Saturday, April 18, 2009

Vacay in the Citay

Okay, so I think I’ve established that March suuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuucked. In a big way. I had three days off. Count ‘em…on one hand…TWO. Yeah, that’s what I meant…TWO. To the uninitiated to Tiz World, that ain’t enough.

So I made an executive decision—since the impromptu visit with The G.I.D.* didn’t happen, I’m in the midst of Vacay in the Citay. Other people PAY to play here. Seems to be quite the spot. I thought I’d give it a try.

Let’s just say it’s going swimmingly. I could get used to this.

It started at 7 pm on Wednesday with Jonatha Brooke* in the Naked Soul Series at the Rubin Museum (Himalayan art…cool). If you’re an artist in this series, you have to re-contextualize your art to fit the museum thematically. She did it. Found some ancient Buddhist who was into crazy wisdom* and sex and since she had just released an album (okay…cd...i know) of her music set to the unpublished words of Woody Guthrie (who was brilliant and OUT THERE), she had a perfect coupling. Talk about wisdom. Two quotes of Woody’s (which I will power-phrase piss poorly) continue to haunt me...

“Someday we’ll find out that all our little songs are just notes in a great big song.”


“You are the sound of myself in the light that calls to myself that gets lost in the dark.”

Come ON. This was the beginning of my vacay? I almost stopped there ‘cause how much better could it get?

Well…maybe not better, but different I could accomplish.

Thursday = SPA DAY. It’s Spa Week here in the city.* Every actress knows about spa week: $50 for a treatment in participating salons. I started out with a massage at Aqualia. It was a lovely massage, marred only by being less than the full hour advertised (I was touched for 50 minutes and this bod could use some touching) and the fact that Mei the Massager mysteriously left the room, returning with something in a wrapper. Hmmm…what could it be? I figured she was going to treat my Gordian Knots with something super-special and then…wait for it…I heard her crunching. I spent forty minutes trying not to laugh. That tart was eating while massaging me. And worst of all, I couldn’t figure out what.

Peanut M&Ms. Melt in your mouth, not in your hands. (Oh, don’t you know I looked in the garbage can.)

I then headed down to Le Peau in—oh crap what area of town is it? Soho. Yeah, Soho—for my two hour reflexology appointment. I spent two hours trying not to cry. Thank God Mei had a crack at me before I met Han. One hour on my neck, back and hands (I honestly thought I was being taken from behind), fifty-eight minutes on my calves and feet (I honestly thought I was being taken from the front) and another two minutes doing shark bites on my upper thighs. Han the Man had sledge hammer hands and ballpeen digits. I’m just not creative enough to describe his forearms and elbows. Oooh, how about crowbar elbows and…umm…thingamabobby forearms…whatever. I actually broke a sweat. I’m not complaining. I’ve never been as clear as when I left that joint (nor have my joints been so clear) so I consider it a triumph.

And in all that triumphant clarity I hobbled down to Soho Rep (which is in Tribeca…go figure). Saw Rambo Solo—a one-man, three-projector performance piece that had me screaming. The guy was great. As was the seating—rumpus room pillows on shag carpeting. I think I went home with some DNA samples on my pants legs. And there were more M&Ms;* the bag was used as a walkie-talkie, and the M&Ms themselves were used not only as sustenance but as artillery. Brilliant.

Slept in ‘til 8:30 Friday morning which NEVER happens. Was going to go to tap class* but didn’t want to lose the massage glow, so I dragged my DNA-deposited, highly massaged ass to see Duplicity and Duplicity = charming. Really. Does anyone else out there think that Clive Owens looks like a young, handsome Pete Postlethwaite, or am I on drugs?
And let me just say, our little Julia has grown up.*

Dinner was Nougatine. Yum. A Jean-Georges dinner. Exciting. Took five different phone calls to get the reservation right and it was my fault all the way. I’m surprised they let me in. Probably have a note to the server, “crazy girl at table…feed with care.” It was well worth the five phone calls and Spanky enjoyed it as well. She even got seconds. How does that happen? I took pictures, but pictures aren’t taste and I take sucky pictures so let’s just say all four courses (plus the amuse bouche*) were delish. I highly recommend.

This morning I had my Tarot* read by my friend Dante…definitely a lessening of my burdens. Favorite moment = “Your nephew will call for an outing,” AND MY NEPHEW CALLED ME FOR AN OUTING THAT VERY SECOND! Freaky scary. Love it. Love him.

The rest of the day/vacay will be spent couch-potatoing. There’ll be some movie-watching, some reading of Jeanette Winterson,* some meditating and—dare I say it—fah-LIP!*

Cost of Vacay in the Citay - $410

Refreshed, revived and rebooted – Priceless

Note: I know this is one long-ass Tiz and Ass blog. Shan’t happen again.

*Subjects worthy of future solo Tiz and Ass blogs. Stay tuned.

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