On Saturday morning, after a street-side brunch in Hell's Kitchen (it was in the mid-70s and muggy--paging Al Gore), we headed uptown to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Our first stop was the rooftop of the Met where several sculptures sit amongst one of the best views of Manhattan.
Looking south from the roof gallery.
Josh H. and Josh K. sporting their blue Met gallery tags.
After lazing around the roof for a while (it was so quiet and peaceful above the fray of the city), we headed down into the galleries and did some browsing.
One of the highlights of the visit was seeing Damien Hirst's "The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living," colloquially known as Damien Hirst's shark. The 14-foot tiger shark, immersed in formaldehyde, sits in a gallery of its own on the second floor of the museum as part of a visiting exhibit. I surreptitiously shot this photo (note my fingers reflected in the glass) as we made our way through the gallery. Naughty, naughty! (Who, me?) I did it for the art, people. It's not every day that you get to stare into the mouth of a shark.
After our visit to the museum we sauntered down Fifth Avenue (Josh K. bought a painting on the street from a talented artist), and then meandered through Central Park. It was hard to believe it was the third week of October as we walked through the still-green park, filled with families and couples enjoying the summer-like afternoon. Maybe this is the upside of global warming? At least it's fun for the moment.
Later that night Dylan and I went to one of his friend's birthday parties, held on Chrystie Street on the Lower East Side, in a rented-out club. The birthday man, a kind and generous self-made kazillionaire, hired Deborah Cox to entertain the 150 party-goers for the evening.
Before dinner Deborah sang songs from her new jazz CD, Destination Moon, on which she covers the songs of Dinah Washington. Deborah has some serious pipes, and it was fun seeing her do her thing up close and personal.
Besides sounding great, the woman also looked great. She's popped out two children, people.
After dinner Deborah did another set, this time in jeans, performing some of her big-hit club anthems. At one point she came off the stage and the fella above couldn't help busting out a few moves. (Seriously, how many gallons of sweat have the gays poured out over the years on dance floors to Deborah's "Nobody's Supposed to Be Here," "Things Just Stay The Same" and "It's Over Now"?)
On Sunday Josh and I went to an early showing of first-time director Ben Affleck's new movie, Gone Baby Gone. Starring his kid brother, Casey, who made quite a splash in the recent Assassination of Jesse James, he turned in another great, subtle, winning performance.
Casey's character, Patrick Kenzie, is a small-time private detective hired to investigate the kidnapping of a young girl on Boston's rough South Side. A maze of corruption, scandal, and twists follows. It was well acted and directed, but it was also definitely on the grim, dark, slightly-depressing ride.
After the movie we headed to Cafe Utopia, a diner with great burgers on 72nd and Amsterdam, before heading southward to do a little shopping and browsing. We did a few turns around a giant Pottery Barn, fantasizing about someday having apartments of our own in the city. (Just as soon as we start our jobs with $100,000 salaries it may even become a possibility. Score!)
We hit up Banana Republic, where I snapped up a few sweaters for work (but will it get cold enough this October to wear them?) before grabbing drinks at Starbucks and settling in at a mini park near Columbus Circle to rest and chat. Afterward we made our way down Ninth Avenue, kissed each other on the cheek at our "goodbye corner" and headed home after our Sunday in the city.