1/31/05: NYC

Friday night, for the second time in my life, I partied with Helena Christensen.

Well, not really but if I were a pathetic loser I might make such a claim.  And I would be sure to use the expression "partied."

The first time was at the REM/Luscious Jackson tour-end party at L. Teddy's in what must have been 1995. My sis hooked us up with one backstage pass that got like five or six of us in the door, and then it was a free for all. Great night: free drinks, free grub, and massive celebrity viewing opportunities: 

-Ethan Hawke (desperately and unsuccessfully seeking to project an air of detached coolness that he's still searching for today);
-Tim Robbins, who had to that point been the consensus office pick to play cW in the FN movie whenever it got made, rudely elbowing cW out of the way at the bar and ordering a whisky;
-Absolute Tool Stephen Dorff, upon seeing the photography book that Michael Stipe had given my sister as an end-of-tour gift, saying, "Yo, that's a dope book," with a straight face;
-Helena Christensen wandering around and then ducking aside for a minute to make out with Stipe behind a ficus tree (I'm a little hazy on this one, but I think it happened);
-Assorted other famous motherfukkas.

Ten years later, which means Friday night, a couple of co-workers and I stopped for a beer on the way home from the office.  After this beer was consumed, we started walking to the subway.  We passed a gallery on 15th street, and we noticed there was some kind of opening going on inside. It was your typical gallery scene.  White walls lined with a smattering of photos. Dozens of hipsters milling around and a "Private" sign on the door.  I looked in and saw Liv Tyler standing there. Everybody looked famous. There was also a kid playing around in the gallery, desperately trying to keep himself entertained (remember how torturous it was to go to places like art galleries when you were five?).  The kid saw us and started making funny faces.  The dad, who was an actor I recognized by face but not by name,  then saw us and motioned for us to come in. So we did.  Busted right through the "Private" sign on the door and walked on in.

The actor dude was really nice.  He said, "Please, have a look around." At this point I saw Helena Christensen fluttering about, meeting and greeting everyone. They were all wearing expensive-looking pants. 

"This is an exhibit of Helena's photos," actor guy said. Then he added, "Helena Christensen, you know?"

We nodded like we had gone to Barbizon with her in the early 80's. "Helena?  Helena Christensen? Of course I remember her.  What's she been up to all these years?  I guess the modeling didn't work out, huh?" 

So we took a look around.  The photos were pretty good, actually. Liv Tyler was in one of 'em, a close-up of her staring intently at a TV that was maybe one inch by one inch.  Pretty cool shot.  We walked through trying not to gawk at famous people and then we left.

Regardless of how impressed you are by celebrity sightings, it was a nice New York moment, the way the dude waved us in, the way nobody seemed to mind our shlubby presence. I like just knowing that stuff like that is quietly happening on a random block on a Friday night.

It set the stage for a nice weekend here in the city. Temperatures hit the mid-30s and it felt almost like Spring after the brutal stretch we just went through. The wife and I had many errands to run, which brought us to all corners of the island of Manhattan.   As I walked around, I remembered again that no matter how much I bitch about it, I really love this town. Sure, there are a million things I'd change about it if I could. It's basically an impossible place if you stop and think about it.  And I don't take advantage of all the things I should. But goddammit I love it here, just the feeling I get walking down the street and looking at people and listening to sounds and smelling smells. Even the bad smells.

Clint Eastwood once said of his movie-making career: "I love every aspect of the creation of motion pictures and I guess I am committed to it for life."

I think that's where I'm headed with NYC.

So please nobody blow it up.

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B. New emailed me this link that showcases a white boy with truly frightening hops. Scroll down to "Henry Bekkering - The Remix." I looked him up and he's going to Eastern Washington (?!?), and not getting much run.  The rest of his game must be pretty raw, because his leaping ability is on par with anyone I've ever seen. He basically dunks from the free throw line -- off of two feet and using his weak hand.  Lord.   Pierre-Marie Altidor-Cespedes ain't bad, either.  I think we're going to see a nice influx of Canadian hoops talent over the next five to ten years.  The Nash Effect.

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If you're waiting for "The Surreal Life" to start sucking, put your feet up, grab some string cheese from the fridge, and hunker down, because it's gonna be awhile.  The America's Top Model chick is throwing herself at Peter Brady with the gusto of Homer Simpson diving into an all-you-can-eat shrimp buffet.  It's such a very good show.

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The answer to last week's "Name That Solo" was "Girlfriend" by the Modern Lovers. You can snag the full empeetrey if you missed it over the weekend. In the meantime, some housekeeping.  We've had a few complaints about the rules of the lyric stumpah lately. We'll iron that shit out in the future, but for the rest of this round, we're going to keep accepting answers starting at noon eastern.  We'll use the same start time for the other challenges as well.  For instance, Wheredat in the picture above (in this case, tell me roughly where the picture was taken FROM, as well as what you see in the background)?  And here's part of an easier solo,  Name that shit.