I Knew Him When

It's a rare event that I'm out at a bar on a Sunday night. Especially now that Sunday nights are home to the quality entertainment of Desperate Housewives. If I'm going out on an off night (anything other than a Thursday, Friday, or Saturday) it's usually a Tuesday. FYI: Tuesday nights are totally underrated.

But back to Sunday nights...

What force could have dragged me from my cozy Brooklyn 'hood, you ask?

None other than Brian Austin! {roar of the crowd}

Brian is my friend Tray's boyfriend. He played his first real New York gig at CB's 313 Gallery last night. Partly to support my friend and partly because he's actually really talented, I made my way to CBGB's. I even wrangled my friend L. into joining me. He was really great, and I'm not just saying that because he's a friend. In fact, my friend L., who had never met Tray or Brian before and certainly was in no way obligated to say nice things about him, had this to say, "He's more talented than a lot of musicians out there."

By the way, yes, Brian Austin is his real name, even though it sounds like a made-up 'I'm ready for Hollywood' name.

Notes on Mary Karr

On Wednesday evening, I had the pleasure of hearing poet and memoirist Mary Karr read some of her work and answer questions. This was no typical, overcrowded Barnes & Noble reading - it took place at the New School, in a room that fit about 50 people, if that.

Mary remebered me from about 8 years ago, when I was a student in her class, Living Writers. It was a phenomenal class. The kind that embodies everything you thought college classes would be like. Unfortunately not many of them actually measure up.

She's still the firecracker I remember her to be. She's currently working on another memoir, Lit.

It makes total sense that she writes memoirs. Her type is like your slightly-crazy uncle who always has a memory to share, a story to tell, that sometimes, is so far removed from what you're familiar with, you find it hard to believe it's true, and moreover, that it happened to him.

If you're looking for something good to read, check out The Liar's Club and Cherry. And then join me in waiting for Lit to be published.

My Birthday Quickly Approaches...

This year's birthday celebration is taking place next Saturday night (exact location yet to be determined) and I can't wait! My super-fun, super-sparkly perfect birthday celebration outfit is almost complete. (I'm still in search of closed-toe, pewter or silver heels.)

Last year's birthday celebration was a bit low-key, so this year I'm doin' it up, MTV-style.

If you were one of the chosen who were lucky enough to receive an evite to by birthday hoo-ha, you saw the theme loud and clear. For the rest of you, here you go...



I subscribe to the school of thought that declares everyone should have his or her own birthday off from work. Luckily, my b-day falls on a weekend this year. Even though the term "birthday" refers to a single day, I prefer to celebrate over a long weekend, or an entire week.

This year's birthday week activities include:

• a yoga class at the awesome studio down the block (I purchased 10 for myself as a birthday treat)

• spa treatments -- three* of them over the course of the week (more birthday treats to self)
[* Three might seem a bit gluttonous, but it's Spa Week. Once I made the first reservation, I couldn't help myself...]

• enjoying some of my favorite foods, including but not limited to, a chocolate croissant for breakfast, a lobster roll from Pearl Oyster Bar for lunch, an ice cream cone from Baskin-Robbins (even if it's not quite warm enough)

• um, more bullet points to come in subsequent posts...

I'm still working on the official agenda. It's a challenge to put together a birthday week that is full of fun stuff without going too far and exhausting the birthday person.

A Day in the Park with Pope John Paul II

The summer after fourth grade, my dad and I went to Italy for two weeks to visit my grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. It was the first and longest amount of time I had been away from my mom and as much as I was excited about the trip, I still felt uneasy about leaving my mom. It's not that I didn't love my dad, or feel comfortable with him. He has a way of making you feel extremely safe and protected. It's just that, well, he isn't my mom. I actually cried in the car on the way to the airport.

For two nights we stayed with one of my dad's childhood friends, at his home in Rome. The first morning there we woke up early for a long day of sightseeing. It was August and even before 10 am it was warm out. I put on one of the perfectly coordinated outfits my mom had packed for me - a light pink tank top and a pair of loose brown shorts. I wanted to wear the brown sandals my grandparents had bought for me a few days earlier, but my dad made me wear my sneakers instead. "We're going to do a lot of walking today," he said.

We stopped for breakfast at the cafe downstairs. My dad finished his espresso and biscotti in a matter a minutes. I took a little longer to finish my latte-cafe (mostly latte) and brioche.

We took two buses to get to Vatican City. Then it was a long walk to St. Peter's. The Pope was going to say the mass. I asked my dad if the mass would be in Italian or Polish. He told me about how the masses were said in Latin until not so long ago. Standing in the piazza, with the late-morning sun shining down on us, I was glad I had worn my sleeveless shirt. My dad wasn't. He took my hand and said we had to go. "But Pop, what about the mass?" He was kind of laughing, in an 'I can't believe I did this' way. "You know, I've been to St.Peter's how many times before. And today I forgot that you can't go into the church in sleeveless shirts and shorts."

Really? Not even kids? I wondered to myself and looked over at my dad was in his navy shorts.

We walked all the way back to the bus stop, on one bus, then onto another, and back to the house. My mom had the foresight to pack a single pair of pants for me. After my dad and I were suitably dressed, we headed back out, into the mid-day heat, in our long pants. It was like our very own pilgrimage.

By the time we got there, the mass was over and the Pope had returned to his quarters.

Almost ten years later, I was in Central Park, with a group of friends from college. We had taken a road trip to come hear the Pope say mass. (It was in English.)

This time no one seemed to care what we were wearing.