Ive been bad this year. I called my grandmother to wish her a happy New Year (in the Jewish calendar its something like year 598537504, but being a Jew, I like to make the number bigger by rounding up to an even 6 million). Judging from the tone in her voice after I told her I had not only skipped out on temple, but had worked that day, I knew I would be getting less gelt for Hannukah this year. But how to explain to your grandmother that you just cant relate to and may even have a slight aversion to organized religion?
After contemplating our generational gap I felt guilty for being apathetic and vowed, in some small way to make it up to grandma this week. I promptly began by walking to 14th street instead of hopping on a downtown train (a la Moses strolling through the Egypt), I made eyes with a Hassidic man on Bedford (directly following my guilt mounted ten fold), I brought my penny jar into the bank and turned it into bills, bills, bills; I lit a scented candle in my room, but decided against letting it burn for eight days, as it was a pretty expensive purchase (like $20 - I know, for a candle!), and last but not least I attended the Heeb Magazine issue release party, a magazine that enjoys poking as much fun of Jews as I do. Challa! (read: Holla! pronounced like you have phlem in your throat)
Emily, Adam of Heeb
the party was sponsored by a new vodka brand, judging from the art direction of their ads (see photo), they sampled the product a few too many times during brainstorming sessions.
it was open bar, so after playing 'count the Jew-fro' all I could do was look down.
But enough about being Jewish....
There are very few things I know about fashion. No white after Labor Day (oops), Sean Jean is all the rage in Harlem, Kate Moss likes to party, men look hot in button down shirts, and the Palestinian scarf as fashion is out (supporting the underdog is sooo last year). Therefore, being a novice at fashion parties allows me to bypass the French accent that is usually required at the door, eat all the hors d'orves (obviously I'll be the only one eating) and manhandle the free champagne, as I did recently at the Imitation of Christ runway show and afterparty.
Scarlett Johanson was there. Paparrazi...take it easy....
The afterparty was where it got a little more exciting...friend, Tracy, Chau and Brian
there's this new movement in New York for couples to go at it at the bar for a while, retreat to a bathroom stall and emerge, sporting sheepish grins minutes later. People - isn't that why we all pay so much money for rent in New York - to get a f#$king room? You're right, I'm just jealous.
Joanne, Shannon and M.I.A
and this dude
whew, and this dude
Friends should not let friends buy Trio's. In other news, though I'm slightly belated in announcing this, summer is officially over. I'm wearing sweaters again, but the good times, like Josh's bday party and Williamspalooza are still fresh in my mind:
Annette and Michelle
Beth and Brian
Uyeda and Casey
she was the best
Beth and Steven
Kyle! Off to Williamspalooza... It must be about ten (oh god, more) years ago, when Lalapalooza was the next best thing to Green Day. The anticipation of seeing all your favorite bands on one stage (of course you were the first one out of the entire audience to have heard of them all first, except for maybe Cypress Hill). To partake in experimental substances and gawk at the little skaters with their green hair, and pants sagging to their knees. To lie on the ampitheater's grassy knoll, hoping the weed brownie wore off before dinner with the parents reared its ugly, bad tripping head. Aaah, the sweet aroma of youth. And then there was this year's free concerts in the McCarren Park pool in Williamsburg, AKA Williamspalooza, where it was every hipster for themselves!
slip and slide!
These two pictures are like photo hunt, where you can find the girls holding their hair up, same style, different picture.
And last but not least, I had a chance to stop by John Copeland's studio last week:
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