juliaipsa {the blog}

Verbatim

2012-02-09T23:54:00.000-05:00

Where: Lincoln Center, Avery Fisher Hall
When: Sunday, November 27, 2011 (Thanksgiving weekend)
What: Handel's Messiah

Before the performance, after being seated...

Soeur: What exactly is this music?
Me: You know...Handel's "Messiah."
Soeur: [blank face]
Me: Haaaaaal-lelujah, hallelujah...?
Soeur: Uh-oh. I'm definitely gonna fall asleep.

At the beginning of intermission...

Soeur: Is it intermission now?
Me: Yep.
Soeur: What does that mean? Another hour? Wait. What are you doing?
Me: I have GOT to start recording what you say at these things because it's just too good to forget.

I sort of love live classical music. Orchestras, choirs, symphonies - love, love, and love. I don't know why. I just do. Get me to a performance hall. Let me dress casually. Turn the lights down. Leave me be. I'm going to revel in the sounds.

My sister, on the other hand, as you can see, is not much of a fan. And yet, she will sit semi-patiently next to me through a performance. I think she takes pity on me and does what she can.

You should have seen her at Carnegie Hall when she sat through a tenor singing romantic German songs all by his lonesome self (well, and a piano accompaniment). Neither she nor I knew what to expect. I had gotten the tickets from my company so we agreed that at intermission we could leave if we didn't like it. When the lights came on, she declared, "Thank God it's intermission." I'm pretty sure I killed her a little bit when I told her that it turned out that I kind of liked the music and would stay for the second half. She was dumbfounded that I could stay awake through the performance, no less enjoy it. She stayed, but I think she took a nap. And if I remember the night correctly, I think we took the subway home (totally something I would do) instead of a taxi (totally something she would do). Suffice it to say, that night probably wasn't her favorite. But my evening was just swell, thank you very much.

Dance, People

2012-02-05T11:18:00.002-05:00

I was so pleased when the berth across the way cleared out leaving a nice empty space to admire through Pablo. Then this guy came waltzing through. Instead of walking through and out of my frame, he had a little dance party right smack in it.

Bring it, guy.

I envy those who can get lost in the music wherever they may be. You know how people say "I can't dance?" Not true. Observe any one-year-old. Turn up a tune with a heavy beat and watch. Their little body will bop. It might not be so obvious, but keep an eye on their head, or their hand. It won't be to the beat, but it will be there. Then do the same with a toddler who's learned to walk, but maybe hasn't quite mastered their trot quite yet. Watch how they are clearly hearing the beat, feeling the beat, just haven't quite yet figured out how to move to the beat. Their little tush will stick out just so. Some limbs will wobble. There will usually be some leg-stomping or knee-bending. There will surely be some seemingly random, awkward bops of the head. They might even lose their balance. The child might remind you of Elaine on Seinfeld. It might not be easy on the eyes, but they're dancing. Because everyone can.

2012-01-29T11:23:00.000-05:00

Last Saturday, we received our first snow of the season. (The sudden onslaught of wet snow on Halloween weekend didn't count since the last time I checked, October wasn't a winter month.) I think we only got a few inches in my immediate neck of the woods; I'm not sure because I was sick and slept the entire day away. The next afternoon, something snapped and I needed to get a swig of cold city air into my lungs. I feared going off the deep end if I didn't Get Out Now. Stir crazy in the apartment much? So I threw on whatever clothes nearest me and stumbled down the street to the park with my camera fashionably hung around my neck. I thought the chill would snap me awake, but the day's drear wouldn't seem to let me go.

And then.

Just when I thought there wasn't a hint of pretty or majestic to be found under the gloomy grey of the sky, I spot these cheery red speckles peeking out from the white.

Madison Square Park

2012, January 22

I Wish You Could See All of Them

2012-01-24T01:43:00.000-05:00

January 2012, Flatiron

Sometimes I wonder what it might be like if I were strong enough to see the beauty in the ordinary all the time. It can be stunning. I mean, cups. Hundreds of them. With drawings. And designs! Strung together! So whimsical and vibrant. Sometimes I play a childish game where I pick my favorite among a collection. I'm usually terribly indecisive, but this time, I was immediately drawn to the sketch drawings of the girl with the raincoat and galoshes and umbrella and, voila, there was my decision.

Untethered

2012-01-20T01:27:00.000-05:00

I'm surprised to see how so many of my photos on this landing page present with such an air of secrecy. It's a bit startling just how closely it reflects me in the now. Somewhat reserved, inconspicuous, not so much subtle or quiet as...still. Anonymous. I guess I'm not doing a good job of describing this observation of mine, but what I can say is that the photos supremely stink of Julia. So many of them are of inanimate subjects. So many of them are incomplete, halved, or sliced. It's accurate, this reflection of how things are. I go to work, I e-mail, I chat occasionally on the phone with a friend or two hundreds of miles away. I very rarely do things. When work is through, I relish in the comfort of my blanket and my weekend films. I'm quite removed from the hustle and bustle of life around. It's odd. I know.

That clawing desperation I once had to leave where I was, that gnarly itch to go away from everything, that was so long ago. But not so long ago to have forgotten already. I acted, and it released me. Is that what happens when you end up in a city where you swore up and down you'd never live? I'd like to know what's next, please.

Most of the time I prefer it this way, being left unbothered. Untethered. Without obligations. Without responsibility to anyone but myself. It still feels new. And sometimes I wonder how much of this is really me and how much of that is enabling who I think I may be but am not really. Or something.

A lot of head space has been dedicated to these thoughts this week. I've made it a habit of staying up past two, sometimes three, or even four in the morning, trying to sort things out behind the closed French door to my tiny humble bedroom. That leaves five, four, maybe three hours of on-again off-again sleep. It's been difficult delivering myself the fifteen feet to the shower every morning. Once the hot water reaches my burning neck and shoulders (do you know that that is where I carry all my stress?), the cloud begins to lift, but it's a little touch and go getting myself to the other side of the window panes of my French door.

I took this earlier today on my way out the door to return to the office in the afternoon. Hats and I were never friends, not even acquaintances, but since I got this extra long looped scarf last winter, when the bite of a cold city winter nips, I swaddle my head in its soft acrylic nubs and somehow, something about its softness against my cheeks makes me feel ok.

Spring Was Good Last Year

2012-01-10T01:08:00.001-05:00

I took this on my way home from work one Saturday last spring. According to the digital file stamp, it was April 30th. I remember that last day of April, emerging from the school and thinking how, while I enjoyed this part-time job, having a six-day work week every week makes each week terribly long. And spending that sixth day indoors isn't particularly awesome when it's balmy and beautiful outside. Don't get me wrong: I'm very much a homebody who happily spends entire weekends behind closed doors, but when the city's emerging from a dark cold winter, sun and breeze among cherry blossoms and some greenery can really do wonders for any hibernating spirit, even mine. And so, on that day, instead of hopping the subway a block away as I usually do, I walked a few blocks to take in a little of the fresh air and spring sun. I slowly made my way to the edge of the park. And then through it. And then all the way downtown. It's about an hour and a half on foot, from my Saturday job to my place. It was probably the best hour and a half of my entire week.

Winter's come late, but now that it's here, my skin is reacting mightily. My hands have begun softly scraping against the torn cashmere lining of my gloves. So, besides the obvious solution of lotion-ing up (I have no right to complain if I'm this lazy), since I don't have the option of escaping to a quiet shore somewhere where the air isn't so dry and the sun isn't constantly fighting high rise buildings, I'm looking through my photo archives to remind myself of what's in store for us in just a few short months.

The New York

2012-01-07T18:23:00.000-05:00

A stranger surfacing from the subway tonight, with me and Pablo behind.

5:36 p.m., a downtown 6 train exit

Different people have different reasons for what makes New York the New York. One of the qualifiers of mine is that folks can comfortably walk around in funky ensembles without drawing negative attention. There's not another city I can think of where you can wear black nylon stockings, plaid red-pink summer shorts over them, and a floral printed poofy bomber jacket without getting smirks and stares from fellow subway riders. Here, the style diversity is grand, the anonymity in it secure, and the judging of it nil. I thank New York for that.

Broked

2012-01-05T19:32:00.001-05:00

It came back with a tiny little chip along its lip along with a sincere apology, albeit mixed with unblinking speculation that it might have been there before I lent it out. The thing is, this bowl, one of the few unique pieces of anything I own, was a gift. It was handmade in a pottery studio on Martha's Vineyard. It had been with me since my first apartment out of college. It was one of the few notable items I spent a small fortune storing in a Manhattan storage unit when I left everything behind and landed here in the New York. It would have been unusual had a chip gone unnoticed in my care.

Within twenty-four hours of its return, the bowl did exactly what I had feared. Despite my dabbing crazy glue to the crook of the chip, overnight, the bowl had angrily split from the tiny triangular missing shard at the top straight down to the base. Who knew clay would break ever so neatly?

Unable to part from it, I crazy glued the two halves together and resolved to find a way to keep the bowl in my life. To hold hunky muffins, maybe. Or crispy wedges of tortilla triangles. Maybe some crunchy apples. And so I did, until the crazy glue gave out late this summer. I let it sit on the counter for a day or two which then turned into something much longer than I care to say. It hung out for so long that Soeur, the slob of all slobs, even asked what it was doing there. I told her the truth, that I was mentally preparing myself to say good-bye. You'd think it was my boyfriend. It took me a while longer, but I eventually mustered up enough will power to suppress the anguish of loss and escort the pieces to the trash room.

Gone was one less beautiful thing from Julia.

But why the drama? Exactly what was the big deal? When did I start caring about stuff? As urban girls go, I shy away from things and names and trends. Sure, I see pretty things all around, but it's one of those things that I see waaaaaay over there, waaaaaay outside of my reach. And that's ok. Because somebody's gotta be glam and Julia ain't she. As I kid, I naturally detached myself from wants, more as a means of necessity than a condition of my character, I think. When you're little and your friends make out like bandits on their birthdays and Christmas and you get nothing, what are you going to do? Get a job? At 7? I don't think so. Decades later, that residual childhood discipline has morphed into something more of a stubborn restraint. I have a difficult time getting myself things. It's almost ridiculous. When I do get something nice, it's almost always as a gift and it usually takes me ages to actually use it. Which brings me back to the bowl...

I don't know how long it was before I stopped staring at it sitting pretty on the shelf and actually used it. Its deep maroon tones were dreamy. I made a lot of baked goods in it - that I know for sure. I was careful to mix by hand worried that an electric mixer might not be good for the little bumps that lined the bowl here and there. Then, one day, I obliged a friend without thinking twice. My big red bowl? I don't have a red...oh, wait, that bowl? You need it for what? For your party? Sure! Why not? See you at the party!

Contrary to what they teach the kiddos these days, I now embrace the new and improved no sharing policy. It sounds a bit ridiculous, an adult not sharing, but I want to hang onto the things that are beautiful to me, the tangible things that make up the stories from years past, even if it's just a one-of-a-kind handmade piece of pottery I used for pancake batter.

For the Feets

2012-01-02T23:02:00.000-05:00

One thing I've loved since the beginning of time are these Korean footies.

My feet this evening (as if you needed this caption)

Our mother always referred to them as dub-puh-sun, but I think dut-sheen is more common now. I really don't know. All I know is that I adore them and have never been able to buy them stateside. I often wonder how I'd go about importing them to share the love with my American girlfriends. When you're at home and don't want to go barefoot, these are the bestestest. They come in stretchy or non-stretchy weaves and can be thin or thick, printed or solid, rubber grips on the bottom or not, I mean, I've seen them in so many pretty ways, really.

I hope they stick around because I hear that they're losing popularity in Korea. My cousins laugh when I ask for a few pairs if they're passing through town. The humor is probably from the fact that ahjummahs (older married women) wear these, not teenagers or young women. As you can see, I don't care.

On a related note, I have just about the least attractive feet you'll ever see on a girl, and these bad boys are the only things that have ever gracefully slipped onto my feet without putting up a fuss. That in and of itself might be motivation enough to start my own importing business for these guys. The first thing I'd do is ship a bunch to my female readers. The way I see it, there are only about a dozen of you, which is such a manageable number of packages to bring to the post office, I don't see why I wouldn't!

Yes, I really wrote my first post of 2012 about things that go on my feet. I shall continue to dance to the beat of my own drum. Hope you will, too.

Christmas Eve, on 34th Street

2011-12-24T17:49:00.002-05:00

Brushing Teeth Can Mean A Lot of Things

2011-12-23T19:28:00.002-05:00

The 13th

2011-12-15T21:04:00.002-05:00

I like things simple.
I took a day.
For myself.
Slept in.
Spent time with Photoshop.
Ran errands in Flatiron.
Munched solo on cupcakes.
(Yes, plural.)
Arrived three minutes late for dinner with the sibs.
By virtue of the day, couldn't be mad at me.
Win.

These siblings of mine, they keep me well.

Life-Changing.

2011-12-07T14:15:00.001-05:00

No, life changed. Because the life-changing has officially happened. Twice: once last night at dinner and now again at lunch. I'm talking about a few spearmint leaves with two large basil leaves julienned and sprinkled about crunchy romaine and baby greens. It's delicious! It's the new reason to do a little dance around here. A crumble of very mild feta (I don't like the sharp kind) and a slab of lightly pan fried tilapia, and lunch is on.

I'm pretty sure the people looking out their office windows across the way right now think I'm really weird to be shoving greens into my mouth while taking pictures of my plate on the windowsill. But weirder things have happened, like Monday afternoon when a man ran by me on Fifth Avenue decked out in full jogging gear, running in his bare feet.

People, wear shoes when you go running in the city. And toss some confetti pieces of basil and mint into your crunchy salads. It's awesome. I promise.

I am so pleased that even though it's grey and rainy out right now, the new Ikea floor

lamp provided plenty of light for this shot.

Her Colors

2011-12-05T08:51:00.000-05:00

Looks like the Empire blinged herself out for Thanksgiving. It suits her, if I do say so myself.

What I Know

2011-12-01T10:05:00.000-05:00

/// THERE was that one time when our father magically appeared on the sidewalk. He slowly made his way up to the front door clutching his arm. He had lost a lot of weight. I could see it in his face. He was never a chubby fellow, not particularly lean either, but generally as trim as a man of his generation would be. This man, he looked like my father, but he was gaunt, his cheekbones more pronounced, his skin darker and sallower. It was an odd sight and strangely, not disturbing. I pitied him.

And yet, I feared him.

I feared the outline of his small, limping body. I feared the menacing spirit he carried inside that frame. Its bewitching ability to drive uhmmah into another crashing halt was oppressive. The inevitability of my mother's downward and upward and back down spiral, even more so. Who knew what would happen once he entered our lives again. The only thing for certain? That yet another cycle of tempestuous events would - no - was brewing.

He had been beaten. Or something. Something that left his shoulder out of its socket and bruises on his face. Weak. Maybe he hadn't eaten in a few days. We hadn't seen him in weeks. He had somehow managed to drive his manual car back to Philadelphia. It had taken him days what should have taken a few hours. That's how it is with a broken arm. Or whatever it was.

The silent streak of resilience that is so ingrained me - there is no doubt that this comes from my father. The two of us, we will literally fall apart trying to manage on our own, proudly keeping the white flag down. Hidden. Away. Safe from the eyes. Oh, the eyes.

He claimed he was robbed at a gas station while pumping gas. My mother laughed.

That's where I get it from - laughing softly when I don't know what to do. As the girls' athletic director at my high school once scolded when I couldn't maneuver a basketball the way the drill was designed to teach, There's nothing funny about it, Julia. Touché, Mrs. McConnell. Touché.

Uhmmah waited until I was at school and dialed the number on the white board next to the phone, the number where she could reach me on most Saturday nights. The father of the family was a radiologist. The mother a nurse at the same hospital. My father didn't have insurance. Uhmmah wondered if the family might know of any alternative routes to have a doctor assess the damage. He had been in an accident, she reported. The next time I babysat, the mother gently - and dutifully - delivered a lecture on how I should never feel ashamed of my family asking for help. I was mortified. I hadn't known that uhmmah had contacted them.

I couldn't articulate then what I can now. It wasn't that we needed help. It was that an ugly pattern had formed. What most parents could manage on their own as adults, my parents were incapable of doing without their children. What parents often shield from their children, I was front and center. Did uhmmah mention that her husband hadn't been in contact for weeks before this incident? That the accident was probably not an accident, but more likely the result of loan sharks shaking her husband up for a gambling debt? No. Because the outside world, no one could know.

My sister has a framed print with a message that stays with me. You might remember it {+}. Some may find it trite, but to this little girl, it's so profound that I think I'll share it here again.

Hindsight is always twenty/twenty.

West Elm With Soeur and Pablo

2011-11-27T21:13:00.001-05:00

Soeur is on the hunt for a rug. West Elm was another bust on the list today, but boy, was I blown away by the size of their space a block from Lincoln Center. It's huge and clean and organized and has pretty things. I kind of didn't mind sitting around and waiting. That might have been because I had Pablo in my hands to keep me company (in case you missed it, Pablo's my itty bitty Nikon).

So.uth of Ho.uston

2011-11-26T23:16:00.001-05:00

SoHo on the weekends is crazy. Too many people. Too many lit cigarettes. Too many wealthy middle-aged women driving into the city in their Jersey-plated German cars. Broadway can kill you if you're not careful. And, something I learned today, a crowded narrow sidewalk full of strangers waiting to spot those dratted Kardashian girls leaving their clothing boutique also isn't cute.

But those majestic fire escapes and those cobblestone streets will never get old.

SoHo today, 4:01 p.m.

A Year

2011-11-23T23:42:00.001-05:00

My last night was the night before Thanksgiving. It was frigid, about forty-some degrees, but the other nanny insisted that we bring the kids down the street to admire the balloons being inflated in preparation for the next day’s parade. [Yes, there were two of us for two children. I thought it was unusual and odd at first, too, but with the schedule the children kept, it was helpful to have a nanny dedicated to each child. A privilege, for sure, and some might even say excessive, but if you had the resources, wouldn't you consider it?]

Nanny number one took her favorite kid (it was so obvious, her awful preferential treatment, that I'd frequently catch myself feeling very embarrassed for her) and I took the other. We hustled down Central Park West and jammed ourselves in the flood of people patiently following the route along 77th and 81st Streets. As I had anticipated, we got separated pretty quickly. So, for most of the time, it was just me and my charge. I carried her, the almost-four-year-old, in my arms. This way, she wouldn't miss Snoopy, Hello Kitty, and SpongeBob. Plus, there was that small possibility that she might have been trampled. It was terribly crowded.

Our employers, the parents, were taking the kids out to dinner sans hired help that night; a super duper special treat for the children, which meant that we had to rush home, bathe, dress, and coiffe the kiddos before the parents picked them up. The toddler kept untucking his button-down from his pants. He wasn't too keen on his suspenders either. His sister insisted on a pink dress because she had received the memo that pink was the new black. Any other color? A tough sell. Then there was the lunch bag we had to fill with their miniature utensils, organic milk, vegetables, and fruit. Not that the parents were able to get the children to touch vegetables or fruit when their nannies weren't around.

Tonight, on the way home.

9:48 p.m.

There are plenty of days when I miss being around children. I miss the chattiness of the little girl I nannied. Accustomed to having a companion at all times, I'd send her to the bathroom to do her business alone to try to break her of this habit. I'd inform her that I'd be over in just a little bit. After settling atop the toilet, just seconds later, she'd call, "Julia?" "Yes, is everything all right?" I'd ask. "Yes, but do you think we can chat a little?" That cracked us adults up every single time. I hope she's learned to use the bathroom alone by now.

I miss her little brother chanting my name when he woke up in the mornings. "Joooooooleeeya, Jooooooooleeeya, Jooooooooleeeya!" which would eventually clip to a more succinct, "Jooleeya, Julia. Jooleeya? Julia? [Brief pause.] Julia?" when I wasn't there to respond. It was like music to our ears to hear him so clearly enunciate any word. It took him a long while to start talking. His vocabulary consisted of less than ten words, of which none were the other nanny's name. I don't think she liked that.

Which brings me to the fact that there are plenty of other things that I don't miss about nannying: the chapped hands from handwashing dishes and bathing every night were one thing, but the troubling uncertainties I carried home with me every night were another.

Tonight, instead of leaving farewell gifts (books, of course) for children that made me laugh, and fret, and smile, I filed some manuscripts away, turned off the lights at my desk, shut down my monitor, and left the office a little early. Funny how things can change in the span of a short year.

What I Know

2011-11-21T23:40:00.000-05:00

/// MY father would show up just long enough to sell the impression that this time, he was here to stay. Just long enough to lead weekly church choir practice. Just long enough to take my small hands and flip me over somersault style. Just long enough to act as a translator for someone in our church who didn't speak enough English to file a police report on the armed men who had emptied his grocery's register that morning.

And yet, he also came back just long enough to leave stacks of lottery tickets piled high among dry cleaning tickets in my parents' biggest dry cleaning plant, the same one where I would spend my summers stuffing sleeves with tissue paper, running to the corner market to get him cigarettes and frozen fruit bars. Always strawberry for me, usually coconut for him.

You'd think with the long hours and the handful of modest dry cleaners in our parents' names, there'd be enough to cover the basics. But when you throw your money straight to the house night after night, that formula doesn't do much before your wife finally tracks you down parked next to your buddies at the blackjack table. And oh, hey, yeah, your daughters and your baby son are waiting outside on the other side of the red velvet ropes because children aren't allowed on the floor.

Once, I thought I was going to die standing there carrying my baby brother for as long as I did. I was certain that my arms were going to fall off. When uhmmah finally emerged from the gambling floor, she was happy. She had located his coat in the coat racks. It was army green. She was sure he was in this casino and that the search would be over soon. We were close. The next time she surfaced, she reported that she had found him, but that he wouldn't leave.

That little effer.

I probably didn't have the vocabulary for that at such a young age, but the sentiment, I assure you, was the same.

Having the children there was strategic on uhmmah's part. If we weren't present, he'd be more likely to stay with his friends. Only once did he try to stay behind. Uhmmah fretted for a while, unsure of what to do because the children bait, well, we had never failed her before. Sure enough, within the hour, he surfaced and joined us on the boardwalk.

We had McDonald's on the way back.

...

What I Know

2011-11-20T23:23:00.000-05:00

I am the child of a manic depressive and a compulsive gambler. My mother is the manic depressive, my father the compulsive gambler; both are slaves to their own chemical imbalances. You can only imagine the stormy world in which these two live. It's messy. It's absurd. It's pitiful. It's tragic. It's heartbreaking.

Neither have been formally diagnosed, as far as I know.

I am in my thirties and just this week shared this information with my oldest friend. At her prompting. I've known her since I was fourteen.

And so I'm putting it all down here. Little by little. Whenever I feel compelled. It might be in a moment of anger, or momentary lapse in judgment, or superficial clarity, or intense sadness. It won't matter, the conditions. Because maybe if I put it all down, every time I look back, maybe it won't be so hard to turn back around and keep moving.

/// THERE were endless bouts when uhmmah would hole herself up in a dark room and sleep. She would wake only to toss food on the table, complaining the entire time that if it weren't for her children, she wouldn't be tied to this lifestyle. We were forbidden from making any noise. We children took shifts massaging her aching legs and arms. She moaned and sighed out loud. She talked to me like I was her grown girlfriend. TV was our only solace, on the lowest volume possible, to minimize the chances of stirring the chance that uhmmah might grab a stick on her way out of the bedroom.

...

L'ART

2011-11-14T08:26:00.001-05:00

I'm pretty sure I was the only American at the MoMA that day. I wish I remembered more French than Get out of my way, dainty mademoiselle, s'il-vous plaît. Maintenant. Hmm. Is that even where the hyphen goes?

MoMA, October 2011

The White Fig

2011-10-23T20:51:00.001-04:00

Julius Caesar was known to have an appetite for figs. I get it, Julius. I totally get it.

This Is How Two Girls Live in Manhattan

2011-10-15T23:03:00.001-04:00

As I give my nails just two more minutes to dry, I thought it important to record the disgusting state in which I live. If looking at this scene makes you want to run over here and put it all away, please do, because I'm clearly too lazy to do it myself.

I'm going to a bar in Tribeca. Wait. Let me look at the invitation again. Scratch that. I'm heading to a lounge. On a Saturday night. You can't tell because it's 10:45 and dark out, but just so you know, YES, THE SKY IS IN FACT FALLING.

Something sunk in recently. As much as I detest the art of going out, the gesture of getting out there for special occasions far outweighs my desire to stay tucked at home. It's worth it even if it means traveling an hour to spend just a half hour physically parked at a bar among people in heels and hair all did up and cologne and thudding music and yuppy strangers and well, you get it. Peace out.

That's Morimoto

2011-10-06T08:58:00.002-04:00

I hadn't had a celebrity moment since Paul McCartney brushed right past me with his hand stuffed down the back of his girlfriend's pants heading into the Hampton Chutney Company on the UWS this past spring. (Have you had their dosas? They're pretty tasty.) They were like two young lovebirds. It was sweet, minus the public buttock cupping, although it was more like buttock massaging. Two days later they officially announced their engagement and then I forgave them their public display of affection. Sort of.

But Paul McCartney ain't no Iron Chef Morimoto! You might recognize him from the Food Network.

The Japanese chef and restaurateur put on a neat cooking demonstration and Q&A. He's a funny guy and engages with the crowd easily. He told us that his chef at his restaurant in New York, who was assisting him on stage, was not Japanese (he was white), but that his girlfriend was. Ha.

Lincoln Center. At Night.

2011-10-05T07:42:00.000-04:00

Lincoln Center, NYC, 4 October 2011, 8:05 p.m.

Even behind a smudgy taxi window and passenger reflections, you can't miss her beauty. When you're driving by, it takes all your will power to not ask the cabbie to pull over and run the meter while you step out to take in all the sparkling lights. And even then, you might as well let him take another fare because you won't want to leave Lincoln Center.