The Lost Blog...

So, in order:

I left New York City, but the last few weeks were such a whirlwind that I'll just highlight:

-The Great Rickshaw Adventure. On our way to Crobar, one of the hottest clubs in NYC (if it's all right to say that), it was too cold to walk and all the nearby cabs were taken. We hailed a rickshaw, and halfway down an abandoned street the driver (a young British guy of ambiguous ancestry "I'm from Italy by way of Leeds" and professional history "I left fashion because the industry is saturated with tarted-up people") asked if we wanted to take a spin. I thought, why the hell not? And climbed into the saddle. "You're a natural!" he cried, when I nearly collided with an SUV. The wind rushed by, my friends rushed out of the cab, I rushed off the seat and forgot to put on the emergency brake. That said, if we ever need to hijack a mode of transportation, my vote is for rickshaw. (Imagine one of those dramatic movie scenes. The hero and heroine are fleeing a gang of storm-troopers/mafiosos/cops and end up on a tarmac. "We'll have to take the plane," the hero says tersely. "Let's do it," she agrees. They drop their nearest pursuers - he with a nasty right hook and she with a cardio-kick that somehow sets her tits swinging - and they climb into the cockpit. "Wait," says the hero as they swing the hatch closed, "how the fuck do you handle this thing?" The heroine snorts, climbs over him, and pushes a few levers/buttons while he stares, slack-jawed. "What," she says as the plane coasts smoothly off the runway, "you never wanted to be a pilot when you were a little girl?" Now imagine the scene again. But this time, the pursuit isn't cops, it's tourists running to catch a glimpse of Christina Aguilera, whose car just rolled by. The heroine isn't Angelina Jolie, and the plane is a rickety bike riveted to a plastic tent with wheels on it. If this second, more "indie" scene is your style, well, I can make it happen. If, on the other hand, you prefer the first, well, commercial Hollywood thrives on people like you.)

-The Punishment of Eve. And the Lord said, "Thou shalt suffer pain in childbirth, and in addition, long before that time ever comes, thou shalt encounter strange drunkards in the night, and they shalt say unto you, 'Forsooth, the fairest stars of this desert night hath fallen from Eden,' or some such variation. And by this, thou shalt know thou art a sinner." Or, to paraphrase our prophetic rickshaw driver of earlier, "Crobar? It's such a meat market."

-Naked Boys Praying. Or maybe I meant, Clothed Boys Singing. Or 'singing religious men, in various states of dress?' Sonal and I saw "Altar Boyz" her last night in New York. It's a musical about five boys trying to succeed as a Christian boy band. They were sweet, they were funny, they were well-intentioned. But when one of them placed his hand over his leather-clad heart, gave the audience a smoldering look out of his heavily-lined eyes, and crooned, "Baby, something about you makes me want to...wait..." Sonal and I couldn't hold in our tears of laughter and - yes - pain. Because honestly, there are some things girls don't ever want to hear. Not even as a joke. Not just once because you're drunk, not in a foreign language "because then it doesn't count..." and certainly not because "all the other girls at church hear it all the time and they like it."

-Naked Girls Dancing! We followed our party instinct to a garage out in Brooklyn, where several college girls were competing in an amateur burlesque competition. During halftime - I mean, intermission - the host came around with a bag. "All this money goes to the winner," he said. We declined, saying we'd rather slide our crisp Lincolns into the lucky girl's G-string ourselves. But imagine my surprise to discover that the competiton was a) not that raunchy and b) one of my old high school friends was competing! Not only did she compete, she won! Which made the reunion afterwards, un peux faux pas, which is French for "fucking awkward, but on the other hand, fantastic." The DJ spun Bhangra afterwards, and I spent a mellow Monday night unwinding with a Guinness and a gang of dance-crazy kids who had both energy and moves.

-Secret Scary. I bought a "perceptive" gift for my office Secret Santa. It was a copy of Jay-Z's newest album, which I was sorely tempted to burn for myself before I wrapped it. As part of the up-and-coming rap duo Sha G (only up-and-coming because we can't get any further down, if you catch my drift...) I thought I could learn a few lessons from the King's sublime flow. Alas, ethics intervened, and I got nothing for the purchase but kudos from my excited editor. I did get a chance to play my own personal drinking game at the party, in which I ask my nearest companion what she's drinking and then order it next round. Thus I made my way through a pinot noir, a whiskey on the rocks, and a very dirty vodka martini. I got a little too excited about ordering, I suspect. When the waiter asked me how dirty I'd like the martini (mind you, it was my third drink) I gurgled, "As dirty as possible" and he tossed me a look like maybe he regretted not asking me for identification. Note to self: "as dirty as possible" is not a restaurant-appropriate phrase, in any context.

So this blog has lapsed a little because I wasn't sure anyone was reading it, and also partly because I switched to keeping a diary for about a week. To be honest, I'm not sure blogging is for me. It's definitely improved my writing, but whether it's helped my state of mind, I don't know.

That said, about last night...so I finally decided, screw this better judgment thing, and I went out with an old high school friend. We met at this place - a bit of a dive - where they served shots in test tubes and daiquiris in glasses the size of crystal balls. I didn't know anyone else there, but by the time we tottered out, we felt friendly enough that it didn't matter. The next stop was a club where another friend was spinning the opening set. The bouncer took my ID. "I'm just telling you this isn't ID in most places," he said, handing it back. "I'm from Dubai," I said, in clipped English, "it's the only ID I have." He just shook his head and I flew down the stairs before he could stop me. There were about ten people there, and so my friend bounced over and told us that it was our job to get the party started. I thought, it's dark, no one cares if things go a little crazy. The fact is, when it comes to dancing, I'm long on enthusiasm but short on training. Most people notice the enthusiasm and don't care about the training - I'm sure this applies to more in life than dancing - so it's never been an issue.

There were six of us. Two, a young couple, spent most of the evening dancing with each other. My friend bopped around the room, trying to get people on their feet. Another girl ran out to use the phone. This left me with one guy I didn't know, but he started pulling these crazy dance moves out of the air. I watched him for a while, then decided to join in. We switched back and forth, other people moving in and out of the circle. The club began to fill, the other kids were staring, and I'm going to be honest, I didn't care that people were looking at me. It's been a while since I felt so uninhibited, but also like I was learning something. (These kids all dance well, but in a style totally different from the standard rap grinding that pervades the Greek college scene.)

By the time a huge black guy was break dancing on the floor and two skinny girls in dresses were making out with each other, we figured our work was done and went home for a smoke. After that I took a cab home, with the other guy I'd been dancing with. He went to his place, I went to mine. But here's the other thing about the night that sticks in my mind, and I feel sort of bad about it: I didn't pay for anything.

Sure, I paid for my own dinner, but after that, drinks, cabs, weed - I didn't chip in. Normally I put in my share of everything because I hate girls who think they're somehow measured by what they get for free. Normally I refuse when people offer to buy me drinks. Maybe I've changed - relaxed about keeping all these accounts - perhaps because after Italy I realized that an offer to pay isn't always some grandiose statement, sometimes it's just a quick gesture and not worth noticing. It's a step for me. Back in freshman year of college I remember I went to a cafe with a friend once and I was so upset when he paid for my coffee. And I'm still torn. On the one hand, I'm glad I protested as much as I did because I do believe in fairness and equality and all that. On the other, I wish I hadn't made us both feel awkward, I wish I'd just said "thanks" and made a note to somehow repay the favor later. It reminds me of a conversation I had with two friends, both other women, about who pays for dinner on a first date. "I always split," said the first. "I don't," said the second. "I look him in the eye and say thank you." (As an interesting side note, the second one had been president of her sorority in college, the first played for years on a nationally ranked softball team.) But being neither a sorority president nor a softball player, I wonder what's the right middle ground.

And then I thought: my sister and I, we never split. One person pays for something, the other pays for something else. And it's because there's an implicit understanding between us that we have some future together in which this will all undoubtedly come out even. And perhaps I can say the same thing of all these people, if I know I'll see them again, if I know I like them. It's okay. It will all come out even.