TimeOut NY
My handsomeness is out of control or maybe I email promptly. Responding to an open call, I was selected and featured in TimeOut New York's singles issue.
For your viewing enjoyment.Friend me on FacebookLabels: singles
Porkfest!
Article published in
The West Side Spirit . My neighbor's annual party with pounds of pork.
One Apartment, 60 Lbs. of PorkLabels: new york, porkfest
Rehab: Party at the Hard Rock Hotel
There are some groups of folks I will never truly understand. While I have made all types of efforts to ingratiate, comprehend, analyze, and live among several of them, certain methods will always perplex, and actions confound.
One such group is the alpha douche. Thankfully, when
Hot Chicks With Douchebags becomes too mundane, Rehab: Party at the Hard Rock saves the day.
Rehab is in its second season on TruTV, spotlighting the spiky hair, silicone, and six pack stomachs at the weekly pool party in Las Vegas.The Hard Rock Hotel and Casino plays host to the lot, who pay a $50 and up admission for the privilege of paying thousands for bottle service.
But the crowd is only part of the fetid fun. Certain characters seem beamed down from the over-tanned mothership making Rehab a place where everyone is buff, busty, and bugging out.
Justin, the doughy aw-shucks manager from season 1, has been supplanted by Matt, a tightly wound east coaster who enjoys firing staff on the spot for transgressions. Perpetually jiggly brunette “Julia Gulia,” is back- a notable high point.
The antics and drama range from tackling drunk guests to a barback taking offense when the bartender asks him to get ice. Most rewarding though, is watching the guests at Rehab working their assets- from cocktail waitresses doing body shots to Ed Hardy clad patrons putting plentiful amounts of Patron as fast as it can be distilled.
For true viewing enjoyment, tune in Tuesdays at 10pm and see if you can make any sense out of the spectacle this weekly party has become.
Labels: people, reviews, tv
Travelogged: Yangon (Rangoon), Burma (Myanmar): A Study in Contrasts
A little story on my travels in Myanmar.
Part 1Part 2Labels: asia, burma, travel
Voyaging/Foraging
Every man has an urge to explore- a vestige from the hunter-gathering days of yore when we would travel far from home to gain the necessary provisions and experience to sustain life for one more day.
In two weeks, when I head off to Asia on a two week voyage that will take me to Laos, Cambodia, Thailand, Burma and South Korea (albeit the last one on a 12 hour layover), I am exploring new territory for the purpose of acquiring food- but in the modern sense I am seeking food for thought and there are other forces I am both aware and unaware of at play.
Traveling is in one sense a challenge and in another an active response to the innate desire to discover fertile grounds. It isn’t enough to stay at home- all of the food sources are mapped out. Men must traipse into uncharted waters to taste new things, see new sights and refine existing stimulus. It is only then that we know what truly will aid us in times when our food supply (or vacation days) run low.
Yet, with these new experiences comes the challenge of survival. Do we stay where food is plentiful, or do we strike out into the wild, via airplane, train and car, but hopefully not Greyhound? We go, we clear paths into a deeper consciousness of what it means to be a man in today’s world, and we learn, realize, and come to rely on only our instinct to get us through layovers, questionable water quality, and pushy market salespeople.
For without prior challenges, we don’t learn to rise above that which we already are. In other words, we cut ourselves off from becoming who we want to become. This trip to Asia is not just my own affirmation of feeling like a successful provider, it is a test to myself from me. It is one I will pass, for it is one I must.
To all travelers and dreamers, I say “Bon Voyage” and never remain hungry for the meal you have had once too often.
Labels: life, men, travel
The Return of Phish
Tomorrow I will be back in the groove. After 4 years, 6 months and 20 days, (not to put too fine a point on it or anything), I will see Phish, my favorite band, once again. Besides being fantastic musicians, Phish has always represented a bohemian ideal that I ascribe to in theory but eschew in my own lifestyle. In that way, they symbolize what should be in the world instead of what actually is.
When the lights go down and the roar of the crowd becomes deafening, my eyes will close and thanks will be proffered. I know I am lucky to be seeing them but my presence at the concert was self-promised the minute after they left the stage more than 4 years ago.
The question remains, for me, do I want Phish to evolve or do I just want them reincarnated on stage? I lean towards evolution because in many ways I know that this is how musicians become better; however I secretly hope for a timewarp back to 1994 when Phish was at its agreed upon peak. In truth, they could sit on the edge of the stage and sing the score from Madame Butterfly and I would eat it up.
While these two shows will be my 26th and 27th time seeing the band, it feels like I am rediscovering them. Many years of listening to them on my iPod and watching You Tube videos, hauling out to see the lead singer on his solo gigs and caressing old ticket stubs has provided a new found appreciation- absence has made my heart grow fonder.
If anything, the dearth of music that I could listen to in place of Phish never provided much of an escape. Even my iPod knows, after I skip four obscure songs in shuffle mode, to pacify me with a Phish song that I will listen to through the end.
In a sign of the times, whereas I used to borrow my dad’s cell phone when seeing a Phish show, now everyone has one and videos can be recorded from anyone with a camera. Whether this will provide more or less of a distraction (probably more) is to be determined but does provide a new level of interactivity.
This interactivity, both on a technological and personal level, speaks to Phish’s influence. Like the other 15,999 people this weekend who are lucky enough to be at the first show, it will easily be an intoxicating experience.
I am ready; ready to embrace what I remember, ready to dance and cheer, ready to share good times with friends new and old and ready to be under their influence once again.
To Phish, I say, “Thanks, and welcome back.”
Destiny: Made in Italy
There are certain items that I am destined to own- a nice bike, pressed pennies from around the country and, when it comes to clothing, various pieces I have picked up over the years.
In September, I was on one of my many scouting expeditions to the local Filenes Basement here in New York City. There was a huge rack of wonderful designer clothing from Marios, an upscale store from the Northwest with locations in Seattle, Washington and Oregon.
I spotted many nice items, a Loro Piana button down, a Luciano Barbera sweater and what would soon become the item I covet, a funky dress shirt from Etro. Priced at $100, it was a bit out of my price range but I tried it on anyway just to get a sense of how it fit. It fit very nicely.
Alas, it went back on the rack and I left the store without giving it too much thought. Several weeks later, on another visit, it was still on the rack. Again, that is where it stayed. Another 2 weeks and I returned to Filenes but the Etro shirt had disappeared. I wished the new owner well in my mind and went about my business.
After my 401K lost a good 25% of its value and some months had past, I was back at Filenes and the rack of Marios clothing was discounted 40%. The shirt was back on the rack but at $60, I still didn’t want to pull the trigger.
Another week and I was in the area, back at Filenes and the shirt was gone. Again, I wished the new owner well and thought, “Someone definitely got a pretty good bargain, as the retail on the shirt was close to $300.”
Cut to December 7, and on my way home from the gym, I thought I would pop into Filenes once again. The Marios clothing rack had been moved from the back of the store to the area right when you step off the escalator in the men’s section. This could only mean further discounts as Filenes only puts items there that they want to get rid of. Lo and behold, a 60% discount sign loomed above the few items left.
The Etro shirt stood proudly, among stretched out cardigans and pants in size 38 and 40. At $40.00, it was a purchase I was comfortable making. But there was no pricetag to be found. Knowing that Filenes has the precedent of coding very reduced pricing on items with no tag, I snatched it and patiently waited in line with other holiday shoppers.
I inquired to the manager who had to call downstairs to find out how much the shirt was selling for. Several minutes later, he connected to someone in the abyss of Filenes who told him the price of the shirt was $49.99. My heart did a small backflip inside my chest.
The price, with a 60% discount, was $19.99. I handed over a Jackson and smiled broadly as he rang up my purchase. The manager put the shirt in a bag and apologized for the delay. I responded, “No problem, I’m glad it all worked out,” and breezed out of the store as if on a cushion of discounted air.
Introducing the new shirt to my wardrobe, I could tell everything would work perfectly with the items I knew I could wear it with. After putting it in the Whirlpool steamer and ironing the shirt crisply, it took its rightful place in my wardrobe, destined to be a part of my sartorial expressiveness for years to come.
Destiny, it seems, can come in many forms.
Labels: clothing, Etro, new york
