Wal-Mart Wonderment

I recently attended the 25^th birthday party of the heir to the Wal-Mart legacy. The invitation was embellished with a green serpentine mermaid holding up a goblet of absinthe. It proposed "a night of mystery in a grand lounge, hidden behind a Chinese restaurant on a long forgotten corner of Manhattan's Chinatown." In reality, it took place at the not-so-forgotten, quite trendy in the past few weeks, Bar Apothéke, behind The Golden Flower. There were cocktails of particularly luscious flavors (one infused with fennel oil and another with cilantro leaves), and the space was reminiscent of Fin de siècle Paris.

The company was surprising, as I expected a Wal-Mart-hosted event to be overflowing with shiny men from Arkansas bursting out of their polo shirts and eating Kobe beef sliders, whilst ogling bleached out women in taffeta party dresses. Instead, the birthday boy wore chunky dark-rimmed glasses, a military-inspired jacket, and vintage Nike kicks. He was more hipster-pseudo-straight Yale undergraduate than oversexed Republican carnivore. I felt that at any moment one of the Olsen twins would arrive wearing a plaid jumpsuit. Instead, the most major celebrity present was a former contestant on America's Next Top Model, who pranced about the room with her Jesus-looking indie boyfriend. There was also a cute bartender resembling actor James McAvoy.

My friend and I left into a torrential downpour and finally found a way home by ducking into an empty parked cab and praying for a driver.

Poison & Lingerie

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Degradable Self

At five feet ten inches tall, I have often fantasized about being a model—but it turns out it’s not a quick fix for world travel and financial profit.

Seeking an agency and free photographs for my portfolio, I bonded with people on Craigslist, frolicked around my friend's apartment in my underwear, danced at nightclubs merely to give a Xerox of my headshot to someone who supposedly knows someone who is someone who can possibly be of assistance to me. I even stood in line with 3,000 other girls for the open call of America's Next Top Model.

There has been a lack of interest in “my look”: a French agent said to me, “Your nose is too short to be a model in Paris…try South Africa or Singapore.” There have been demands that I lose at least half an inch from my hips: an American agent said to me, “I don't think you're fat, I just think you have wide hips.” Amidst my wandering from agency to agency, I came across a delightfully esoteric art bookstore at 33 Bond Street, Dashwood Books, and I finally re-connected with my intellect.

I discovered some beautiful photographs in Playboy: Helmut Newton that remind me of my senior essay research on the '60s and '70s high society photographer, Slim Aarons. The pictures also connect to my recent obsession with the reality television show, The Girls Next Door, a chronicle of the daily lives of Hugh Hefner’s three ultra-endearing girlfriends. Maybe next I should audition to be one of them.

New York Strip

I am newly positioned as a hostess at the swank midtown destination, BLT Steak, a member of the ever-popular Bistro Laurent Tourondel restaurant series. I walked in on a whim, because my friend thought it might be a good dinner place to encounter eligible bachelors. Apparently, women in Manhattan can become so desperate to procure a profitable nuptial arrangement that there is a website for just that: http://newyork.citysearch.com/bestof/winners/golddiggers_goldmine. So if you're an ambitious Russian girl with a Swarovski-encrusted cell phone, I suppose that would be a helpful resource.

I just figured it would be good people-watching. On my first night I escorted the former 60 Minutes broadcaster, ninety-year-old Andy Rooney, to his table. I also received a generous fifty-dollar tip from a restaurant "VIP" and regular, who is lovingly referred to in the computer's reservation notes as "Mr. Potato" (he is the president of one of the country’s largest potato corporations).

Working in a restaurant is similar to being an actor. It reminds me of that quote from When Harry Met Sally: “Restaurants are to people in the 80's what theatres were to people in the 60's.”

It's all theatrics, from the giant gruyère-coated popovers, to the ebony tables, to the tall Yale girl behind the hostess stand.

West Village Whites

During a Labor Day weekend walk through the West Village, in my below-pictured Miami best, I encountered a stranger who was wearing my self-same outfit. It was truly an uncanny resemblance. I photographed him, and I think he enjoyed the attention and posed for me in the end. I envy him his fetching hat.

White Jeans

Channeling: Keith Richards/Mick Jagger/J.C.
I'll wear them, even after Labor Day.