The Hippest Thing We've Ever Done
We hauled our sorry Friday-dragging asses over to Pier 66, otherwise known as The Frying Pan. The Frying Pan used to be a greasy spoon diner, completely average except that it was located on an old boat hooked to the side of Pier 66. One day, The Frying Pan sank to the bottom of the Hudson.
Eventually, they pulled The Frying Pan out of the grimy water along with its namesake-- an enormous iron frying pan with a circumference larger even than Jay Leno's ego. This twelve ton skillet was positioned cityside, right up front on Pier 66 and now both the pier and the boat are known collectively as The Frying Pan.
At least, I think this is how it went down but as usual have not bothered to check.
The scene was dark, lit by flickering gaslamps and the barge creaked on its chains and rotting wood and smelled like minnow-breath and old leather and kerosene. We walked across a plain of steel plates and pilings into a half tent/half ramshackle building that reminded me of one of those long houses the Indians lived in.
The Renegades of Armory Art Week
Except when we got inside, it was like an art bomb had exploded and covered every available surface with canvases and painted shovels and feathers and bejeweled firearms. It was the opening reception of FountainNY, so there was a full bar set up to serve imported beer and soup to the beautifully pierced and tattooed people in skinny jeans. Tom mused over the possibility he could fully pull off the skinny jean look himself, concluding that he could not.
Besides the other amenities, you could get your picture taken by The Onion if you signed a publicity release and wanted to be, for example, the "Area Man who hopes cell phone breaks so he can get a new one." I considered mugging for the camera, but the interns manning the operation were more interested in flirting with the girls than taking photos of bespectacled married people busily taking the opportunity to pocket AV Club Hater buttons and a set of Huffington Post coasters.
The Little People
The Pains of Being Pure at Heart were supposed to play, which was why I had originally taken note of the affair. We were standing in the back and there was a step stool right behind me. I was contemplating sitting down on the step stool when out of the corner of my eye I saw a midget run by. I was thinking the midget was going to stand on the step stool, which would make sense but he did not. I told Tom that I'd just spied a midget, but Tom snorted in a completely unimpressed fashion. He said he'd already seen three midgets.
I Travel the World And the Seven Seas, Everybody Lookin For Something
On the way out, I passed right by Annie Lennox so close I could smell her. She looked stunning, a whiter shade of pale in a white cashmere coat with a white collar and a sparkly skinny belt. She stood out like a spot of pristine clean amidst a cacophony of smeared color and sunken, sweaty desire with dirty fingers.
As we walked down the gangplank onto terra firma Manhattan concrete, Tom noted, "Wow, that's the hippest thing we've ever done."
Eventually, they pulled The Frying Pan out of the grimy water along with its namesake-- an enormous iron frying pan with a circumference larger even than Jay Leno's ego. This twelve ton skillet was positioned cityside, right up front on Pier 66 and now both the pier and the boat are known collectively as The Frying Pan.
At least, I think this is how it went down but as usual have not bothered to check.
The scene was dark, lit by flickering gaslamps and the barge creaked on its chains and rotting wood and smelled like minnow-breath and old leather and kerosene. We walked across a plain of steel plates and pilings into a half tent/half ramshackle building that reminded me of one of those long houses the Indians lived in.
The Renegades of Armory Art Week
Except when we got inside, it was like an art bomb had exploded and covered every available surface with canvases and painted shovels and feathers and bejeweled firearms. It was the opening reception of FountainNY, so there was a full bar set up to serve imported beer and soup to the beautifully pierced and tattooed people in skinny jeans. Tom mused over the possibility he could fully pull off the skinny jean look himself, concluding that he could not.
Besides the other amenities, you could get your picture taken by The Onion if you signed a publicity release and wanted to be, for example, the "Area Man who hopes cell phone breaks so he can get a new one." I considered mugging for the camera, but the interns manning the operation were more interested in flirting with the girls than taking photos of bespectacled married people busily taking the opportunity to pocket AV Club Hater buttons and a set of Huffington Post coasters.
The Little People
The Pains of Being Pure at Heart were supposed to play, which was why I had originally taken note of the affair. We were standing in the back and there was a step stool right behind me. I was contemplating sitting down on the step stool when out of the corner of my eye I saw a midget run by. I was thinking the midget was going to stand on the step stool, which would make sense but he did not. I told Tom that I'd just spied a midget, but Tom snorted in a completely unimpressed fashion. He said he'd already seen three midgets.
I Travel the World And the Seven Seas, Everybody Lookin For Something
On the way out, I passed right by Annie Lennox so close I could smell her. She looked stunning, a whiter shade of pale in a white cashmere coat with a white collar and a sparkly skinny belt. She stood out like a spot of pristine clean amidst a cacophony of smeared color and sunken, sweaty desire with dirty fingers.
As we walked down the gangplank onto terra firma Manhattan concrete, Tom noted, "Wow, that's the hippest thing we've ever done."
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