idol Radec’s Spring/Summer 2010 collection is a reflection of the ‘60’s & ‘70’s beach town era. Inspired by the film Jaws and the casual looks fashioned by the nuances of lousy laundry." Yes, that's exactly the look I'm going for!

I had the temerity to ask the cute shopgirl slash model for a discount. She pointed out that they were already almost 50% off, so that immediately justified the purchase. $106 for a pair of shorts, down from $195, is a sign that we must all grab, grab, grab before someone else does!

Next on the list: very slim short sleeve shirts in cotton with tiny collars to be worn with skinny neckties (is the skinny tie look over actually?) in white and baby blue and maybe one in a red check pattern, white canvass shoes (trousers rolled up to show a little bit of ankle), bright pink and turquoise pocket squares.

And Finally Spring

2010-04-08T21:18:00.002-05:00

The tree in front of my apartment is abloom. Thankfully, now people in apartments across the street can't see straight into my curtain-less apartment, so they are spared my walking around and eating and occasional yoga stretches and sitting on the sofa reading a magazine, all terribly exciting things voyeurs live to see.

(Picture of the tree from my living room window. There is a plastic bag permanently lodged in one of the branches. Since plastic bags don't degrade or disintegrate, I can look forward to having it for company for the foreseeable future.)

My windows are now open. After so long living on higher floors, I forgot that on the second floor an open window can be an invitation for creatures to come in. Now I have several roommates... flies! I sprayed everything with Fabreze hoping they hate the scent as much as I do.

(The tree sheds its flower petals, that are the same shape and size as those pieces of paper that come out of three-ring binder holes.)

Backstage at the White House

2010-04-07T20:51:00.001-05:00

A few weeks ago, we were invited by our friend Sy D. to take a peek behind the curtain at the most famous house of the world. Alas, cameras were not allowed inside, even the teeny-tiny one that I tried to hide in my, um, pants. But we were allowed a few clicks outside:

(Right by the side "maids" entrance, wearing a Republican-color scarf, I just didn't have anything in blue cashmere and I was in a cashmere mood. Photo credit: Yael B.)

My favorite room? Well, the Oval Office of course, despite the lumpy overstuffed sofas more apt for a hotel reception area. It looks just like it does on TV, but even more oval. We also peeked into the Rose Garden, where POTUS reportedly sneaks in the occasional controversial cigarette.

We were also allowed to take pictures in the Briefing Room. The seats had little plaques for the different authorized networks. Blake had the front row seat, but I had the question!

Q: "Excuse me, but why is my cable company now charging me $120 for cable and high-speed wireless? Don't you think that's excessive? (I just got my bill yesterday)."
Q: "Do I look fat?"
Q: "Where's the best place to find good but affordable Italian food in DC?"

(An entrance to the West Wing, with the presidential seal as mistletoe, much to you-know-who's chagrin)

It's nice to have friends in high places, it's a welcome change to my usual entourage of creatures of the night.

(Our host and guide Sy, this time in the forbidden residence, partying with POTUS after the House passed the health care bill.)

Perhaps I should add to my list of things to do in this life: get invited to the White House for an event where I get to enter through the front door, past a phalanx of photographers, and dance the swing with FLOTUS. So much to plan ahead: black tie or national costume? Smile at camera or affect gravitas? Chicken or fish?

Easter Egg

2010-04-05T16:06:00.001-05:00

As Blake was getting dressed to go to Easter services, I decided that I didn't want to stay home on a beautiful Sunday morning watching Hulu. I was also interested to see what the church had to say about the recent pedophilia scandals hitting the Vatican: would the Catholic hierarchy take advantage of high attendance to communicate directly with their flock? What would they say and how? So I threw on what was nearest and went with him to... a Lutheran service.

Well, no one reminded me that the Lutherans were not associated with the Catholics! So instead of pomp and circumstance, embroidered robes and incense, a potentially explosive message, I found myself in an all-inclusive understated love-fest. The Lutherans are not particularly known for bringing down the house, although I did hold my breath when the choir put on black gloves to play melodic hymns with a set of brass bells.

There was no high drama at Adam and Mark's for lunch, either, as we all grew tranquilized with mimosas, french toast, and bacon.

And this is what happens when one gets dressed in five minutes!

(Tan jacket Muji, green pants Uniqlo, red suede shoes Church's, and a plate of left-overs to eat while watching V episodes on Hulu late into the night)

That evening Blake and I watched Henry V at the Shakespeare Theater Company. It was a lively production in a stunning theater, and we were seated in the front row at stage left, exposed by stage lights, my odd little outfit on display for the rest of the theater to see.

My favorite line from the play: "Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin As self-neglecting."
And my least favorite line: "Men of few words are the best men."

(Mark dyed Easter eggs too! They are hard-boiled and edible, but looked so cute as table decoration that no one touched them)

Feast During Famine

2010-03-24T20:37:00.003-05:00

I had resolved to cook more at home. Eating out less and not buying pre-prepared foods were going to be a crucial part of my financial plan. Oh, and I was going to shop more at Key Food Supermarket rather than specialty markets like Dean & Deluca.

Well, there's only so much sacrificing one can make.

I can't stand going to Key Food, or any supermarket with the wide white soulless aisles, bad lighting, too-many SKUs, and indifferent staff. Who cares if there are bargains everywhere, I'm just not the kind of person who likes to push an industrial-sized shopping cart.

So instead I find myself frequenting Union Market, where artisanal cheese has it's own significant section and soil scatters in little organic flakes from the fresh root vegetables. There are five different brands of chutney. Oh and of course their own sushi line.

Here is what $48 buys:

Fruits and cashews. Two containers of yoghurt with honey. A bag of Garden of Eatin chips. Pre-prepared potato salad and three-lentil soup. Sushi roll. Milk. Slices of roast turkey and provolone cheese.

In the wax paper bag is a loaf of freshly-baked bread.

Staring Into Space

2010-03-18T00:39:00.000-05:00

To relieve stress I pop into the MOMA (or the MET or the Whitney or the Guggenheim) and replace my petty little concerns with the cuckoo passions of artists.

I went to the MOMA intending to see the William Kentridge exhibit, but instead got by waylaid/ sideswiped/ bowled over/ overwhelmed by Marina Abramovic

And she was there too, in the main atrium, seated on a chair by a table. Visitors were invited to occupy the chair across from her and just... sit. Marina Abramovic will sit in her chair and look into the eyes of the person across from her, for the next Two Months (at least during museum opening hours). Goodness gracious.

I was too chicken to take the hot seat, but intrigued, headed to her exhibition on the 6th floor. And what an experience.

To visit the main space, I had to squeeze through a narrow entrance, made even narrower because I had to walk sideways between a naked man and a naked women who stood facing each other framing the entrance. It was inevitable to brush against one or both of them. They didn't seem to care about everyone who was forced to brush against them, but how can you not care when you're naked? They looked waxy like manequins, until you noticed them breathe.

Then there was a naked woman lying on a ledge, a skeleton in her embrace moving as she breathed; two men sitting back to back, their long hair entwined; a man and woman in black suits, facing each other, arms out and index fingers touching; and most striking of all, at least for me, a naked woman balanced on a bicycle chair, six feet off the ground in the middle of a wide wall, her arms outstretched either in blessing or crucifixion, making eye contact with those who are staring at her to transfer energy.

The more extreme performances, i.e. she drinks a pot of honey, carves a star on her belly with a razor, then lies on a block of ice (performed 1975 and 2005) were kept to photographs or video.

My favorite was a video of Marina and her husband and collaborator Uday. After years travelling the world together they decide to end their marriage. Starting from opposite ends of the Great Wall of China, they walk towards each other, taking two months for the journey, meet in the middle, shake hands and say goodbye.

An Address For the Future

2010-03-17T20:09:00.003-05:00

The lease was finalized today! And so it truly is a point of no return. There is nothing more final than a signature on a legal document.

And here is where hopes and aspirations are going to be centered, at least for the next six months:

On Spring Street, right off Lafayette on the border of SoHo and NoLiTa. And my store opening scheduled for September! That is, if all goes well with: interior design, architect and engineer selection, permit approval with Department of Buildings, construction, recruitment of therapists, training, product development, pricing, compensation plan, PR and marketing strategy, operating permits, service mix, payroll/ accounting/ tax, insurance, financial analysis and cash flow, back bar product selection, website, POS systems, and oh, the Seventy-Five Other Things that are on my to-do list.

I need to hold my breath and Breathe at the same time!