Convex

It breathes, doesn't it?

Life filters and strains and becomes oxygen again, no matter how toxic you can feel one morning, one day, one week.

It's exhilarating to remember that, especially in New York, there is always a second chance. There's a second bar around the corner, or a second restaurant to try, or a second friend you can make, or a second movie you can see to alter your perspective.

Nothing is perfect -- I don't even think that needs to be said -- but there is beauty where you least expect to find it: an obligation you didn't want to honor, or a deadline you didn't want to meet. Then, suddenly, you're observing jellyfish that look like pulsing buttons through the plate glass of a trendy spot; a nice cab driver who's almost too patient; a kinder-than-thou person who notices when you have a small injury on your elbow.

The process of going through the motions is sometimes useful in itself, but that serendipity that happens when you'd rather be lying in bed is worth it all...the whole lot of it.

Off the Wagon

Here in the city, there's actually a bar named Off the Wagon, so maybe I should have gone there for my inaugural drink last weekend. Instead, I celebrated seven days of sobriety at a new Irish pub in my 'hood (not my usual hangout, the Bar that Shall Not Be Named) that has karaoke on Sundays. I sipped my Bud Light draft(s), chatted up some interesting fellows at the bar, including a fabulously good-looking chef, and sang the following songs:

"Black Velvet," by Alannah Myles
"My Favorite Mistake," by Sheryl Crow
"Why," by Annie Lennox (kind of a downer, but the crowd was sweet and attentive nonetheless)
"Don't Stop Believin'," by Journey

I felt my night was a rousing success and a fantastic entree back into the world of booze. It's my goal to respect the drink -- to harness its power and keep the abuse to a minimum. In the week that I've returned to drinking, I've only done a couple of dumb things -- namely frequenting the Bar that Shall Not Be Named a couple of times and sending some ill-advised text messages to a certain Brazilian bartender who's not having any of it.

But I'm working at getting past this awkward life stage.

I am trying -- as hard as possible, after this breakup and during this new life that I'm carving out for myself -- to be normal, which, for me, Jane, is sometimes hard. Much like the drink, I'm learning to respect my individuality and my quirkiness -- to understand when it works for me and cut it off when I go into overdrive. It's exciting, being single: I have new interests and new likes that I'm not sure would have been possible had life not been stripped down to its barest: just me.

So (because I'm such a huge fan of lists) here is what I'm digging right now -- what I've discovered now that I'm on my own and learning to get along with that:

New favorite bar: the Russian Vodka Room
- Stepping inside is like transporting yourself into the 1940s -- or the 1950s, at the very latest. They have a piano player who sings songs in Russian and a sweet veteran female bartender who will bring you a new drink, no questions asked, if you accidentally spill yours. (Not that I would know this firsthand.)

New favorite musician: Feist
- Check her out on iTunes. I'm listening to her newest album for the first time as I type this, and it's fantastic.

Old favorite musician who's going to blow up huge in no time flat: Sara Bareilles
- I saw her at the Bowery Ballroom a couple of weeks ago, and she's rapidly developing a fanbase that will preclude her from appearing at any more small venues for the rest of her career. I'm happy for her, but I'm sad that she's not my obscure little piano gal anymore. She's opening for Maroon 5 this summer, and I consider that a nail in the indie coffin.

New favorite vacation destination: Miami
- Can't remember the last time I took a vacation that didn't involve going to see relatives. A girlfriend from work and I are buying our tickets tomorrow for a trip to a place I've only fantasized about going. And the hotel looks beautiful and inviting.

New favorite TV show: Mad Men
- There are so many amazing things about this show that I can't enumerate them all here. This is AMC's original series about Madison Avenue ad execs in 1960, and it leaves nothing untouched, including the rampant sexism and racism of the period. Love the costumes, love the actors, love everything about it. It reminds me a little of one of my favorite books, The Best of Everything.

What fun things are you guys obsessed with right now? Do share if you feel so inclined.


And, of course, listen to Blogstein and me keep on rockin' in the free world Tuesday night at 9 on Blog Talk Radio. We'll be expecting you, so show up on time, pen and paper in hand, ready to take notes.

Sad, but True

I was drinking at the Bar that Shall Not Be Named this past weekend (surprise!), and I found myself in conversation with a gentleman who was asking me too many questions. I'm realizing more and more lately that I don't want to schmooze. I don't want to flirt. I just want to down my beverage, pay, and leave.

"So, what are your goals?" he asked. Please. I was so not in the mood to go there.

"I've met all my goals already," I said. "I'm going to drink myself to death, like Nicolas Cage in Leaving Las Vegas."

He looked down at my glass.

"But you're drinking Miller Lite," he said.

The man had a point.


To hear more of my booze-soaked stories as well as my attempt at witty banter with Blogstein, tune in at 9 p.m. EST Tuesday night to Dr. Blogstein's Radio Happy Hour. You might want to grab a Miller Lite first.

Barstool Philosophizin'

I like talking to old-timers in bars. Some of the most authentic conversations I've ever had in my life are from older men trying to drop some knowledge in the hopes that I'll stay and listen for a while. Loneliness talks.

I was at my neighborhood pub on Saturday, talking to a 60-something Danny DeVito type wearing a red pocket tee and khaki shorts. He's an old-school photographer -- hates the internet and what it's done to good work. Everything is so available, not as special as it used to be, he said. I could hear in his voice that he missed darkrooms.

He asked me what I do, and I told him. And then he asked me what I really wanted to do (because, we creative types, we all have a dream side project). I told him I wanted to write a book (um, join the club, I know), and he asked me why I hadn't started.

"I'm just...I'm afraid it will suck," I said, in my not-so-refined twentysomething parlance. "And then, well, I'll have no dream left."

He took a sip from his highball of Glenlivet 12 and stared straight ahead.

"Even if it 'sucks,'" he said, "it creates a bottom. You'll improve from there."

Wise words from a feller on a barstool.

A New Comfort Zone

Roomie and I went out tonight. Nothing hardcore, just a couple of glasses of wine in the neighborhood -- one at the restaurant I recently went to with the Boyf and another at a totally new place that just opened this week.

Until now, I'd never had a neighborhood pub -- somewhere within two blocks that you can go to when you've had a rough day or when you want to meet a friend within stumbling distance of your apartment. But now, Roomie and I know the bartender at this new haunt -- a barkeep lifer who knows how to make a damn pretty rose out of a paper napkin in order to give it to the couple in the corner who just got married. I like the place. Pretension is not part of the equation, and it's okay that, when quizzed, neither Roomie nor I had any effing clue who the band Deep Purple was. But I've already talked about how patently uncool I am.

Tonight was low-key but important. I'm embarking on a sort of new chapter in my New York life, and it somehow helps to know that if I'm having one of those days, there is an old-school bartender in an Irish pub just around the corner who knows what my poison is. If a woman has that, in my opinion, she's doing okay. Life change or not.