I spent last weekend on a businessy pleasure trip to the city.
The good:
- Cask ales at The Breslin in the Ace Hotel.
- Finding R.P. Miller knits at Opening Ceremony store in that same Ace Hotel.
- Solid, friendly service at the Ace.
- Marbled brisket at Blue Smoke.
- In-your-face performance art freaking out the squares at Moma (NSFW, but it's art!).
- Cartier-Bresson retrospective at that selfsame Moma.
- Gin and tonic at Bemelman's.
- Talking clothes with Mark McNairy.
- The weather--warm, beautiful, tons of people out.
The less gooder:
- Missing a handful of desirable exhibits, rock shows, and comedy by a day or two.
- Paralysis by diversity of food choices.
- Not finding the only item I was really shopping for: a goddamn bag.
- The rickety, crowded elevators at the Ace. What were they like before renovation??
- Feeling like J. Crew is always one. step. ahead.
- Feeling like 4th floor at Barney's Madison Ave looks a lot like a J. Crew. A veritable sea of oxford and madras.
- Boltbus passengers. Sometimes I think I should hop on a Chinatown bus and trade the giggly couples for a dude riding with chickens. Nah.
- The weather--warm, beautiful, tons of people out.
The frighteningly real thought for the weekend is that I'm exhausted by the vacation. Always loved seat-of-my-pants budget travel but I am become a sad old man, looking for cheap all-inclusive tropical resorts where I can eat cafeteria food and read mystery novels in the shade of a palm tree that's been replanted from its native soil onto a beach of sand brought there by dumptrucks just for me.
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