We've all seen men in drag. But how about men in drag ... on pointe? Throw in a little mime and a lot of slapstick and you have Les Ballets Trockadero de Monte Carlo. My friend Daniel gave me his extra ticket and so together we guffawed through hilarious re-interpretations of dances from Swan Lake during their closing night. I know nothing about ballet, but I do know that I enjoyed this show.
I'll admit it without shame. I judge books by their covers.
Listen folks. Of all the music-listening "advice" that I ever egotistically post on this blog, if I had to choose for you just one artist that I want you to listen to, then this is it.
Not having been dancing in months meant that I couldn't resist the lure of the 700 Club. The first time I visited Kim in Philadelphia, she brought me to this dive bar in Northern Liberties, only a few doors down from her own, that on Saturdays turns its second floor into a sweaty shake-a-thon. This past Saturday I was back in Philly visiting Kim, and once again we shamelessly absconded from her own party, eagerly climbing the wallpapered stairwell to join the ranks of plaid-clad hipsters shaking booty to Beyoncé. 
Two out of the three summers that I lived in Manhattan, I was a member of the community-supported agriculture (CSA) program in my neighbourhood. It was an awkward sort of organisation only because it was trying to stir up food awareness and organise a local food culture in a community that didn't want any of it. (This was exemplified by the struggling Murray Hill Greenmarket, which is only able to support one or two small farmers each week during its short summer run.)
click on pic for glorious detail
I've been asked countless times whether I am vegetarian. I guess I understand how people may confuse my leftie leanings with vegetarian-like tendencies. But I am a carnivore through and through.
Kalin came all the way from Vancouver to attend the Inauguration ceremony with Dory. They left Sunday afternoon and returned late last night after spending 7 hours slowly making their way from DC to New York. They then spent another hour or so recounting (in part due to my insistent questioning) their first-hand experience of the Inauguration ceremony. And while the stories of the million-person crowds struck terror in my heart, a small part of me felt regret for not participating in person. 
That *other* politician from Illinois will be inaugurated today. Perhaps one day, he too will have his own memorial, being the first black president and all. 
Can someone please explain to me how I've all of a sudden become a Klondike addict? And I continue to play it even though my personal winning record is something like 1 out of 10 games. I've never used it before to procrastinate while at work, nor did I ever play it for the past 3 years that I had my old iPod. But now it's inexplicably my favourite thing to do when I'm on the train. Poor Grapes of Wrath is being neglected thanks to a simple game of solitaire. 
Tonight, on the way home from dinner, I bumped into my roommate with two of her friends. They were off to The Lodge, I place I've come to associate with night-caps and late night beers. Tonight we all drank Old Fashioneds, and it reminded me of my first love, the whiskey sour. 
Never did I think that I would sit in the 9th row (orchestra) of the Met Opera. And yet I did, thanks to Katie and the MetOpera weekend ticket draws. We went to see Puccini's "La Rondine" (which recently got a mention in NY Magazine's "Approval Matrix") and I gaped all the way through the first act. Opera has been one of those classical art forms that I have yet to fully embrace. And perhaps to my disservice, some of my first opera experiences involved 12.5 hours of Ring-series Wagner, sitting in the last possible row of the Met Opera House. So this time, when I got to engage not only musically but visually, with facial expressions and costumes and set details all accessible without the use of binoculars, well I can honestly say that I can understand why one might pay premium prices for those seats. Here's to more opera in my life.
I thought that reading a book on etiquette would be cool and entertaining. Like guides on (writing) style. Instead, it's pages upon pages of useless drivel (place settings should only contain three of any utensil type), common sense (skiing can be dangerous!), or abhorrently conservative values (women's name cards should read "Mrs. [insert husband's name here]" — makes you want to wretch too, eh?).
I'll never stop marvelling at the idea of studio-as-storefront. Even without a class in the window, I could imagine dancers in unison "performing" for the pedestrians of 9th Avenue.
Working in Brooklyn, at least for a day, provides unbelievable benefits. Like meeting friends at The General Greene in Fort Greene for lunch. I had the roasted pork sandwich with pickled okra and a spicy aioli (perfectly spiced if you asked me). Kathleen had the meatball hero. And John had banana bread (supposedly amazing ... I didn't try it) and yogurt. Simple food for simple folk, also exemplified by their order-at-the-counter system for lunchtime. Who wants to make the trek for dinner?
When my friend Ben gifted me with my first road bike (a 12-speed 1980s Velo Sport), I didn't really know how far I would dip into the cycling world. Before I knew it, I found I had outfitted myself with a Chrome bag and a $100 New York-ready chain lock. I was changing my own busted tubes (and patching those that were repairable). But then the weather turned, and I found myself climbing the stairs to the subway more and more. Suddenly, after a month of commuting by train, I decided that the New York winter was mild enough that it was possible to ride to work. It was time to get back on the saddle again.
It's no secret that I love snow. As I've told many an American: Give me 0°F and snow over 35°F and rain any day. Yeah, I'm talking about that same stuff that cancelled my flight and stranded me for an extra 24 hours in New York when I wanted to be visiting with friends in Ottawa. The same stuff that shut down airports and ruined Christmas for hundreds of people continent wide. That stuff fell heavy and thick the Sunday I was in Ottawa. And while I had a whole day that I could have used to go see my country's capital, I chose instead to don my boots and go tromping. It was absolutely glorious.
I've lived down the road from Spuyten Duyvil for over three-quarters of a year, but only went there for the first time a couple weeks ago. It took a post-dinner pre-flight late-night rendezvous to get me there. And though I spent months precariously listening to friends rave about the joint, I can now safely say from personal experience that it is indeed a beautiful haunt, especially if you avoid the crowd and go for one of their delicious pints on a weekday. I can't wait to go back and imbibe the Dieu du Ciel that they're importing from Montreal.
I decided my first post of the year was going to be a reflective one. But don't worry, I won't be writing you a cautionary tale on how 2008 was the beginning of the end, or a didactic on how to turn your life around from lessons learned over the past year. No no, what I wanted to do, rather, was the extremely egotistical exercise of listing my top ten albums of 2008. Especially since I spent a bit of time scouring my iTunes play counts in order to figure out whether there was an objective way to come up with this list. And I think I've got it. So with no further ado (also can I mention how pleased that 8 of the 10 artists are Canadian?): 
