Advice from Ferris Bueller

Yesterday, apart from viewing the amazing MoMA (pushing in between annoying French tourists snapping photos of themselves in front of Andy Warhols... I will never understand) I bumped into Matthew 'Ferris Bueller' Broderick coming out of the subway. I did a comical double-take and stared at him for a second thinking he was a friend (weirdly, he seemed to do the same) and then was mortally embarrassed when I realised who he was and kept walking. But it was like some kind of sign - he made me think of that line in Ferris Bueller: 'Life goes by pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.' And you know, after all my soul searching and panicking lately (what am I saying, lately. Always!), I thought - hell Ferris, you're right. So I decided to stop panicking and start living (while endeavouring to keep my bank balance a little healthier than it's current impoverished state).

In this vein, I managed to go and hear Morgan Spurlock speak (for free, at the Apple store, how incredibly enlightened!) about his new film. It was pretty inspiring - especially since he got rejected from film school six times. Although I have to say that as a documentary maker who is supposed to question things, I'm not sure his new film really does, but will refrain from polemic until I've seen it. I reflected with Kat over a beer in a delightfully dodgy little Soho bar that maybe I'm a frustrated filmmaker. 'You've known that since uni!' she said. Hmm.

Then Kat and I had some pasta at a place with possibly the scariest waiter in Little Italy last night (I was too scared to tell him how horrible the wine was, in case I vanished Soprano-style later). Sorry New Yorkers, I have to say the best Italian so far has been right here in Hoboken, a few streets over from Frank Sinatra's house. In fact, Frank Sinatra even graces the laundromat here, as I discovered on Sunday. I washed my stinky jeans with 'Come Fly With Me' written encouragingly over my head. Classy.

Today I met up with a colleague's friend over lunch, which was great. He seems to think it's entirely possible for a frustrated filmmaker Australian to move to New York eventually. Then I trekked over to Brooklyn to check out Williamsburg and do some celebrity spotting (if I can't marry Jake Gyllenhaal, I was hoping to at least see Maggie), but the lack of public toilets drove me back to a Starbucks (tip for New York tourists: Starbucks is your public toilet - and not much else, although Mark swears by their coffee. But remember, Mark thinks Blanche from the Golden Girls is sexy, so you can draw your own conclusions). I comforted myself by swinging by the Ghostbusters firestation. Sadly, the Ghostbusters sign is no longer there, but there is a very artistic interpretation of the FDNY logo on the pavement outside (see pic).

Now I'm waiting for Kat and thanks to the kindness of the lovely JonJon, will be going to see old friend Neil Finn and co tonight. Will refrain from talking about the weather this time. Tomorrow, I'm sacrificing meeting my idol David Lynch (for the bargain price of $100) to go to Texas to see my lovely cousins complete with ranch and cowboys, so hopefully more adventures from there...

Clear the area, Mario's approaching

Kat Braz, my friend I'm staying with in NYC, reminded me yesterday of 'Dell-o-dramas' , a phenomenon which has been occuring to me since university. Thursday certainly started them off, since poor Lols had to spend a whole day in New York Presbytarian Hospital ('don't worry, it's like ER only better!' her doctor said enthusiastically). Unfortunately after 17 hours, two issues of People magazine, two blood tests, a quarantine room, an X-Ray and a CAT scan, the conclusion was: she had the flu. The final kicker was, after losing my last day with my sister, I am now suffering from the same thing - luckily not half as badly. I'm typing this from my bed in Kat Braz's Hoboken apartment.

This has also meant I couldn't go to Salem, home of my friend Rose (and of course, set of Days of Our Lives). Yesterday, Kat tried to cheer me up by suggesting that we go to a movie as part of the Tribeca Film Festival. We went to see a brilliant Australian film called 'Bitter & Twisted'. (Kat and I were audibly excited to see Gary Sweet was one of the cast, much to the confusion of New Yorkers).

And then, the Dell-o-dramas began.

A friend of a friend who was with us asked if we'd like to go with her to a Nintendo event in town. Her friend was reporting on it for a certain well-known magazine so we'd get to meet Jason Priestley, every 20-something's childhood crush. Kat and I thought this was about the most bizarre proposal we were going to get for the day, so, probably high on Tylenol at this point and feeling unnaturally healthy, off I went.

The event was at the Rockefeller Center to promote Mario Kart. Being somewhat of a Mario Kart fan, I would like to point out to Nintendo that there was a distinct lack of Toad themed merchandise available. But the Jason Priestley thing was inspired - Priestley owns a racecar team, hence his presence. Also present, for lesser known reasons, was the very attractive Chace Crawford from new show Gossip Girl. Watching him talk to Jason Priestley was like watching some kind of showbiz baton being passed.

The combination of Jason Priestley and a giant Super Mario was inherently surreal. Add to this FBI-suited men saying very seriously into their walkie-talkies 'Clear the area, Mario's approaching' or 'Send Mario back, we need him for some b-roll' launching another waddling and seemingly blind Mario into the press area, had us in stitches.

After this Kat and our new-found friends (not including Jason, unfortunately, who had soundly beaten one of us who shall remain nameless at Mario Kart) went for a Mexican around the corner. (Londoners, the prices would have made you weep. $2.50 for an empanada). The discussion turned to celebrities and the surreal life of the magazine writer who had to sometimes stalk the rich and famous for a living. My favourite was her conclusion on Keira Knightley's weight: 'If you had to eat Keira Knightley you'd have to suck the marrow from her bones,' she said. Quite.

The surrealness was rounded off on our way back to Hoboken when a large Japanese gentleman on the train took a shine to us and proceeded to tell us all about the Doctor Who fan group in NYC. For a minute I was tempted to go and hunt them down today - purely for scientific research of course - but I think I'll just have a Lemsip and go back to bed.

Escape to New York

Apart from never having felt so exhausted since I lived on the Rainbow Warrior back in 'Nam (ok, back in Korea), it is just so good to be here. At first I had a momentary fear that I'd constantly be the third wheel, that I was too tired to deal with being a tourist, and that I was far too weak-willed to resist the plethora of shoes that NYC has to offer. But as soon as I experienced the most entertaining airport bus journey of my life and noticed the Mexican restaurant that adorns every corner, I remembered that this is my kinda town. (Needless to say, we have already sampled a Mexican restaurant after visiting no less than four in research. I love this city!)





My sister Lola and her boyfriend Mark and I spent yesterday just wandering (largely into shoe shops) and Mark was very excited to discover that not only is The Golden Girls on constant repeat but there was also a selection of Golden Girls merchandise in the local gay shop. (Mark bought two tshirts. There, I've said it. I'm sorry Mark but anyone who thinks Blanche is sexy deserves to be outed).



Unfortunately, this internet connection (from the hotel lobby of Hotel Pennsylvania - Mark and Lola think I'm nuts for singing 'Pennsylvania 65000' all the time but apparently this hotel is the one in the song and has had the same phone number since 1917...the mind boggles) is very unreliable so I can't upload any pictures or write anything proper. Tomorrow I'm going to have to bite the bullet and go to Starbucks.

Don't take medicine from rockstars

Yesterday I shocked Erin by declaring that I hated Facebook, and was considering deleting my account. I could say the same for my phone and trusty Mac though - but as I've said before, it's not so much the technology that is evil, but the fact it should never be used late at night, during illness, PMS, a full moon or after alcohol consumption.

I am still cringing from Friday night, when a friend who is staying with us came home from being out on the town with a certain famous musician who happens to live across the pond. Said musician had given friend prescription medication from the US, and knowing that Erin and I were ill, he kindly offered some to us along with a glass of therapeutic wine or two. Now, it's rare that I even take aspirin let alone anything else, and I'm certainly not the kind to need any sort of substances other than a stiff drink when going out to dance (which again, I very rarely do unless I'm with Irina on a gay boat in Sweden, in which case all we need is some bad music, glitter confetti and someone dressed like a cowboy).

But I had had a horrible week, I was very ill but had worked overtime for a week despite the fact my nose matched my lipstick, my cold wasn't going away even after applying the tried-and-true whiskey therapy, and I had been so depressed that I'd been on the phone to Irina several times during the week and she was now sending me check-up text messages every morning. So I thought, hey, it's prescription, how bad can it be? I also knew that many Australians take this particular combination to survive long haul flights, and it was only something to help me sleep.

But the moral of this story is: never take medicinal advice from rockstars. I am not quite sure what happened, but upon waking up I discovered to my horror that I had left several Facebook messages for various people including a colleague and I am still too embarrassed to even see what they say (my only consolation being I'm sure they make no sense whatsoever). I spent yesterday wracked with guilt and watching back to back episodes of Peep Show to convince me that life could be worse. Erin and I also discovered we had spent 15 minutes on the phone to Ben (which I do actually remember, although wasn't quite sure what exactly we said). People like Jonathan and Angela will probably forgive me, but colleagues are another matter. Three hours went by faster than is possible within the current laws of the space time continuum and I discovered several draft emails which thank God I never sent, but which contained the kind of spelling and grammar that would have made the BBC condemn me to solitary confinement.

So kids: don't take medicine from rockstars, don't mix wine and medicine unless said wine is provided by Qantas and the only alternative is certain madness, and for the love of all that is decent don't ever, ever use Facebook if you are not sure you won't regret it. I can only offer my apologies to anyone I contacted on Friday night and implore you to ignore it. Luckily I don't have to go to work for the next two weeks and will hopefully return from New York to an oblivious workplace. Gulp.

Sick!

There's not many times you can match your lipstick to your nose and name your day comprehensively under the same category as a Young Ones episode, but today I managed. And the lipstick was very red. But I dragged myself to the office, and while I apologise for the long absence, I am going to commit to this blog again - and start off with dragging my trusty Mac back to New York City and Hoboken - the home of Frank Sinatra, according to my friend's fridge magnet which is my only authority on the matter.

So, while I spend the weekend recovering from this horrendous cold and watching countless re-runs of Futurama, I will be researching a list of top notch Mexican restaurants, charging up the old Canon 30D and preparing to leave London behind at least for a while. So stay tuned for NYC adventures, and feel free to post any recommendations (Ludvig this applies to you!)

x