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Last night a season four Project Runway contestant was at my apartment.
Can I just say that it was bizarre to watch an episode of the show the night before and then have one of the contestants actually in my living room the next night?
To quote Cindy Adams, "Only in New York, kids. Only in New York."
--Josh H.
On the Tuesday before Thanksgiving I boarded a flight from New York to Minneapolis. Most of the flight was pretty normal—safety demonstrations, cheeseburgers served, paging through paperbacks—but a little incident near the end of my flight made this particular homebound flight memorable.
A half an hour before landing I headed to the back of the plane to use the bathroom. I was the only person in line, but both restrooms were occupied. I stood and blocked the end of the aisle New York-style so that nobody would cut the bathroom line—this city does kind of rub off on you—and waited for a restroom to open up.
While I waited a guy got out of his seat and started booking it to the back of the plane and then pushed past me. 
I started thinking, “Um, okay . . . What’s the deal?” He looked at me and then the bathrooms and then moved further back in the plane to the flight attendant area.
One of the flight attendants was putting things away in the back. This guy was now standing fully in the flight attendant area and, oddly, wasn’t saying anything. He was just kind of staring. It may sound strange, but the whole thing started to feel a little awkward. Then it got kind of creepy. This bald guy just booked it to the back of the plane, pushed past me, and was looking all hostile in the flight attendant area. I would be lying if I said that scenes from United 93 didn’t start running through my head. Sad—maybe even paranoid—but true.
The flight attendant seemed to be waiting for him to say something, but as he kept standing there and not saying anything she finally said, “Can I help you, sir?” He said something I couldn’t quite hear, and just then a bathroom opened up. I went in and used it, and when I got back out I didn’t see the guy anywhere. I tried to shrug it all off and sat down again.
Just after touchdown our pilot addressed the passengers on the PA system.
“Ladies and gentlemen, after we pull into the gate we’re going to ask that everybody please stay in their seats. We have a situation to address on the plane, and once that is cleared you are free to move about the cabin.”
“Did somebody have a heart attack?” the woman behind me asked. People started looking around a little bit, looking for the intrigue.
As soon as the door popped open at the gate four police officers rushed down the aisles and to the back of the plane.
Nobody moved. It was silent.
New Yorkers are a squirrely bunch when they travel: As soon as the wheels hit the ground everybody is on their cell phone and they start scavenging their stuff and then rush the aisles, pushing ahead of others who haven’t gotten their stuff fast enough to get off the plane first.
This time? Complete silence. Everybody stayed in their seats. Even the cranky toddler a few rows back piped down. Heads followed the police officers making their way to the back of the plane.
Moments later the man I had seen at the back of the plane was in handcuffs and ushered off the plane, the police carrying his baggage behind him.
There was a pregnant pause after he got off the plane. Then, all at once, everybody was on their feet per usual, cell phones glued to their ears.
“Dude, some, like, bald Middle Eastern guy just got arrested on my plane,” the fratty guy sitting across the aisle said into his iPhone. “So weird. I wonder what he did.”
I looked back where I had been standing at the back of the plane. A million things crossed my mind.
But all there was to do at that point was gather my things and get off the plane.
On the way home I didn’t have any unusual incidents. I did, however, end up with a nasty delay. My flight was supposed to take off at 4:45 p.m., but by the time I got to the gate the flight was delayed to 6:30.
Then it changed to 7:30.
Then 8:00.
Then they stopped updating the delay altogether.
I finished a novel. I ate dinner at a greasy airport restaurant. I read two celeb gossip magazines.
Finally, four hours after my scheduled flight time, my plane took off.
The reason for the delay? Light rain in New York. (It was 50 degrees out.)
Isn’t holiday travel super fun?
Is it just us or is season four of Project Runway on its way to being the best ever? Last week Sarah Jessica Parker stepped in with a challenge to create a design for her Steve & Barry Bitten clothing line and had our respect with her fashion smartz and general comportment.
Then this week Tiki Barber, former football hottie and now Today Show correspondent, hosted a contest which required the contestants to do something they haven’t had to do before on PR: men’s wear. The tension and terror was palpable. In the end only a few rose to the challenge. Love it. (The prodigious display of hot man flesh in the form of the male models didn't hurt, either.)
This is good reality television, people. Bravo knows how it’s done. Anybody else totally loving this season?
Oh Gossip Girl. You started out flaky but fun, a guilty pleasure that nobody wanted to admit to watching, but everybody seemed to know about. (Every Thursday morning my office is abuzz with the latest goings-on with our famous Upper East Siders. Sad, but true.)
At first you were a most-predictable mild upgrade on The O.C. But then last night, with your Thanksgiving episode, you had to go and actually make your show kinda good. You really pulled it together, CW. What’s happening to this world?
So, okay: We’re tuning in. We’ll admit it. But we still feel pretty guilty about it. You’re like having some chocolate and then a big bowl of pasta for dessert. With lots of red sauce.
Can you keep it up, GG? Time will tell. XOXO.
Josh and I are hooked on Alicia Keys’ superb new album “As I Am,” which continues to dominate the charts. “No One” and “Superwoman” are burning up our iPods.
Amy Winehouse made a splashy debut in America this year with her album “Back to Black.” 
But even better than that critically acclaimed album is her album “Frank,” which was formerly only available in the UK and was just recently made available in America. “Frank” has more of a jazz vibe instead of the “Back to Black” Motown feel, and tracks like “F*** Me Pumps” and “You Sent Me Flying” and “Amy Amy Amy” are not to be missed. She may be a hot mess, showing up bloody in middle-of-the-night paparazzi shots, her husband may be in jail, and she may be canceling shows and slurring her words when she does show up, but at least we have Amy’s “Frank,” which is near perfection.
Also:
* Best parody of The Hills ever. Brilliant!
* Julia Roberts gets out her mama bear claws and tells a paparazzo how it is. I'd be afraid, too. Don't mess with Miss Julia. Big mistake, huge!
During the parade:
After the parade:
Oh yes, it's happening: 9 to 5 The Musical. With music and lyrics by Dolly Parton, the musical will retrace the steps of the hit 1980 film. Joe Mantello (who gets his hands on all the big Broadway shows) will direct the show, which is set to open in Fall 2008 in Los Angeles before likely making a go of it on Broadway.
Emmy-winner Allison Janney is set to star as Violet Newstead, the super-efficient office manager who teams up with her co-workers, including Megan Hilty as Doralee Rhodes (the Dolly Parton role), to turn the tables on their sexist, egotistical boss. (Josh and I saw Megan Hilty in Wicked as Glinda and fell madly in love with her. Megan's performance of "Popular" is unmatched.)
Is it bad that when I heard this news I went and found "9 to 5" in my iTunes collection? If this musical can pour itself a cup of ambition we may see it hit Broadway in early 2009.
'Tis the season for everybody to start coming out with "Complete Series DVD Collection" packages, and Queer as Folk is ready to go at $250 for the whole shebang. (Didn't the series end a few years ago? What was the holdup on getting the full series out, people?)
While my feelings about Queer as Folk remain somewhat ambivalent -- couldn't it have been smarter and, um, of generally higher quality like The L Word? -- I still respect Queer for what it was. It was a big deal at the time, sticking its GLBT neck out before it became more comfortable and acceptable to do so. Queer as Folk was gay while Will on Will & Grace was still a neutered little gay uncle. The show also addressed plenty of issues in the gay community that few others did (and perhaps perpetuated other stereotypes of rampant promiscuity and drug use, but let’s leave that for a future cultural studies colloquia, hmmm?).
I started watching the series as a high school student, furtively visiting my local video store to bring the DVDs home to watch when nobody was home. I kept watching throughout college (albeit sometimes reluctantly) and finally saw the series finale once I had moved to New York. Perhaps some of the affection I feel for the series is simply derived from how long the series was with me, from newly out teenager to twenty-something man in the city.
I did love that the finale played out in a way that I never would have predicted. It was a nice way to say farewell to Queer as Folk.
Will QAF be under your Christmas tree this year?
Yesterday during a visit to the doctor I found out I lost six pounds. Yay, right? But also kind of surprising.
In the weeks leading up to the break-up I went low carb in an effort to curb my dependence on carb-o-licious things. (Cereal! Pasta! Bread! More cereal! Cereal on top of cereal!) I chucked a nice amount of weight and then began integrating carbs back into my life, focusing on adding complex carbs and foods without a lot of processed sugar. It was all worth it to drop a jean size or two.
But then, of course, the breakup. All carb rules went out the window. All bets were off. I unhinged my jaw and started annihilating everything in sight. I snacked like a smoker gone cold turkey. I ate like I was pregnant. With twins. But then I curbed that, too. But I still consider it a small miracle that, despite my recent pregnancy-style eating, I managed to end up with a balance of six pounds lost.
Little miracles, people. Little miracles every day.
Wondering why you haven’t been hearing as much from Joshie K. lately? His Mac up and died, just like mine did a couple months ago. He’ll be back as soon as his ‘puter gets out of the ICU. We love our little titanium Mac PowerBooks, but they’re just getting to be that age. For now they live on the magic of TekServe repairs.
In a few hours I’m boarding a Minneapolis-bound plane to spend some time with my family. You’ll probably hear from me while I’m home, writing live from suburbia. I can’t wait.
On Friday night Josh and I chowed down at Chipotle (burrito bowl--yum!) before retiring to his apartment for a documentary double feature.
First we watched No End In Sight, a definitive documentary on the war in Iraq. Where other Iraq documentaries are plodding and mind-numbing, this one is whip-smart and engaging. With the constant barrage of headlines about this bombing or that citizen revolt, it was nice to back up and get the bigger picture from a well-made, non-preachy documentary featuring interviews with some very high-ranking government officials (who actually concede errors were made) and other well-respected talking heads. As Josh said, "It's nice to see all this information in one place."
Next we popped in Shut Up and Sing, which I've now seen three times (it was Josh K's first time) and seeing it again set in stone my love for the film. The documentary explores the controversy when Natalie Maines, one of the Dixie Chicks, said at a concert "I just want y'all to know that we're ashamed the president of the United States is from Texas" just before the Iraq war broke out in 2003. A media hailstorm ensued, complete with country fans smashing and burning Dixie Chicks CDs. The film is an intimate portrait of the group, whom you can't help but grow to love and admire as the cameras follow them from that fateful moment up until their win three years later for Best Song of the Year for "Not Ready To Make Nice." I'm not a country fan, but after seeing the documentary I definitely went out and bought their CD.
Both are must-see DVDs. They really are pefect to watch as a pair, too. Check 'em out.
On Saturday Josh and I had brunch at our favorite diner in Hell's Kitchen before hopping the 2 train to Brooklyn to check out the Brooklyn Museum.
The Brooklyn Museum.
Judy Chicago's "The Dinner Party," the much-celebrated 1970s feminist art milestone.
Josh H. browsing the collections, hoodie and all.
Goodnight, Brooklyn Museum!
Afterward we took the train to Union Square where we hit up Strand Books. (I may or may not have purchased three books in a measure we all like to call "retail therapy.") We went to Paragon to hunt for a winter jacket for JK and then got sucked into the nearby Barnes & Noble (where I bought another book--oops!).
After our Brooklyn/Union Square Saturday we went to Josh's and decided to have a good old fashioned Josh & Josh slumber party. We bought snacks and sprawled out on the floor to watch Battlestar Galactica. Later I bunked down on an air mattress and Josh crawled up in his loft and we talked long after the lights went out.
On Sunday we had brunch again and talked about our respective breakups. Every time we talk it all out it seems to gets easier and easier to metabolize. We each went home for the afternoon (I spent most of it finishing Philippa Gregory's The Other Boleyn Girl) and then met up in the early evening for a shopping excursion to SoHo that included Uniqlo and Urban Outfitters.
We finished the night off at a Village coffee shop (one of my favorites, on Mercer Street) where we sipped drinks and basked in the rush and steady low rumble of NYU grad student conversation, listening to the piped in indie music and assiduously practicing our best covert people-watching skills.
The walk back to the subway was brisk. The autumn weather had finally decided to show itself in clouds of exhaled air that went before us as we walked. We zipped up our jackets as we passed the brightly-lit arch in Washington Square Park. A few blocks later we descended into the West 4th Street stop and caught our train home.
Let's all play a game called Little Life Surprises. Ready? Go!
Remember how I was planning to move to Jersey City on January 1st? Well, that's not happening anymore. The landlord raised the rent exorbitantly after a post-renovation appraisal (seriously, $1,000 each plus hefty utilities, and in Jersey City?), thus making it impossible for me and my former roommates-to-be to take the place. Now everybody is out of an apartment when the New Year's ball drops.
Anybody have hot tips on a room in a great little place in Hell's Kitchen, opening up in December or January 1st at the latest?
I'm not too worried--I know I'll land on my feet one way or another (NYC strangely seems to have a way of helping you out after a while)--but I definitely could use your hot tips if you've got 'em. Feel free to post them in the comments or e-mail joshandjosh at gmail dot com.
There's nothing like the break-up of a relationship and then losing your apartment two days later to keep you on your toes. Surprise! ;)
--Josh H.
A few years ago Mel Brooks swept the Tony Awards with his smash musical comedy The Producers. Last week his new musical, Young Frankenstein, based on his 1970s film, opened on Broadway. On the last night of previews before opening night Josh and I saw the show with our friend Kirsten. We think it's safe to say that Mel Brooks has another hit on his hands.
(Random aside: We sat three rows ahead of Full House alums John Stamos and Bob Saget. John looked great--that full head of hair, that skin, those cheekbones! While John is now doing his thing on ER--is that show seriously still on?--Bob is in town starring in Broadway's Drowsy Chaperone.)
Young Frankenstein follows the story of the famed Dr. Frankenstein's grandson who is trying to live down his family's infamous reputation and earn respect as a scientist in his own right. All bets are off, however, when his grandfather dies and leaves him the family's Transylvanian castle and the young doctor goes to inspect his new property, meeting a few very interesting characters along the way.
Featuring Roger Bart as Dr. Frederick Frankenstein, Megan Mullally as Dr. Frankenstein's hands-off fiancee, Elizabeth, the hilarious Andrea Martin as Frau Blucher, and Sutton Foster as the sultry, yodeling lab assistant Inga, the musical shows off a talented and respected cast, quite a few of whom have Tony trophies of their own on mantles at home.
Highlights include Megan Mullally as she sings about mammary glands in her first big number and about very, very deep love (cough, cough) in her final showstopper. The woman has incredible pipes. We definitely want to see more of her on the Broadway boards.
The $14 million show made use of every single penny and delivers a huge, over-the-top, splashy show that will dazzle even the most grizzled theatergoer. (Even critics who haven't been totally thrilled with the show have still complimented the production on its razzle dazzle, talent, and entertainment value.)
And, the big bonus: Yes, there's a strike on Broadway right now, but Young Frankenstein is one of the rare shows still open. They're selling out every single show. Young Frankenstein also has a lottery, so if you're willing to take a chance, get in line early for the chance at great $25 seats.
Special thanks to our friend Josh S., one of the lovely and talented Manchattan guys, for arranging the press tickets for us.
Last week Josh and I got our hands on a pre-release copy of Celine Dion's new album Taking Chances
, due out in stores Tuesday. We've always admired Celine for her amazing voice, along with the fact that she's the best-selling solo female artist in history, and we were happy to see her put away some of the cheese and schlock on her latest album. She joined up with some amazing producers and writers, including Linda Perry, Ne-Yo, and some of Rihanna's people, and the chances Celine took on this disc work pretty well. Confirmed fans will be thrilled; new fans may be drawn in. Check out: "Taking Chances," and "Alone." For a new Celine sound try "Can't Fight This Feeling."
We also got our hands on Seal's new album, "System." The highlights here are his single, "Amazing," and "Wedding Day," on which he duets with his supermodel wife, Heidi Klum, who can carry a tune.
When we saw singer Esmee Denters on Oprah recently we fell a little bit in love. Esmee, a Dutch teenager, was discovered by Justin Timberlake after hearing her sing covers on YouTube. It's been nothing but up, up, up for Esmee ever since, whose new album is set to drop soon.
Check out Esmee below. The video is grainy and recorded in her bedroom, but the voice is all you need to pay attention to. Girl can sing.
Want more? Check out Esmee's cover of Mariah Carey's "We Belong Together" and Alicia Keys's "No One."
Another song we're loving right now is "Apologize" by Timbaland (feat. OneRepublic). It's also a pretty great video (with the exception of the Paula Abdul-looking girl). And, no, we're not loving it because of our recent break-ups; we're lovin' it because it's good and it refused to dislodge itself from our brains even after repeated listens.
Josh and Josh are both single again.
Each of our relationships ended exactly two weeks apart from each other and, strangely, two weeks apart almost to the very minute.
The most popular question upon hearing this news, of course, is "What happened? Why'd you guys break up?" But let us say two things: One, both of our guys did the breaking, not us. And two, like most longer-term relationships that end, the how and the why are complicated and messy and probably best to not give a tidy summary, if only because there's little about it that's tidy. The truth is that the relationships are, quite simply, over.
All of that is part of why our posts were a little more sparse during October.
Breakups really suck. A lot. They hurt. Then they feel a little better. Then they hurt again, but maybe not as much as they did at first. And then it hurts again, maybe a little less than before. But then it still hurts.
It's a process.
But we're doing it. We're going through it, step by step, day by day.
And luckily, as always, we do have each other. That makes it just a little easier.
Thanks for hanging in there with us.
J&J
A few weeks ago our friend Kirsten introduced us to Candy Pratt Price's online monthly column for Style.com, delivered by speaking cartoon avatar, which has since become a Josh and Josh favorite. When we saw last month's edition we weren't sure if Candy was for real--was this an over-the-top joke, or was she serious? Could all this free association be planned, or was it just mad genius? In any case, we were calling each other and repeating lines from the September edition:
"And then you get, like, a gold bag, and you're at lunch and they go like, 'ugh, you have a gold bag at lunch,' but you have a gold bag!"
"I love a clutch bag. I love a clutch bag because you can put that bag into another bag. That gives you more bags. Like if you get a vintage Gucci alligator clutch and you all-of-a-sudden sssslip it out, out of a Coach tote bag, it's like an aaaaaaaah moment kind of."
Instant classics!
Try some Candy for yourself. Candy's October edition doesn't disappoint. You could say that she's our new Brenda Dickson. Oh, and take some of her tips, too. We double dog dare you.
We noticed that Ugly Betty's Betty Suarez (played by America Ferrera) has something in common with King Henry VIII's second wife, Anne Boleyn (portrayed in the February film The Other Boleyn Girl by Natalie Portman).
Notice anything that Betty and Anne have in common?
That's right, their necklaces are nearly identical, featuring a pearl necklace with a golden "B" dangling from the middle with three tear-drop pearls hanging off the bottom of the "B."
Will it only be a matter of time before Mark and Amanda start teasing Betty that her "B" necklace is, like, so 1532? Will they tell her it's so bad that she should have her head cut off?
From July 20, 2005 (because I'm feeling nostalgic, and because, today, I feel similarly):
This morning at 9 am, my exceedingly fallible body lost one tooth's worth of its ability to feel.
As the endodontist drilled away my tooth pains with a practised ease I wondered if he might be so kind as to use his shiny magical healing instruments to take away the dull post-college-degree-quarterlife-crisis pains I had in my heart, too. But I doubted that anything could reach that deep, and I didn't like the idea of being permanently numb to the world. Even if it was mildly painful. So I accepted the trite loss of one of my molar's roots and nerves and hoped that, in my thirties, the confusion of twentysomething life would give way to a general sense of contentment. Or, at the very least, I hoped I would have acclimated to life's unexpected ups and downs so as to arm myself with something similar to the practiced ease of my experienced dentist. Except, in my case, I'd be using my magical healing instruments to understand the beast, not rip out its roots.
But the answers always only come too late and too few. And in the end, there are just the cold, hard facts: the twenties fucking suck.
//Josh K.
