Shuesday: Make up your mind

I like the idea of this shoe, but I'm not entirely convinced. It might be the colour, it might be that the satin bow looks a bit like bedding ... if you buy your bedding at Victoria's Secret.

Hmmm.

The play's the thing

Last weekend, I went (back) to the theatre district to see Frost/Nixon, the Tony award-winning play starring Frank Langella and Michael Sheen (The Queen). We first went to the Hourglass Tavern, for the least spectacular dinner I've had since camp food. The service was sloppy and rushed and the food flavourless. Harumph.

We were early, so had time for a drink at the Paramount Hotel, which has seen better days. The lounge downstairs began to hop at 7:15, which meant that my white strawberry cosmo* had a technobeat to contend with. We asked the bartender to turn it down once, and they told us they were testing the sound system. Fifteen minutes later, we asked again, and were told, "That's just the way things are here at this hour." Which is to say, "At this hour, we turn the music up so loud that two adults with intact hearing sitting on a couch next to one another can't have a conversation." We removed ourselves to the lobby, with the apologies of the manager and comp-ed cocktails. We did tip the server.

The play was wonderful. Well written, well staged, and the acting was excellent. Run, don't walk.

Afterwards, we took ourselves to the patio at La Bottega at the Maritime Hotel for further beverages and conversation. The temperature had dropped and the wind picked up, but we had a lovely night.

* strawberry vodka, white cranberry juice, triple sec, strawberry garnish

Hamlet

Little girls, little girls

everywhere I turn I can see them ...

Which is to say that the summer interns are here in full force (I'm sure there are male interns too, but I haven't seen any).

A veritable handful of perpendicular girls. Except they're all less than five and a half feet tall and wear adorable strappy little flats on their size 4 feet. They hold absurdly intellectual conversations in the elevator on the way in to work, pre-their morning yerba maté (or my first sip of giant chain store coffee, for that matter), are partial to soup for lunch (sans crackers), wear enormous earrings, and excessive eye make-up for any hour prior to 9 p.m. They travel in packs.

I feel like a WNBA player, sans skills.

Cleaning up the White House

Everyone who's worked for a company with a dress code (or one without) has an issue. Either it's draconian (women must wear skirts and nylons, men ties) or fancy-free (bare feet and utilikilts are encouraged). But you'd think that the White House would have standing rules. Or that they'd at least bring them in at the start of a new administration.

The Bush administration may be taking some hits lately in the polls, but that doesn't mean it's going to let down its sartorial standards.

So signs have popped up at various White House entrances -- including the press entrance and the staff and visitors' entrance at the southwest gate -- along with e-mails to staff members, to remind everyone, particularly tour groups, that, even in these times of sinking poll numbers, proper attire is to be maintained.

The e-mail reminder was all in capital letters. It advised that there would be no jeans, sneakers, shorts, miniskirts, T-shirts, tank tops and -- with boldface added -- "NO FLIP FLOPS." (Which, of course, is good advice, if rarely followed in this town.)

These prohibitions would be in force "regardless of weather conditions."

It's unclear if there was some particular event that sparked the crackdown. And though it appears directed at tour groups, visitors, staff members and press regulars assume they're included.

And flip-flops have always been verboten. "As you know, this administration has a strong record against flip-flops," said White House spokeswoman Emily Lawrimore. But Crocs, with or without socks, presumably are okay if you're biking with Bush.

Remember this?

Previously
White House Fashion [WP]

Shuesday: Bollywood, baby

In honor of The Scot, who's on a medical education/vacation in India, L'autre chose.

A pox on both your houses

So far I've avoided finding out what's happened to Harry et al, but damned if someone whose blog I visit daily didn't put the crown jewels (I think) right on the front page!

I only barely escaped with my Deathly Hallows purity intact! With friends like these! For shame!



(Note: Entire post written with tongue firmly in cheek.)

The Power Tourist

A friend arrived last Thursday night for her first trip to NYC, and it was a revelation.

When I first came to The City, for 48 hours in 2000, I decided it would be impossible to do everything. I spent the better part of one day at the Metropolitan Museum and just enjoyed the rest of New York as it found me. We went for drinks and dinner with friends, walked a lot, had a cocktail at Windows on the World, and another at my uncle's apartment overlooking Tavern on the Green. I knew I loved the city, and I knew I'd be back. The next few times, I visited East Coast Guy, and things were both spontaneous and relaxed, as things can only be when you're staying with a local.

Not so the Power Tourist. She came with a mission, and got what she came for. She spent Friday at the Met and walking through Central Park taking beautiful photos. We met outside the Plaza, and walked 11 blocks to Eatery for dinner, then took the subway back downtown to The Strand, and then home. The next day, we left the apartment late, but still managed to visit Lower Manhattan, Trinity Church (where Alexander Hamilton is buried), Wall Street, Canal Street (where she purchased two handbags), and grabbed the R uptown to stand in line for 90 minutes for half price tickets to Grey Gardens (totally worth it). We walked to St Patrick's Cathedral (where we watched a wedding processional - fun!), and then to Rockefeller Plaza. Back to the theatre district for an early dinner at Lattanzi, and then went to the theatre. The show was fantastic - Christine Ebersole almost brought me to tears.

The next morning, we lazed ourselves over to brunch with The Blue Fairy, The Vintner, The Actor and East Coast Guy at Cafe Deville. The service was spotty (we waited for everything, there were pastry crumbs in our water glasses, I can't count the number of times our waitress said, "I'm new"), but the food was good as usual. Then The Tourist headed back to Times Square for the Wicked matinee and I took our latest arrivals back to my apartment for a quick viewing. Then uptown in the hopes of catching the new Harry Potter movie, although I have no idea why I thought I'd be able to waltz in with 10 minutes to spared. Ended up watching Shrek III, mostly because I was there, the timing worked, and what I wanted was 2 hours of air conditioning.

We met up again after the theatre (where she got autographs and photos of the stars), took the subway down to Greenwich village for Thai food, and then wandered home through Washington Square Park (she's not very good at wandering). It was an early night.

The following morning, I headed to the office for a few hours of work, and the Tourist went back to The Strand and wended her way uptown again to 42nd Street. She walked from Times square to Central Park, where she encountered John Travolta being interviewed lakeside. She took a few photos (see above) and got his autograph too. She went to the Met to purchase a pop-up book for a friend, and walked back to the East Village from 86th Street. We packed her up, put her in a cab, and off she went.

And off I went to an evening of manicures and white wine by the bottle. Because I deserved it.

Previously: I have seen the future

Yes, I have one.

But please, people:

Due to the unprecedented demand for I’m Not A Plastic Bag in South East Asia and our concerns for our customers safety we will be cancelling the launches at the following stores: Anya Hindmarch Beijing, On Pedder in Shanghai and On Pedder in Jakarta.

Of course, I wasn't the one doing the standing ...

(BS, hope this isn't verging into Weekly Baggage ...)

Anya Hindmarch

NYT

Shuesday: Flatter me

Almost a year later, (and now that I am actually here), these are still everywhere.

Not that I own a pair yet ...

Matchmaker, matchmaker

make me a match, kidnap a bride ...

Petr and Fatima arrive as a wedding is about to begin. Women are busy making traditional Kyrgyz bread for the occasion, and men sit in chairs outside, talking and sipping tea. The groom confesses he has had some difficulty finding a bride, but he is hopeful that "this one will stay."

When the bride does arrive, she is dragged into the groom's house, struggling and crying. Her name is Norkuz, and it turns out she has been kidnapped from her home about a mile away.

As the women of the groom's family surround Norkuz and hold down both of her hands, they are at once forceful and comforting, informing her that they, too, were kidnapped. The kidnappers insist that they negotiated the abduction with Norkuz's brother, but her sister, a lawyer from Osh, arrives to protest that her sister is being forced to marry a stranger. Ideally in Kyrgyz circles, a bride's family gets a price for their daughter, but Norkuz is 25 -- considered late to marry -- and the women remind her she is lucky she was kidnapped at all.

Apparently it all works out in the end for this couple, but not for everyone:

The family has hired a taxi to drive Jumankul to Osh where he and his friends plan to find and kidnap the girl he has seen at a bazaar. But when they get to Osh, Jumankul can't find the girl. The group drops by a vodka stand to try to find out where she lives, but the girl working there suspects a kidnapping and refuses to tell Jumankul's brother, Ulan, the address of the girl. "Find it yourself," she tells him.

Not wanting to return home empty-handed, Jumankul and his friends decide to change plans and kidnap the girl in the vodka bar.

Her name is Ainagul, and by the time Petr and Fatima return to Jumankul's village outside of Osh, she has been resisting a room full of women for more than ten hours. Though Jumankul's older brother claims her family has already agreed to the kidnapping, Ainagul stands in a corner of the room, crying, and continuing to fend off the women who take turns trying to put the wedding scarf on her head.

But Ainagul puts up a strong fight, and the women tire of trying to convince her. After the oldest woman in the village makes a final attempt, telling Ainagul to stay or she will be unhappy, the women give up. Her ordeal over, Ainagul is free to go.

Once she has left, the women sit outside Jumankul's home and curse the departed girl. They say that her child will be a drunk and that her mother-in-law will be cruel. Jumankul, too, is upset and worries that he will never find a bride who will stay

The Kidnapped Bride [Frontline World]

Shuesday: She that strives to touch the stars

How perfect for summer! The Flapper sent me these from the Emerald City with her compliments - and they suit her to a T.

Plus, raffia shoes - so fun!

Wife goes on

I'm not saying it was ground breaking television, but it was damn funny. Mostly due to Debra Messing's comedic timing, and who doesn't love Judy Davis. Like chick lit for your tv, without having to pretend that you could be reading Anna Karenina or something worthwhile.

And great with a cocktail and a fresh pedicure.

At the twilight's last gleaming

I spent the Fourth (ridiculous mid week holiday this year) watching Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee, the HBO movie about the final free days of the Lakota Sioux in South Dakota. The story begins with the Battle of the Little Bighorn in 1876 and culminates with the Wounded Knee Massacre in 1890. Having driven past the Little Bighorn memorial (just south of Crow Agency, MT), last fall, it was fascinating to see it as it would have been then. And also important, on a day when historical nuances are swept aside, to remember another group of people living within these borders.

Then I hit the N train to Astoria to visit the infamous Bohemian Beer Garden, drink tequila, and watch the fireworks. They were really good - I was suitably impressed.

Although drinking and then standing on an on-ramp might not be the best idea.

Shuesday: Et tu, Coco?

Some days, everyone's a patriot.

These are eBay shoes, so jump if you want them.

O'er the land of the free

and the home of the shameless.

The other one, silly.





Bush Spares Libby 30-Month Jail Term [NYT]

Principessa

There was a tribute concert to Diana on Sunday night. It is a little odd to think that she'd now be 46, and to hear her sons introduce Duran Duran as "her favourite band". It makes some sense, for the time in which she lived and the age at which she died. And yet, because she was so attuned to what real Britons enjoyed, without fear of sullying herself with "pop culture", it makes no sense at all. She'd have been listening to Lily Allen, last year, before she was popular. And you'll never convince me she'd be a Fergie fan.

So the question is, who do you want at your tribute concert?

I'm thinking, in order to accurately reflect my life, the following would be among the performers:

• Sarah McLachlan
• The Tragically Hip
• Feist
• Ani DiFranco
• Guster

Hmmm. Maybe what I need is a really good cover band. Or (cover your eyes, true music snobs), Maybe Zach Braff could just DJ? Because it's really more of a mixed tape ...