Speed Plating, celebrity chef Danny Boome’s brainchild, is a little speed dating shindig at a restaurant where each participant noshes on every course with a different date—four in all at 20 minutes each. The combination of creative, aphrodisiac-conscious yet unpretentious food and the unlimited bubbly had me at hello.
Essence magazine's Reggie Bush cover has angered some readers who who question his interracial relationship.
I have forgotten all about romance. I don't remember what it tastes like, what the sensation does to my stomach, my knees, or my soul. So this week, I'm writing my blog entry in a notepad with an actual pen. I'll retype it later as I struggle, I'm sure to decipher my anguished scrawl. For now, I want to bring back the rawness of romance. Smooth, like cheap, gooey ballpoint on lined paper.
I’m pickier about men than when I was younger. I thought it was supposed to be the other way around. As in, you get older and more mature and overlook minor flaws because you realize that no one’s perfect. The thing is, perfection doesn’t appeal to me; everyone knows I despise pretty boys. It’s not like I have a certain cookie cutter image of what I find attractive, but these days, it’s few and far between.
On Sunday evening, Angie and I attended a “silent rave” in Union Square Park, which is essentially a few hundred people dancing wildly to the music on their iPods. So if you’re walking by and happen to see this, it looks like a few hundred crazies rocking out to no music. And I mean, rocking out – arms flailing, rave-type stuff. It sounded like a lot of fun and another chance to act like a kid again (and Angie loves stupid fun just as much as I do) so we hopped on the idea. It was crazier than I imagined. There was a conga line, beach balls, lit-up pineapples, Japanese break dancers, a girl in a banana costume, lots of NYPD, and Angie and I, jumping up and down, screaming, “I KISSED A GIRL AND I LIKED IT!” After much effort, we had synched some of the tracks on our iPods so we could vibe to the same song.
When my mother was my age, she was already settled into marriage (she tied the knot at the tender age of 21) and she and my pops were planning the arrival of their first child. When my grandmother was my age, she was already an old ball and chain (quite a hot one if you take a look at the black and white pics) with two kids and a few more on the way. Here I am in my mid-twenties without even a shadow of a domestic life, or a male partner in crime.
I'm sitting here in my apartment in (almost) silence, touching up an article I need to get out of the way before I leave for dinner with a friend who's visiting the city. The sun is spilling through the window, taunting me a little, since I could be sprawled out with a book on the grass in the park today. Instead, I'm here stressing. The lease to my overpriced apartment is expiring in September and my roommates and I are in a state of desperation, trying to find a better deal on another one in the same complex. There are some rotten complications, as there always are when it comes to moving in New York, and it's got me on edge. The feeling of mortality has come over me; I can be consumed at any moment, left without a roof over my head! So I sit here waiting for the leasing agent to call back with any news.
Cheers to another lazy, summery Sunday afternoon. I was laying back and sipping on some chilled Riesling today on the deck in my parents' backyard with my best guy friend, Esco today when I realized something. I've been so boy-crazy lately that I forgot how much fun a platonic relationship with a man is. No humping, no flirting, no tension—just chilling. And bitching about the opposite sex, which is fun since you get a fresh point of view and all of these new defense tactics that men like to employ.
I've been talking about venturing out of comfort zones, lately. It seems like the lines of my own zone, which used to be as thick as La Winehouse's eyeliner, are stretching into skimpy dotted lines now. Is it maturity, or am I just finally realizing that a good man can come in any color, shape, size or background? It seems as if the "try something new" bug has bitten everyone lately. Angie, who is usually all about tall, dark and debonair, is dating this new guy that looks like he’s in a boy band. "I usually hate light eyes," she said, "but for some reason, they look really good on him." Maybe it's not the light eyes but the fact that he's adorable, smart and bat-shit crazy about her. Go figure.
I don’t know whether it’s my overdeveloped single cynicism or simply that the metrosexual trend for guys has not made its way out yet, but I feel like every man I date is secretly homosexual. Maybe I’m being dramatic but I do feel like lately I’ve been getting the gay end of the stick, so to speak. This all came together for me last week when I went on a first date with a guy named Danny – the second guy I matched at speed dating. Danny is a dancer, an ensemble cast member of a very popular Broadway show, with a sexy, muscular frame that would make Will Smith in "I Am Legend" (yum) look flabby. And he models a little too. This alone piqued my gaydar but I ignored it, wishing and hoping.
