Today brings the mass exodus where the film world moves to Cannes, and I stay in New York. And, in all honesty, I'm looking forward to it. Navigating another festival right now - for some reason - feels like the last thing in the world I would want to do. No glitz and glamour and beaches for me.
Instead I plan to fall back into my old pattern of spending most of might in a cab careening around Manhattan because I have an inability to say "no" when invited to an event. Saturday was a typical example - it started at an Andisheh Avini opening at the I-20 Gallery in Chelsea. Despite how much I enjoyed the art (I learned much of it sold that night and for good reason) and the Gallery's awe-inspiring roof deck. I spent most of my time examining a Spencer Tunick postcard and arguing over the pros and cons of volunteering for one of his photographs (having your intimate areas closely scrutinized by three drunks was definitely a con). Soon after that I hopped in a cab and was whisked off to Lit on the East Village for an after party where I stayed just long enough to get an "X" on my hand (the "X" making a much better showing of it than me, has however stayed for two days). Saying no to taxi's I hoofed it over for pizza in alphabet city, but soon after grabbed a cab up towards Grammercy for a house party with some of the best folks of the new york film scene. Of course it's never really polite to arrive at someone's house party empty handed, so I spent twenty minutes running around trying to find beer and/or wine (can you believe there are actual delis in manhattan that don't serve booze!?) before heading up. Now the party was intimate and friendly and actually quite nice in its uncrowdedness (is that a word?) and the availability of any food you might have a craving for edamame, doritos, cheese, chocolate, etc (food selection is always appreciated at house parties. I always serve onion dip). Of course I couldn't stay long because I had a friend's birthday party I needed to hit up so back in another cab and off to Gstaad in Chelsea, where my arrival pretty much perfectly coincided with everyone else's exit - something that I'm ashamed to say happens to me all to often. My friend decided the party needed to move to a gay bar (because who doesn't want to try to get some birthday loving on their birthday), and as the party now only consisted of me, I said I would accompany him. Unfortunately, he didn't quite know where the bar was so we got lost twice on our way and nearly ended up accidentally in Discotheque, an not-so-aptly named club where people line up to pay a cover to walk in and find a dj presiding over a nearly empty floor. Soon after we luckily find the bar we were looking for (called "G" for all those wondering) and my night ended leaning against a bar trying to find the only woman in the place as I drank a scotch and soda 5 hours, $40 dollars but only three blocks away from the gallery where everything started.
Tomorrow - Why it's pointless to take your straight friends to gay bars because they monopolize your time talking to you thereby preventing you from getting any.