ABOUT LAST NIGHT*

This blog is not known for its “what I did last night” posts. My Urban Kvetch tends to be “less diary, more soapbox/comedy club.” Which I’m fine with, don’t get me wrong. But last night I went somewhere really interesting, both in the physical and metaphysical sense.

If you’re networked into this whole NYC blogger community, you may know that Candace was in town for a few days, and that Karol gathered the NY bloghorde to pay homage to the visitor and the tremendous hybrid of balance and style that allows her to walk in her fabu shoes. We went to Fashion 40, a lounge so swanky that the website tells you almost nothing about what’s available to eat or drink, and where the drinks menu was encased in bronze, and featured such options as a bottle of liquor for your table for 200 or 300 bucks. (Naturally, I bought each person a bottle.**) It was like being at those clubs in the Hamptons***, but it was in Times Square, nestled on a side street around the corner from tourist trap central. Turn the corner, walk away from the neon lights and pedestrian din, toward the mellow, dimmed lounge lighting and pulsing music of Fashion 40. It’s another world.

Arriving at 9pm, we had the run of the upstairs to ourselves. Blogmania. Walking in, I recognized several folks and met others. Dawn Summers, who I’ve been dying to meet since I missed her birthday party last month, and who generously bought the early birds a round of drinks. Steve Silver and Ken Wheaton, who I’ve been reading for a long time, and of course the guest of honor, our Candy Girl. Met girl-without-a-blog Vanessa, and petitedov, who's just back from the Holy Land, Blessed Be It. Good to see my other girls, Lisa, Jessica and Ari, as always. In particular, I missed Deb (my Sunday buddy) and the eminently plagiarizable Fish (who was apparently elsewhere) , and would have felt the same about C and Dahl had I not met them by Madison Square Park’s Shake Shack for a lovely picnic lunch.

At one point I looked around and thought to myself: Who are these people in this place? These people are strangers. But I know them.

Around 10:45, I had to tear myself away. I had to go back to the Upper West Side to see a guy about a thing. On the train, I made a few notes.

I admire them for the strength of their convictions, their optimism, talent, generosity, spirit, commitment, ability to use their drive and skills to make concrete connections between their present and their future, their power to use their words to transition their dreams into reality.

An hour later, having found neither the guy nor the thing, I was home, wishing I had stayed in the crowded, noisy Fashion 40 lounge, debating the lyrical merits of OutKast’s “Roses,” and feeling a little like a celebrity, among my peers.


* No Brat Packers were harmed during the creation of this post.

**Note to my landlord, who's concerned I might not make rent, there is no inherent truth in this sentence.

*** Not that the Urban Kvetch Bloggerette has often been to those Hampton clubs. Ever since her spat with Paris Hilton over whether Tinkerbell was a rat or a dog which resulted in Lizzie trying to back her over with her RangeRover, the UKB has been keeping a low profile on the NYC lounge scene, wearing comfortable shoes and restricting her nightlife to local Upper West Side watering holes and apartment parties.

ABOUT LAST NIGHT*

This blog is not known for its “what I did last night” posts. My Urban Kvetch tends to be “less diary, more soapbox/comedy club.” Which I’m fine with, don’t get me wrong. But last night I went somewhere really interesting, both in the physical and metaphysical sense.

If you’re networked into this whole NYC blogger community, you may know that Candace was in town for a few days, and that Karol gathered the NY bloghorde to pay homage to the visitor and the tremendous hybrid of balance and style that allows her to walk in her fabu shoes. We went to Fashion 40, a lounge so swanky that the website tells you almost nothing about what’s available to eat or drink, and where the drinks menu was encased in bronze, and featured such options as a bottle of liquor for your table for 200 or 300 bucks. (Naturally, I bought each person a bottle.**) It was like being at those clubs in the Hamptons***, but it was in Times Square, nestled on a side street around the corner from tourist trap central. Turn the corner, walk away from the neon lights and pedestrian din, toward the mellow, dimmed lounge lighting and pulsing music of Fashion 40. It’s another world.

Arriving at 9pm, we had the run of the upstairs to ourselves. Blogmania. Walking in, I recognized several folks and met others. Dawn Summers, who I’ve been dying to meet since I missed her birthday party last month, and who generously bought the early birds a round of drinks. Steve Silver and Ken Wheaton, who I’ve been reading for a long time, and of course the guest of honor, our Candy Girl. Met girl-without-a-blog Vanessa, and petitedov, who's just back from the Holy Land, Blessed Be It. Good to see my other girls, Lisa, Jessica and Ari, as always. In particular, I missed Deb (my Sunday buddy) and the eminently plagiarizable Fish (who was apparently elsewhere) , and would have felt the same about C and Dahl had I not met them by Madison Square Park’s Shake Shack for a lovely picnic lunch.

At one point I looked around and thought to myself: Who are these people in this place? These people are strangers. But I know them.

Around 10:45, I had to tear myself away. I had to go back to the Upper West Side to see a guy about a thing. On the train, I made a few notes.

I admire them for the strength of their convictions, their optimism, talent, generosity, spirit, commitment, ability to use their drive and skills to make concrete connections between their present and their future, their power to use their words to transition their dreams into reality.

An hour later, having found neither the guy nor the thing, I was home, wishing I had stayed in the crowded, noisy Fashion 40 lounge, debating the lyrical merits of OutKast’s “Roses,” and feeling a little like a celebrity, among my peers.


* No Brat Packers were harmed during the creation of this post.

**Note to my landlord, who's concerned I might not make rent, there is no inherent truth in this sentence.

*** Not that the Urban Kvetch Bloggerette has often been to those Hampton clubs. Ever since her spat with Paris Hilton over whether Tinkerbell was a rat or a dog which resulted in Lizzie trying to back her over with her RangeRover, the UKB has been keeping a low profile on the NYC lounge scene, wearing comfortable shoes and restricting her nightlife to local Upper West Side watering holes and apartment parties.