Say what you want about New York, the greatest city in the world, but you know what's better in San Francisco, aside from the gays and hobos?
The Farmer's Market.
I'm back in my Subway Internet Imporium, where someone on the staff is an apparent Celine Dion devotee.
Yesterday, I met up with mom and Dani at the disappointing Union Square farmer's market, where we left mom and headed uptown to do some shopping.
Dani and I became friends when we both worked at the show I'm not allowed to name with the big hats. She was one of the stars. I was one of the backstage bitches. We both found ourselves and each other over our 3 year introduction to gay men and tequilla. She's moved to New York to become famous and it's rare that I ever get to see her.
We spent the entire afternoon catching up and shopping, eating and shopping, kvetching and shopping. It was fabulous.
And wait until you get a load of my new pumps. I've decided, inspired perhaps by the skyscrapers around me, to wear heels. I know, I know. I'll look like a drag queen. So what? Those bitches are hot.
Dani was off to yoga, so I walked home. I was at like, West 30 something and 7th. And our apartment is at 52nd and 1st.
Through Bryant Park where thousands were setting up picnics to watch HBO's Movies in the Park, through Grand Central Station, elbowing tourists and giving incorrect directions with confidence, past the UN and the appalling amount of hot security...I pretended I was Rhoda. It was fucking fabulous.
Mom and I then headed to Gramercy Park, where we met Dani for dinner at Craftbar. I needed to go to a Caleek hotspot. I am a Top Chef devotee and this man had verbally helped to define my palatte. Plus, he's friends with Bourdain. And we know how I feel about Antny.
Craftbar was spectacular. The onions in my Gibson were off white and huge, the country pate had pistachios in it and the short ribs...dear god. I almost fell off my seat.
Dani excused herself to the bathroom and returned claiming that a celeb was in the house.
OMG! YES! WHO? WHERE?
Celeb my ass.
It was the boring guy from American Pie. You know, the one Tara Reid gave it up to.
He does not count.
Give me DeNiro. Give me SJP. Give me goddamn Woody Allen.
But the guy from American Pie?
Oh, speaking of SJP, Dani and I hit the East Coast chain Steve & Joe's or Phil & Mike's or Tim & Tom's or whatever it's called to check out SJP's new collection. For those who don't watch Oprah, Sarah Jessica Parker has a line of clothing at an H&M-esque chain and I needed to see this shit.
My (educated) opinion.
It's like Old Navy.
I'm off to meet mom for lunch in the Village, then I'm shopping by myself in SoHo, which is far more efficient, before we go to drinks at the NYC version of Bourbon and Branch. Grey Gardens, some dark musical is at 7 before dinner at Joe Allen.
I think I'm a good week away from turning into Liza Minelli.
So, no wacky adventures yesterday. No booster seats and no "fa the love a Christ!"
But I have to admit, aside from the snoozer Farmer's Market, I like the island Manhattan.
Smoke on your pipe and put that in...
Oh my god. I'm not Liza. I'm Just Jack...