As promised, here is my first blog entry about my experiences in NYC so far. As usual, I’m late in posting it…
So I have been in New York for roughly a month now. It feels like longer though because so much happens in any given day. There is too much to recount, and so instead of trying, I offer you this anecdote.
As a (somewhat) closeted reader of tabloids, one of the aspects of New York life I’ve been looking forward to is the celebrity sighting.
Last Friday night I went to a show at Piano’s upstairs (a couple of fellow uke players, Kelli Rae Powell and the Musical Proverbial Kneehighs) and I assumed that, since I could actually afford a sandwich at this bar, no celebrities would be found.
Since I moved here I have passed a magazine rack everyday on my way from the subway, and for the past month the same Vogue cover has popped out at me each time.(
http://www.catwalkqueen.tv/deyn_ukvogue.jpg)
I had no idea who she was, and then during the day on Friday I happened to see a blog post about this new British top model. Her name is Agyness Deyn and I’m getting to my point.
As you’ve probably guessed, about halfway through the show at Piano’s, who should walk in? (I’ll give you a hint, she’s on the cover of Vogue) Yeah, it was Agyness Deyn. Sat right next to me. With about five of her closest supermodel friends. I didn’t know what to do. Naturally I wanted to grab my camera and ask if I could take a picture of the two of us together so that I could post it here and prove I saw her instead of just having to hope you take my word for it. Anyway, it seemed like it would be an embarrassing situation, so I tried to think of a plan B. I sat there, wondering what to do, googling pictures of Agyness and holding them up to compare. Yep. Definitely her. I tried to get her picture on the sly while she was standing at the bar, but it was hard to look natural holding my phone up (oh no this is how I always check my voicemail, holding it up and pointing it at people…) and not like a member of the paparazzi.
So I gave up and just decided to eavesdrop on their conversation. For about the first hour, listening to the group of models talking and carrying on was entertaining. It was exactly like an enhanced version of Celebrity Weekly. The highlight was when the lead singer from the Kneehighs announced over the microphone that I (the “red-headed uke-player”) am amazingly talented. Genius. Revolutionary. I don’t know, I’m paraphrasing. Anyway, the highlight of that highlight was that one of the supermodels clapped for me. I didn’t even care if it was an ironic clap, an inebriated clap, or an infectious clap, it was still coming from someone famous, beautiful and 7 feet tall.
That was how great it felt at first. But that didn’t last. Soon I just started to feel claustrophobic and dumpy and short. (Sidenote: try eating a sandwich next to a table fulla models. Really fun. And it didn’t help that the table was at my ankles and the insides of the sandwich kept slipping out all over my plate.) By the end of the Kneehighs’ set, I just wanted to get the fuck out of there and back to my claustrophobic, dumpy and roach-infested sublet.
I took the subway back to Brooklyn. Flipped the lights on in my sublet and watched all the cockroaches make a run for it.
This is New York. Supermodels and cockroaches. If nothing else it is a city of extremes.
Either you’re trying to eat a sandwich next to a famous supermodel, or you’re trying to make a sandwich in your shitty sublet when a cockroach runs up on you, tucks it under its arm and makes its getaway into a crack in the wall.
Afterward: Many of you may be glad to know that I have THANKFULLY now moved out of the aforementioned vermin-encrusted sublet and into a newly constructed building free of roaches and the like. This was only after thoroughly soaking practically everything in my possession with enough Raid to ensure the death of many, many, many of my brain cells. I am still keeping my eyes peeled for my next celebrity sighting and am practicing my paparazzi technique.