Endo Ecstasy

After I work out, I experience a brief and glorious burst of endorphins that turns my entire environment into a movie set. (Well, more Breakfast at Tiffany's than, say, Seven, but you get my meaning.)

Post-gym, when my blond hair is slick with sweat, New York suddenly becomes quaint. The air feels crisp, not cold, and every new thing I hear or see seems authentic and creative. Case in point: a bum-slash-comedian yelling, "Ladies on the inside, men on the outside!" at a couple walking together in Midtown. (This actually meshed with an old wives' tale I heard -- that in the days before running water was common, men would walk on the outside of a sidewalk so ladies would be protected by awnings from randomly falling dirty bathwater that people would throw out their windows. I have no idea whether this is actually true.)

Even the subway was a Manhattan motley crew straight out of central casting: hipster youths pushing past me (naturally); a 40-something man in work clothes wearing an honest-to-god construction hat; a guy with short gray hair and Gucci glasses reading a copy of the Wall Street Journal whom I guessed on sight was an architect; and a large, polite man who rested his metallic gold-encrusted Yankees cap on his knee as he sat (for some reason this struck me as fantastically old-fashioned).

As I scanned the crowd and smiled to myself, I had one thought: Why don't I work out more? Amid the booze, the worries, the scheduling, the plans, the good intentions, the reasons why not, and the just-plain-laziness, there is an eye of calm I'd forgotten about.

The way I felt tonight reminded me of a time when I had just moved to the Upper East Side and was driving myself crazy in my new apartment with my circular thinking. I decided to go for a run along the East River, next to the sparkling water, and my eyes filled with happy tears for a split second, as I directed my thoughts toward the beauty of the city and all that it has to offer, rather than the dysfunctional world I tend to create in my head.

Not Suitable for Children

Last week, Jerry, one of my favorite bartenders in Midtown, recommended a delicious wine. He has a knack for pouring velvety, spicy, rich reds that taste expensive and chic. When we all had received a glassful, he unveiled the bottle's label and everyone I was dining with smiled:















Only a person with the hardest of hearts couldn't appreciate the whimsy of this Walla Walla, Washington, brand. I didn't realize it until I went to the L'Ecole No. 41 website later that day, but this red is a mix of several different wines: 42% Merlot, 22% Cabernet Sauvignon, 21% Syrah, 11% Cabernet Franc, 3% Petit Verdot, 1% Carmenère. How's that for an intriguing table wine?

Gentlemen reading this blog: I don't mean to sound condescending, but I think this wine is a sure bet if you're having a lady over for dinner. The flavor is rich without being overpowering, and the label is funny and sweet enough that she'll see you for the good-hearted suitor you most certainly are. Click here to buy straight from the winemaker.

I Can Die Now

I went out with my fantastic old friend D tonight. He's of the same mindset as me: Give us an Irish pub and some karaoke, and we're set for the night.

Of course I did an old standby ("Black Velvet" by Alannah Myles), and after a duet with D, I debuted Sinead O'Connor's "Nothing Compares 2 U." Note to ladies who are thinking of singing that in the near future: It is not as hard as you think to bust out. Trust me: You already know the words after hearing it on the radio 5,000 times in the early '90s. (See my other karaoke posts here, here, and here.)

What I consider the prize comment came early in the night, from a woman who was sitting at the bar while I was singing Alannah. "That's not fair; she's a professional," the woman said. Oh, if only. If only. I think that was the best thing I've ever heard in my karaoke career. Those of us who adore the karaoke also adore the compliments, and I was beyond flattered.

D and I shared laughs and deep thoughts and all the things you're supposed to share after a few beers (only one of which I spilled squarely on my pants, thankyouverymuch). I walked home looking at the reflections in the office building windows on Madison Avenue, walking on the concrete of Manhattan's empty streets, and breathing in deeply, the chorus of U2's "City of Blinding Lights" in my head.

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.