If you're in the city these days, you're probably aware we've had a string of stunning sunny, cold days. I've suppressed my desire to leave the laptop well alone and fuck around the city for the last few days, but today I couldn't. It's too nice, and I won't quarantine myself under ghastly fluorescence for hours and hours in the middle of winter when the fates give us a bit of beauty, so I spent a few hours shopping: Gramercy Park and the excellent thrift stores in the area, Rivington and Streit's Matzo (CLOSED on Friday, I forgot!) and Ludlow, and then took a look at the Chrysler Building and the Reservoir...it was the perfect day to play hooky in Manhattan. Even Brooklyn looked passable.
I've been in despair, as I didn't obtain seats for the Mariinsky performances of Swan Lake at BAM in time--like Azealia Banks, I'm Broke With Expensive Taste. So on the way back to the apartment, I decided to drop by BAM and see if anyone might have an extra ticket. There were unpleasant protestors out front, but no extra tickets. I went inside, asked around, and was polite--never underestimate the power of politeness--I managed to score a single press seat in center orchestra: right-o! Chance and luck, my favorite golden calves to venerate. I sat behind Alastair Macaulay, in fact (as it should be really).
The performance was exquisite; beautifully textured, precise, evocative. Impressive was the resplendent Viktoria Tereshkina as Odile (pas de deux was breathtaking, but Siegfried was unremarkable), the jester, and Von Rothbart, who was like lightening. Tchaikovsky's beautiful, heart-breaking score was wonderfully illustrated in Gergiev's consummate choreography. The Justice was right.
I sat next to an older Jewish couple, ballet experts and aficionados (it seemed the man had danced in his youth), who recommended I next see David Hallberg, now a principal with the Bolshoi, whom they believe is the best. I would like to befriend some members of the ballet world, to talk art, life, performance, dumplings, Austen. If you're reading this and are such a person, feel free to contact me. I'm only anonymous as far as the fifth wall remains intact.
Tonight I believe Kim and I might have a real night out. I'm out of the scene--meaning it's been years since I've actively been a club kid. The bouncers who recall seventeen-year-old Marcel and his troublesome friends, the majority have in all likelihood moved on, and I'm not even near thirty. However, such is life. I wonder if I'll still be able to pull it off? We might go to boom boom room, as I have no idea where we should go, what we should do. I believe speakeasies are still relatively of the moment, but I just don't enjoy them--it's silly. Al Capone ran a speakeasy in the cupola of a Chicago skyscraper in the thirties. That's a speakeasy. I can make an adequate martini, negroni, and enjoy a plain grapefruit and gin. I know much more about mescal than say, someone from Minnesota who aspires to be the next Taylor Swift. Kim is the friend that went corporate, who has sought professional help for her "gossip" problem, whose mother is wont to make remarks such as "these people with 'mental illness'--when will they get over themselves?" Kim is a dear friend, and has begun what I've termed a "blue collar romance" with a Brooklyn construction worker. What would her mother say?
I'll include this for those of you who might be seventeen, beautiful and fresh. Now is your time, and these sorts of skills will come in handy when you develop a taste for Tchaikovsky but forget to buy a ticket--press seats exist:
Some Advice When It Comes to Getting In:
1. Go During The Week
Get to know the doormen, someone at the bar; make friends, meet the regulars. Once you get in with the club kids, all the doors open up, almost immediately. Be polite, be witty, be fun. With politeness and a nice smile, the world is your oyster to slurp. But because you can't always make it out during the week (though you should be able to swing twenty-four hour days at seventeen), here is-
2. Never Ever Wear Work Clothes To The Club
This applies to men more than women. If you look corporate, then be sure you have the money to spend. You'll be asked to pay a cover. You want to exude an air of "I don't give a fuck about anything, but I'm socially adept."
3. Once a Club Has Died, Avoid It
When the promoters, bridge and tunnelers, and eurotrash take over, it's over.
4. Have Attractive, Confident Friends--Choose Wisely
If you've followed rule one, you'll have met regulars--smart and self-aware, these young men and women know what they want and how to get it, and know how not to get it, too. They'll know what rules can be broken, when to push it, and when (and how) to make a graceful exit. Male or female, doesn't matter; what you're looking for is a savvy nonchalance. Watch any 1960s Godard if you don't immediately know what I mean.
5. Walk Right In Like You Own The Place; Know What Is Going On That Night
Some of you are thinking, "what the fuck? Is he serious?" You won't immediately master this skill, but after a few months it's second nature. If you've ever watched Dirty Rotten Scoundrels, you might remember Michael Caine teaching Steve Martin how to move? It's worth watching for many reasons, the film, a smutty bit of nostalgia, but conning anyone--because that's what you're doing--is all about body language and how you carry yourself.
Never ever blow up at the doorman, throw a scene, or try to pull a "do you know who I am?" bit--first of all, this will never work if you're a man. Don't drink too much before you go. If you don't get in, don't attempt to talk your way in until you observe someone do this (and do it successfully) and have the concept down, especially if you're underage, though this generally works in your favor. It isn't a big deal, getting turned away from a nightclub in New York--it's happened to me, it's happened to most people, and it may very well happen to you. One last thing: if a club ever has a blanket cover, it's over and to be avoided. That means promoters run the place, and you don't want to be seen there. Avoid promoters, especially if you're a young woman who has recently moved to the city.
Have fun!
I'll record what Kim and I get up to tonight. I may see if Dean wants to come along, and we'll hipster it up at some bullshit somewhere. I wish the Stork Club were still around.
All for now,
Marcel
PS. Desintation restaurant: Kao Soy in Red Hook. Just as good as Queens.
PPS. très Velvet. Miss you, Lou.
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