Serialization

OK, so this isn't THE book that you guys have been bugging me to post, but this is a fictionalized account of what happened after I wrote the book. This is basically the nascent form of my second "novel," which upon opening again for the first time today I realized is 400 pages long. So I think I'm going to edit it and then post it as I go along. I'm not even going to try to publish this time, so I figured what the hell...Also, this is kind of a no-holds-barred look at the publishing/agenting process, so it may even be helpful in showing people what pratfalls to avoid.

Disclaimer
This is a work of fiction, but nearly everything in it is true. This is a work of fiction because the truth is too painful, too revealing, too dangerous and too personal. This is a work of fiction, because the truth is stranger than. This is the very real yet heavily edited story of my life and how I managed to survive the most trying year of it.

















Chapter 1
My life has always crumbled around my birthday and my 30th was shaping up to be no exception. In the week leading up to the big 3-0, I’d had my heart shattered by the first man I’d met in more than five years who’d given me butterflies; I’d been dumped by my supposedly stellar literary agent; and pushed out of the only steady editorial job I’d managed to hang onto since my entrée into the Manhattan media. What a wonderful world. But then I was off to Bermuda for a week with my family, in an attempt to forget my utterly disappointing life in New York. For seven days, sitting on a beach, perhaps I’d be able to push to the back of my mind the fact that I was single, unemployed, broke, notorious, a failed author with no hope and even fewer prospects. But hey, at least I was looking better than I ever had—a small but important consolation for a single 30-year-old woman. Hard to fathom, but last year at the same exact moment, the outlook had been bleaker still.
One year prior, on the eve of my 29th birthday—an easy one in retrospect to turning 30—my brother and best friend practically had to drag me from my apartment to “celebrate.” Because, in the week leading up to that birthday, my career, hopes and emotions had been on one hell of a roller coaster ride. In that one week, I’d gone from three possible book deals to being rejected by every single house my roman a clef had been submitted to. My name had been skewered in The New York Post, Gawker and Women’s Wear Daily. I’d had six-figure dollar signs dancing in my head and then seen them vaporize. I’d been up, I’d been down, I’d been elated, then suicidal. In short, I was a huge fucking mess, as was my life and my career. See, I’d written the first draft of this little chick lit book that ended up causing a huge scandal, which resulted in me being sued by America’s largest tabloid publisher. It was a novel, but I’d named names, pointed fingers, exposed dirty little secrets, aired soiled laundry and attacked an industry that I found to be morally bankrupt and deceitful. It was a breezy, cheery, fast-paced, romantic comedy type of novel, but it was not without depth and was as much of a social critique as a beach read. It was not the great American novel; it was not the book I’d always dreamed of writing; it was not, by any standard in fact, the best book I had the ability to write. It was a novel that I had thought would be an easy sell, would make a splash, give me a name and enable me to follow it up with something much more substantial. Of course, in my life, nothing ever turns out as I intend.
The novel was called Dishalicious, and in the words of my second agent, it was summarized thusly:

"Dishalicious is the story of Serena Gold, who reluctantly works at Celeb: the most notorious magazine/tabloid (depending on who you’re talking to) in the business, for the most notorious editor in the business, Penny Sapp. When Serena gets a hot tip about the breakup of Hollywood’s most gorgeous and revered golden couple, she needs to decide: does she use the story to get her coveted byline or does she bury the tip and rise above the muck that is Celeb magazine? And will she ever manage to bring down Penny and get her dream job at Vogue—inquiring minds want to know….
Along the way, Serena finds love, helps found a fabulous doggy rescue charity, and goes shopping, shopping, shopping. Dishalicious is “chic” lit in the tradition of Nanny Diaries and Bergdorf Blondes, chockfull of references to the very most glamorous side of life—from Chanel to Choo to Cavalli."


I didn’t take the job at Celeb with the intention of writing a tell-all, which is what most people seemed to think. The unadorned truth is that I’d really wanted the job; was, in fact, desperate for an editorial job, any old job. It was shortly after 9-11, and most everyone’s creative career prospects were dismal. I thought it would be a sort of grown-up adventure. A lark even. Me work sixty or seventy hours a week? Sure, fine, bring it on. I’d be one of those productive mopes with a right to complain about how much I worked. So I took this job as a research editor for this Godawful tabloid that routinely wrote ridiculous stories based on information gleaned from drug-addled tipsters, celebrities’ trash bins, so-called friends of stars and spies sent out to stalk the superstars. I hated every single drawn-out second of working at Celeb. It was the type of job where, if you wanted to get through the day, you had to check your morals at the door and accept the fact that you were contributing to the downfall of Western civilization.
So I sucked up my pride, my highfalutin morality for eight interminable months and then I simply had enough. I’d gone to work there at the time that a very famous, yet hated editor had taken over, so things were insane from the day I was hired. I’m the type of person who’s always kept a diary and written down nearly everything of interest in my life. In May, I went on what the media later dubbed a “three-week writing binge.” Actually, it was more of a month-long purge. I purged my mind and body of all the words that had accumulated over time and come to make up my being. I poured them out into a story that I always wanted to tell—a story that encompassed my family’s history, my philosophy and my social critiques of the media and New York society in general. And, much to my own surprise, I ended up with a cohesive manuscript. Surely the writing was the hardest part, no?


Chapter 2
So then, I was trapped in a hurricane-induced blackout, rejected by nine New York publishers and sued by a multimillion dollar corporation within the same week. Happy fucking birthday! The week had sprouted tinged with optimism, but had concluded with me completely gutted and utterly despondent. Not to mention shocked, overwhelmed and anxious. I was a 29-year-old, unemployed, Jewess, completely dependent upon my generous parents, how could I possibly handle a serious legal and fiduciary matter that had the potential to derail not only my novel that the lawsuit was centered around, but my entire professional persona? Yes, I’d wanted the press. The stories in the Post, Women’s Wear Daily and Page Six were nice mementos. WWD was especially meaningful, as fashion has always played a significant role in the lives of the women in my family. I courted the controversy at first. I knew I would have to in order to generate buzz around my dime-a-dozen chick-lit tome. I knew how the press worked and I manipulated it to the best of my ability, and then, natch, it backfired. And now I found myself with a manuscript and a life in limbo, my fate in the hands of the Hon. Joan A. Madden of the New York State Supreme Court.

Necesito un vacacion

If I weren't such a pacifist, I would have strangled my upstairs neighbor by now. The woman insists on clomping around her tile-floored condo at all hours of the night in high heels. Same thing in the mornings. So much so that despite my earplugs, I'm being woken up on weekends, to which I do not take kindly. I have complained to no avail. The next step, I suppose, is trying to get out of my lease via what is called a "quiet" something or other clause.

Sigh. I need a vacay, and I can't seem to get Bermuda out of my mind since having gone there for my 30th last September. It is perhaps the most relaxing destination I've been to, save for Cabo. Last time we stayed here: The Reefs





But we did the big birthday dinner at the Mandarin Oriental's Elbow Beach, Elbow Beach
which was picturesque, and I'd love to stay there next time. So on Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, which was I was tuned into cause it's on after my new reality tv obsession Work Out, they sent this honeymooning couple to Elbow Beach. I've taken this as a sign. Bermuda anyone?

Crazy fun weekend from which I am still recovering — aren't those the best kind? But the rhetorical question of the day is when, when, when will I learn that hard alcohol and wine just don't mix well in my system? Two degrees, six years of higher learning and yet I still can't seem to grasp this fact.

Saturday we hosted a baby shower for my BF, so the party started early and continued well into the night. During the evening, me and a longtime childhood friend crazy ass Nicole, who was staying with me, hungout with two of our guy friends at the Mandarin. One (or possibly four) too many cocktails later, we all end up passing out back at my place. The guys wake up in the middle of the night and drive back north to make a flight the next day. I go back to bed. Nicole is, as far as I know, sleeping it off on the sleep sofa. Except. Except, when I exit my bedroom around 10 a.m. and head out into the living room, Nicole has vanished and her bag is gone. I cannot process. I call her cell phone. No answer. My first thought is that for some reason she left with our friends, which makes no sense, but is the most logical explanation anyway. I call Dana's cell phone bewildered.

"Um, question — where the hell is Nicole? She's, like, gone."

Dana starts cracking up at my confusion, but by now I'm completely mystified. Well, as it turns out, it's no laughing matter. She woke up shortly after the boys left and had a stomach attack, called our family friend after being unable to wake my inebriated tuchas, and was rushed to the hospital at 4:30 a.m. By the time I woke up, they were in and out of the hospital and brunching in South Beach. Never, ever a shortage of drama with me and my friends. Especially with this particular group. Nicole is fine and on the mend, but let me tell you that for a few waking moments yesterday I couldn't decipher what exactly had happened to my missing houseguest.

art therapy

I have been feeling under the weather lately; long story short, I need to get the wisdom teeth removed. Yes, I still have them. Shut up. So this weekend I took some much needed me time and caught up on housework, errands, made advance preparations for the baby shower me and some other girls are throwing next weekend, and, finally, did some art. I've always had two creative outlets—writing and doing art/crafts. I have long neglected my crafty cravings. So this weekend I got back into the swing of things, first creating a gift for the BFF's baby shower, and second, creating a gift for moi.

I've been absolutely obsessed with all things coral and beachy lately, so that was my inspiration for this. The boxes are older, and are more in line with my signature style. Please excuse the awful photography skills.







I would love to open up an eBay store sometime soon to showcase the wares of me and my talented friends, but I surely must create the inventory before I begin. So this is a slow start, and it will take a while to get back into the swing of things, but it only took a couple of hours.

Also happy birthday to the little brother, who is an aged 27 as of tomorrow.

Boys and Baubles

It's my personal philosophy that men have a complicated relationship with jewelry. In fact, I think most men fall into one of four categories regarding women and jewelry: 1. They are appreciative connoisseurs 2. They are mystified and/or intimidated by it. 3. They think it's silly 4. They just don't get it

Appreciative connoisseurs have grown up around women who are impressively bedazzled and have learned by osmosis the importance and the beauty of diamonds and other jewels. Typically, while on a date, these men will take note of your jewelry and compliment you on it. These are the best kind of men. Case in point: On a recent date, the gentleman noted my jewelry, which, like 90% of my collection came from dear, departed grandma, and said, "Is that jade? It's quite unusual for a girl your age to be wearing such lovely jade." OK, so he was in the diamond business and was a bit more specific than most, but still.

Men who are intimidated by jewelry, or a single girl who wears nice jewelry, probably have grown up in families where the mother either does not have good jewelry or doesn't much care about it. These men will take stock of the jewels you are wearing and a look of panic will cross their faces. "Does she think I'M GOING TO BUY HER THOSE THINGS?" Well, no, if we needed you to buy them, would we already be wearing them?? Case in point: On a date once, one of these category 2s actually asked me, "Are those real?" Seriously, I've been asked this question on a date, and yes, it was in reference to my diamonds.

Men who think jewelry is silly, well, why waste words on them? Certainly, handbags and shoes are sillier than jewelry, which, can be kept in a family for generations and generations.

Men who just don't get it, well, they just don't get it. And what I mean is this: Every girl, no matter how down to earth, unassuming, low-maint, whatever, would like at least one nice piece of jewelry. Nothing, simply nothing, makes a girl feel more special than being able to wear something that sparkles, especially if it has come from a place of love.

So where am I going with all of this? I have, on occasion, been told by friends of my mother's that I shouldn't wear certain pieces of jewelry on dates, so as not to MAKE THE MAN THINK I DON'T NEED HIM or to intimidate him. And, granted, I certainly don't break out the vault pieces on dates, however, I'm sure most of you can figure out how I feel about such sentiments. A. I don't need him to buy me things. Sure, gifts are always nice, but I have always thought that the whole notion of finding a man to take care of you is just so antequated and gauche. My mother has never expressed such sentiments, being that she's a major jewelry aficionado and has always shared the wealth.

However, this weekend, she gave me a belated 30th birthday gift in the form of some diamond earrings that she no longer wears. And to my utter horror, before handing them over, she actually said, "Well, I don't know Steph, don't you think that if you go on a date with a guy and he sees a 30-year-old with such big diamond earrings, well, what will he think?"

I merely rolled my eyes and snatched the rocks.
See, our jewelers on 47th Street,
GIA Diamonds,GIA Certified Diamonds,Diamond Rings,Designer Jewelry,Jewelry Designers-Norman Landsberg Inc.

And, previous family jewelry debacles:
Jews and Jewels

Independence Day Forward

I'll write more when I have time. In the meantime, these are for the Jacksonvillans. Holler. And, dad, if you've got the nerve to drink a Cosmopolitan in public for God sakes, then you'd better expect to be called out on it.

Tag and I'm It?

Oh, what the hell? I'm bored and I don't want to be jinxed. I'm off to see the fam tomorrow, so happy 4th to everyone.

"It appears other bloggers occasionally play a game of �tag�, where you have to answer some question(s) and pass it on to five other people."

Scott tagged me and I just plagiarized his text cause I'm uber-lazy right now.
Instructions:
1. Go to Wikipedia.
2. In the Search box, type your birth month and day (but not year).
3. List three events that happened on your birthday.
4. List two important birthdays and one interesting death.
5. One holiday or observance (if any).


Events of September 17th:
1. 1787 - The United States forms and becomes a country.
Duh, even I knew this. My birthday is, like, soooo cool.

2. 1928 - The Okeechobee Hurricane strikes southeastern Florida, killing upwards of 2,500 people. It is the third deadliest natural disaster in US history, behind the Galveston Hurricane of 1900 and the 1906 San Francisco earthquake.
This seems apropos given my new locale of a million hurricanes.

3. 2001 - The Late Show with David Letterman is the first TV talk show to return to the airwaves six days after terrorists attack the United States in New York City and Washington D.C.
Not so significant, but since it was my birthday and I was in NYC during the attacks and actually saw the towers aflame from the Village where I was in grad school, I remember this day particularly. This day of that year was the first time I had gone out to dinner since the attacks and I recall precisely the eerie sort of calm that was still pervading the city. People were finally eating out again, but everywhere, even the most social of places including Serafina on Madison, where I was, felt somber and rightfully so.

Birthdays:
1. 1931 - Anne Bancroft, American actress (d. 2005)

2. 1935 - Ken Kesey, American author (d. 2001)

Death:
1996 - Spiro Agnew, Vice President of the United States (b. 1918)
Grasping at straws here.

Holiday or Observance:
United States - Constitution Day (observed on the previous Friday if it falls in a weekend)
Or, how about my freaking birthday? Kidding, I actually loathe my own birthdays. Though last year's in Bermuda was the best I've had yet, as it involved a group of naked Canadians and the Bermudian police. Awesome.

You're it:

Always Double Back

Pan Kisses Kafka

May December

Mimi New York

Happy Anniversary to You

OK, usually I pay no mind to the spineless anony-commenters who for some reason have nothing better to do than read a stranger's drivel, but sometimes these people require rebuttals. I received this comment today:

"I have a very hard time reading your blog due to your incessant blasphemy...can't you be charming or funny or brilliant without cursing God? I just can't read this sort of stuff anymore....it breaks my heart when someone I love is spoken of cruelly."

Well, first, why the God damn hell are you reading my Semitic, un-Godly blog? For Christ's sake, I wore a shirt that says "Heeb" on the chest to the gym yesterday. If you are looking for God honey, you are clearly on the wrong page. Religion ranks about as high in my book as say, ice hockey or dodgeball, and I'm one of those left-wing commies who believe that organized religion is truly the opiate of the masses.
So I have a few things to say to you, oh mighty proselytizer: Get a life. Get an independent mind. Get a hobby that doesn't involve immolating your own autonomy to a faceless, ethereal, "being." And go read someone else's thoughts.

On a more pleasant note: HAPPY ANNIVERSARY to mom and dad, who have been happily--truly--married for 35 long years. Jeez. I can't even imagine it. Some pics of our lovely family from Dana's wedding last July 4th in Napa. My parents, as I've said before, and as anyone who knows them will readily attest to, are pretty hard to beat. They're fun, they're cool, they're generous, they're smart, they're cultured, they're successful, they're liberal, they're tolerant, they're nice and they have set great examples. They're are a tough act to follow, but they rock.

Spa Daze

Jeez I am tired. What's that Rilke quote about inertia? I am too wiped to look it up. I had a very relaxing weekend, having spent the better part of Saturday at this spa with some of my girlfriends.

Standard Hotel Miami

Had a nice massage, chilled by the pool and sweated in the Turkish baths and steam rooms. They have this rather hedonistic sort of room, pictured above, called a Hammam room, that "encourages group relaxation." It's almost impossible not to conjure up orgiastic images while in there. It's coed and one chick was topless, though all the men were thankfully fully clothed. It's a pretty cool hotel and spa though, and for $25 per day, you can access the Hammam, steam rooms, pool etc., so I think I'll definitely go back.

Our fair basketball team seems to have clinched the NBA title, a spectacle that I both witnessed (from the vantage point of a barstool) and heard (through my windows, which overlook the bay, not far from the American Airlines Arena).

I also began physical therapy, which, contrary to what most people say, really isn't a big deal. The PTs say that I was OVERSTRETCHING, so folks, beware of stretching yourself silly, as I was doing. I'm finally back in the gym regularly, thank fucking God. The weather is still nice, though approaching the triple digits rapidly. The storms have yet to begin. Some recent pics of the Miami crew.

And whilst Googling today, I discovered that I've made it into some random blogger's dictionary thingy. But if I wanted to get picky, I would say, "Dishalicious" as I conceived of it, translates into something like: dishy + delicious, or deliciously dishy.
Celebrate Today

You Can't Have Your Cake and Eat It Too

Another action packed weekend from which I am still recovering. I was out Weds to Sunday, so last night I took a much needed night off and relaxed with Entourage, which has finally righted itself after a disappointing opener. Friday night I dined at Red Fish Grill, which is in an exquisite setting on a private beach. Great date place. THE RED FISH GRILL

So my parents were in NYC this weekend with their best friends, without me:( Being that it was father's day, and also my dad's BFF's birthday, and given that I'd yet to buy dad anything and his BFF is like an uncle to me, I'd decided to make a grand gesture. My dad's favorite delicacy is the fudge cake from The Carnegie Carnegie Deli NYC.

I decided to have one of the cakes delivered to their hotel, as both a father's day and birthday gift to dad and his BFF. The delivery went off without a hitch, dad was pleasantly surprised, and I elicted promises from mom that they would bring the cake to one of their dinners. Well, they were doing serious dinners this trip, Friday night at Il Mulino Il Mulino and Saturday night at The River Cafe The River Cafe.

Mom SWORE she'd bring the cake, after the painstaking efforts I'd taken to ensure its delivery. I spoke to brother Sunday afternoon and said, "So, did mom bring the cake to dinner?"

He starts laughing and says, "Well, she's going to try to lie to you to tell you that she did, but really she didn't because they couldn't get it opened and it weighs like 15 pounds."

"Huh?"

"Dude, it came, like, wrapped in this industrial strength twine and shrink wrap, and dad couldn't cut through the rope. So she made me promise to lie to you and tell you that we all ate it at dinner, but really, they couldn't even get it open, so they took it home on the plane with them."

Oy vey. Only in my family, seriously. Dad's BFF calls later to thank me.

"The cake was delicious," he lies.

"David, you're so busted, I already spoke to Michael."

Laughing, "What did he say???"

"That there is a vast conspiracy to lie to me about the consumption of the Carnegie cake."

"Ha, ha, ha. I can't believe he told you!"

Later, I speak to mom, who is essentially so innocent she's unable to lie with a straight face, "Dinner was great and the cake was amazing!!"

I start laughing, "Um, I talked to Michael."

She starts giggling. "That stinker! We honestly couldn't get it open and it was just too heavy to carry to Brooklyn. But we took it home on the plane, I'm going to eat some tonight and then we'll freeze the rest for July 4th. Oh, wait here's dad..."

"Hi honey! The cake was great!!!"

"Dad, don't even try I spoke to Michael hours ago."

"Oh, damn!!"

"And, I spoke to David too. Your Carnegie conspiracy is shattered."

When I was telling the story to someone on the phone a couple of hours later, he said, "Wow. That really brings new meaning to the saying, 'You can't have your cake and eat it too.'"



Indeed. But at least this way, I'll get to have a slice over July 4th.

Pop Culture Roadkill

My friend and I had the best of intentions last night with regards to watching the Miami Heat game. OK, so deep down I knew that "watching" really meant sipping wine while filing nails, tidying up and gossiping, but still, you get the drift. But then we realized that an earthshaking, life-altering, mind-bending journalistic landmark was scheduled to air at the same time, and we simply had to partake in such a profound historical phenomenon. That's right, the Britney Spears/Matt Lauer interview.

A defiant Britney Spears takes on the tabloids - Dateline NBC - MSNBC.com

Now, as most of you know, I worked at this bastion of journalistic integrity that may or may not be this publication called The Star. I also wrote a little novel that revolved around the underhanded activities that a research editor witnessed while working at a famous American tabloid. After having toiled in the trenches of trash journalism, my appetite for celebrity culture was obliterated. After leaving said magazine, I have not purchased, read or even glanced at one single entertainment magazine. I have not followed Bradgelina, Lohan or Spears. I have, in short, become one of those people who couldn't give two shits about celebrities. Whereas before, I was a prime source of celebrity gossip.

Suffice it to say then that I haven't read or seen anything about Britney in ages. Didn't know she was preggers again, so was shocked to see her looking like a trailer park denizen chomping on gum whilst wearing false eyelashes and sporting enough cleavage to crush Matt's head. Appearances and ironies aside--"I don't understand why people call me white trash," chomp, chomp, smack--there was something very interesting about this interview.

She spent a large portion of the interview berating the paparazzi for stalking her in order to get pics to sell to the gossip rags. A fair argument, but one that no celebrity will ever win for the money at stake in publishing. But here's the brilliant irony. One of the show's producers was none other than the illustrious Michael Lewittes,
Michael Lewittes, Gawker who was a top editor at US Weekly and The Star, and who, was, in previous incarnations as a muckraker, perhaps responsible for many scurrilous items printed in such publications about fair Britney.

Just a little observation about the small, incestuous world of the media.

Hallejewya

Thank fucking god, but I do not need surgery. I don't have a nasty popliteal cyst or even a miniscus tear. Apparently I have nothing more than a severe, persistent case of tendonitis and hamstring inflammation. I don't need surgery, just a four week course of physical therapy. I am feeling so lazy due to my non-exercise regime of late, that I'm actually psyched to begin physical therapy. Plus, my docs are the team physicians for the Heat, Dolphins, Hurricanes etc., so I think there will be plenty of eye candy at my sessions. At least I am hoping. Natch I don't follow sports, so I was pretty clueless as to who the big brawny athletes were in the office with me yesterday. Anywho, I'm very relieved and super excited that I can start working out again. I'm free to bike, swim and do the elliptical again. What a weight off.

So now that I know there is nothing gravely wrong with me, I'm feeling much better. I'm a total believer in the whole psychosomatic thing.


I had a fun filled weekend, hanging out with lots of old and new friends in the area. Friday my leg was hurting and I was going to stay in, even though I had been invited to a fab party at this hotel, which is gorgeous and worth a peek, if not just for the stellar art collection, SAGAMORE HOTEL. But then my best friend, who is, by the way, 7 months preggers, said, "I really feel like going out, let's go to the party."

How sad is it when your PREGNANT friend has to drag your SINGLE ass out??? So me, BFF and hubby did dinner at Shoji Sushi, which is owned by the Prime 112 guys, Prime One Twelve, and then headed over to the Sagamore. It was a benefit for the Miami Performing Arts Center or some such operation, and, as the case seems to be down here, was a collection of the same people I've been meeting over the past couple of months.

So though I've only been down here for about two months, I'm already spotting many familiar faces on the social scene, which is quite nice, since it takes, oh about five years to do that in NYC. Saturday night my dad's old college buddy had an amazing party at his amazing house on one of the islands on the beach, so it was a casual but chic affair with lots of food, drink and fun. I simply must move to the beach though, the cabs are getting awfully expensive and my area is just really quiet, mostly couples and not too many singles roaming around.

It's official: I'm a cripple. Orthopod's verdict: popiteal cyst or menescus tear or both? In the knee. Went for the MRI yesterday, best friend held my hand, due to my severe case of "white coat syndrome." I am now officially hopped up on Darvocet, bed rest and sneakers. The Manolos are staying put in the closet for an indeterminate amount of time. Sadly, this is the worst part about this condition--the fact that I cannot wear good shoes and the fact that I cannot stand at length, making going out very difficult. Oh, and it basically hurts to sit upright. I am in agony right now typing, hence the no-posting.

Send me to Bermuda in a Body Bag Please

My brother just got his Bermuda pics developed from September. We went there for my 30th; It was spectacular and I'm wishing I were there right now. In addition to my knee injury, which, after being on my feet all weekend, has decided to flare up again in a major way, I have developed some kind of back/neck/shoulder mess. Basically I want an IV of Percacet, stat.

Happier times...

Attitudes and Platitudes

When a man walks into a date, and informs you, upon you asking what he did that day, that "Neiman's is having its pre-sale," you know it's going to be a doozy. Such was the case last week, when my good friend and I had a sort of double-blind outing with a set-up I'd been talking to and one of his friends who was in town visiting.

Making small-talk when they first arrived, I asked what they had done that day.

"I did some SERIOUS damage at Bal Harbour; at Tod's and Neiman's," my date said. Uh oh. Not a great first impression.

My friend, God love her, and whom I am forever grateful to for accompanying me and turning a potential disaster into a fun night out, looks at date deadpan and says, "What's Tod's?"

Critical shopper that I am, I a.) KNOW that Neiman's is having its Goddamned presale and b.) DON'T want to be informed of this fact from a supposedly hetero, single, Jewish man. It went slowly downhill from there wrt to the set-up. But the friend was much more down to earth and cool, so we all managed to have a good time. And the restaurant was fab; for those of you South Floridians reading, it's def. worth checking out. It's a total scene, NY style, and Bruce Weber even sauntered in clad in his identifiable bandana. Prime 112

People ask me why I am jaded when it comes to dating, and it is merely for reasons like this. I just hate the whole time-wasting element of it all. You talk for weeks or months or whatever the case may be, esp. if the two of you don't live near each other, then you meet in person and there is nothing. However, given that I'd seen this guy's pics in the society pages several times, I did have an inkling that there would be no attraction.

Anywho, the NYC girls and I had a lovely, low-key time in Miami, due to the fact that the hip-hoppers took over the beach last weekend, so it was not the normal scene over there. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but just not our scene. In fact, after sitting in about 30 minutes of traffic, witnessing this,



amongst other things, we got out of the cab in front of the Shore Club, in front of a cavalcade of cops.

Spying us, four decked out white Jewish chicks, one of the cops said, "You girls look lost. Are you sure you want to be here?"

What can I say? The PC movement has been slow to reach the South.

One more note: Hands-down the best restaurant I've eaten at down here, truly delicious. Run there. Now. Ortanique

My NYC girls arrive tomorrow for the weekend, so I'm sure I'll have some more entertaining stories come Tuesday. Apparently it's a huge hip-hop weekend down here, so it should be exciting, to say the least. My car will remain in the garage all weekend, as I'm very strict about drinking and driving and I plan on partying it up NYC style for old time's sake. After the cat incident, which occurred when I was completely sober, sister's a little scared to hit the road again. Have double-blind date tonight, so must go home and primp. Dressing is a whole different ball game down here girls, jeans, it seems are not appropriate for every occassion as they are in New York. Happy Memorial Day.

On a serious note, this is almost too scary for words. Iran is trying to pass a law that would require non-Muslims, including, of course Jews, but also Christians, to wear colored ribbons! For the Jews, it's yellow, for the Christians, red. ... Sound familiar? Iran's "National Uniform Law"

Killer Karma

I can now add a new title to my prestigious resume: murderess. Yes, I surely have some bad karma coming my way. I'm driving down the Venetian Causeway Thursday night on my way to meet my friends. I'm going 30 mph max, factually ensured, since I had just seen a cop and was uber-observant of the speed limit. It's turning from dusk to night, and the road is sort of a narrow, residential street. All of the sudden, and, in slow-mo, as most life-altering events seem to be, this intrepid cat-who-looked-like-a-raccoon-and-shall-henceforth-be-referred-to-as-raccoon-to-assuage-my-Jewish-guilt, darts out in front my car. It sort of froze in the glare of my headlights, and before either one of us had the time to react, I hit the poor little fucker. Yes, I slammed on my brakes, but it was not enough. I suspect that even if I was only going 10 mph, 2 tons of German steel would have still caused the feline's demise. The impact natch produced a most sickening noise. I know it was a cat, even though my friends tried to convince me it was a wild animal of some sort, but it had a strange striped tail like that of a raccoon. It didn't have a collar, so I am hoping it was a stray and not a family's pet, but do cats ever have collars? The neighborhoods on the Venetian causeway are VERY tony, so I cannot imagine these people having wild outdoor cats.

Now as you all know I am an animal lover, and the pure irony of this whole situation is that EXACTLY 24 hours before I commited man/animalslaughter, I was volunteering at the freaking Humane Society. Could it possibly get anymore absurd? I mean, come on! The fact that I actually did volunteer at the HS the night before is the only reason I'm not having some sort of karmic meltdown, though I still do feel awful about the accident and have been having cat/raccoon nightmares all weekend. I do truly apologize to whomever owned/cared for this cat, so I'm lobbing this feeble apology out into the karmic/cosmic void.

Low Society

One of my guiltiest pleasures is observing what is shamefully referred to as "high society." From the earliest age, I've devoured the society pages and followed the boldfaced names. Perhaps it was the influence of my grandmother, who was a diva of unparalleled proportions. Or perhaps it was simply the fact that I've always been imbued with an affinity for life's finer pleasures. Or perhaps it's just that I like "pretty things" in the words of Rufus Wainwright. I take society at face-value: Sure, it's shallow, pretentious, ridiculous and exclusionary. But, again, paying homage to Wainwright, "Oh, what a world." It's just great fun sometimes.

Now, I'm not reinventing the wheel here, but it bears being said that society has not always been so friendly to Jews. Of course, as American Jews moved out of the lower strata of society and into the upper echelons in terms of sheer wealth, society, surprise, surprise, embraced members of the tribe a little more. But it was always a wink, wink, nod, nod kind of thing. In New York society, Jews have earned and hold their rightful place, sure. Many of New York's most prominent society fixtures are members of the tribe (MOTs). However, journey down to Palm Beach, and you'll notice fewer Golds, Bergs and Steins on the guestlists. So be it. The Jews who are members of Palm Beach society, tend to fall into the nouveau category, and how vulgar is that? There are a few Jewish old money--but not true "old" money, Jewish old money, which still means recent immigration--types that are the creme de la creme of international society such as the Lauders. But these families are few and far between.

OK, so my point with all this is that I've been observing this world for some time now, from Florida to California--well, Hollywood really throws society a curve ball, but that's beside the point--to New York, the center of all things. And I attended my share of society functions in New York, which, are in and of themselves, perhaps the most comical, fascinating and bizarre petri dishes of human interaction and behavior in the world. Because in New York society, if you're not a DuPont, Phipps, Taft, Guest or Getty, you're simply nobody, dah-ling. Sad, but true. So you just laugh at it all. In true NY-Palm Beach society, either your ancestors came over on the Mayflower or you're nouveau riche, period. And then it's like, so the fuck what? Your family could give as much money, or probably more, because as we all know society type WASPS are often very stingy wrt charities, to charity than a social register type, but if you're last name isn't one of the old ones, you're nobody. That's just the way it works, and frankly, it's just absurd.

Because, in the end, who the hell cares what your last name is and where your ancestors came from? Are you a generous person? Do you pay it forward? Do you share the wealth? Do you try to leave a positive legacy on this earth? Do you contribute something worthwhile to "society?" If yes, then, as far as I'm concerned, you're right up there with the Phippses, DuPonts, etc. The Jews, see, we do it better. We don't care who the hell your great-great-great grandaddy was. We actually don't care whether you went to Andover or Choate or Harvard or Yale. We don't care if your diamonds came from Graff. (We do care if your diamonds are real, but, preferably, they should come from 47th Street.) What we do care about is whether you are a generous giver. We care about what charities you donate to and how much money you give back in proportion to your wealth. Whether you're new money or old money, if you're writing the checks to the charities, come on in.

This is a rather longwinded way of me saying that I went to my first "society" event in Miami last night, and what a breath of fresh air it was compared to my experiences at New York society events. The people were genuinely friendly, the music was phat, the mood was casual, people were wearing everything from Hermes to American Apparel, and you know what? A fabulous time was had by all. I was genuinely shocked at how open, friendly and warm everyone was. How welcoming and interested and receptive people were.
"Would you like to join our committee?"
"What do you mean? You don't need a DNA sample and a genealogy tree? Well, then, why, yes, I would be delighted to be more involved in the arts."

Oh, and can I just describe the setting for you? OK. There is this island here called Fisher.
FisherIsland
According to it's web site, "Originally built in the 1920's by William and Rosamund Vanderbilt as their splendid winter estate, Fisher Island has enjoyed a long, storied history of entertaining the luminaries of its time." Blah, blah, blah. The long and the short of it is that this is where Oprah and the Olsen twins have pads. You must take a boat to and fro, there is a heliport, the biggest yachts docked outside of Monte Carlo, and more security than the Pentagon. From the time you drive onto the car ferry to your approach at the person's front door, you are escorted by security guards. This apartment was utterly fab, owned by a single guy around my age, with a terrace that everyone I chatted with characterized by excaliming, "this is bigger than my whole apartment." The terrace--I have a thing for terraces--was at least 1,000 sq ft, with gorgeous views of the ocean and the golf course.

But the best part was the people, who were all, every last one of them, completely without attitude and pretense. They just cared about the arts, having fun and enjoying the beautiful surroundings. Really, who could ask for anything else? But this island, although extraordinarily pristine, would have its drawbacks in terms of living. Like, for instance, can you imagine getting shitfaced in South Beach and then having to sit on a slow-moving, vertigo-inducing boat flanked by serious security guards in order to stumble into your home? Or how about this, as one of the guys I was with observed, regarding our host:

"What the hell does he do if he hooks up with a girl? Calls her a taxi and sends her off on a two hour long walk of shame back to the mainland? Or makes her walk to the ferry? That would have to be the worst walk of shame ever...can you imagine him saying, 'Hey, baby, want to take the ferry back to my place? You'll get home in like two days.' Do they even have cabs on this island?"

Probably not, but I'm guessing that one of the golf-cart-driving security guards would gladly escort you back to the ferry if you asked them nicely. En Espanol.