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Everyone in Manhattan looks famous
After a humbling moment of "O, express means skipping the entire upper west side", Purple and I eventually landed at Citrus. Mostly because it a warming shade of orange. If you thought yesterday's wind tunnel effect in Boston was bone-chilling, imagine Manhattan.
Citrus offers Latino/Japanese cuisine. I'm exactly the sort of (wannabe) BoHo Whore who gets my post-modern rocks off at the thought of such absurd combos. So, I had the special, salsa wasabi sashimi, with a pomegranate mojito, and if nothing else, I thawed slightly. Purple hid in her corner with seltzer, steak and potatos. Very tasty, but I shoulda gone with my gut and had the pomegranate salmon. There's not much you can do to improve sashimi once you know how to select the right fish and cut it right. (Although, you're welcome to prove me wrong.)
At some point, when we kept double-taking at all the shiny and pressed people, we realized disturbingly that everyone has George Clooney's hair. Men, women, children, dogs.
Ok, not really, but it sure made Boston feel like the land of shaggy hippies. Would I manage to stay non-disheveled, for hours at a time, if I moved somewhere that offered sufficient peer pressure to do so?
I hoped my hair looked more wavy than shaggy and took solace in my new, potentially edgy, reversible Ubu jacket. The fun side is aqua with all kinds of (Jay McCarroll-ish) spots. Zarf was somewhat horrified when I modelled it for him on Thursday. I haven't found a catalog-style photo of this color combo online yet, maybe I'll pose for a photo sometime today.
Purple wants me to save my camera battery for celebrities. I'm resisting running down the battery taking pictures of my host's cats. I hate feeling like a tourist. Although, the one-day, whirlwind tour a la Adah last summer was sufficiently amusing.
I guess I'm just bummed that I feel too soft and fluffy (and poor) to really pass for a native around here.
Citrus offers Latino/Japanese cuisine. I'm exactly the sort of (wannabe) BoHo Whore who gets my post-modern rocks off at the thought of such absurd combos. So, I had the special, salsa wasabi sashimi, with a pomegranate mojito, and if nothing else, I thawed slightly. Purple hid in her corner with seltzer, steak and potatos. Very tasty, but I shoulda gone with my gut and had the pomegranate salmon. There's not much you can do to improve sashimi once you know how to select the right fish and cut it right. (Although, you're welcome to prove me wrong.)
At some point, when we kept double-taking at all the shiny and pressed people, we realized disturbingly that everyone has George Clooney's hair. Men, women, children, dogs.
Ok, not really, but it sure made Boston feel like the land of shaggy hippies. Would I manage to stay non-disheveled, for hours at a time, if I moved somewhere that offered sufficient peer pressure to do so?
I hoped my hair looked more wavy than shaggy and took solace in my new, potentially edgy, reversible Ubu jacket. The fun side is aqua with all kinds of (Jay McCarroll-ish) spots. Zarf was somewhat horrified when I modelled it for him on Thursday. I haven't found a catalog-style photo of this color combo online yet, maybe I'll pose for a photo sometime today.
Purple wants me to save my camera battery for celebrities. I'm resisting running down the battery taking pictures of my host's cats. I hate feeling like a tourist. Although, the one-day, whirlwind tour a la Adah last summer was sufficiently amusing.
I guess I'm just bummed that I feel too soft and fluffy (and poor) to really pass for a native around here.