Red Bucket

It started with pavlova. It ended with pegs. And in between there was Red Bucket. 'Nuf said.

Jackie Lee 2-step madness

It's a quiet, unassuming karaoke bar with metal detectors, attached to a sad-looking Travelodge in Opelika. And it's home to Jackie Lee's, home of Jackie Lee. Picture a kind of shrunken-headed man, wearing a pimp zoot, and belting out raspy covers of Sam Cooke, and that about sums it up. Drinks in plastic cups, newly escaped American-citizens-to-be, big booty shakin' black women, kids from the projects (trailer park by a train track, in the South), white trash dressed up as mutton dressed as lamb, and then us. No wonder I cleared the dancefloor with my karaoke. I wonder if they thought we were laughing at them. Or maybe they'd just never seen a girl with non-reflective glasses before.

All Australian - 3 days of festivites

It started with a BBQ on a fire escape in Tribeca. It ended with a rousing interpretation of the Australian National Anthem. And in between we did what all good Australian's do on Australia Day weekend - we drink. And eat our wildlife, and shovel fistfuls of pavlova into our mouths while we reminisce. Oh yeah...

And for the non-Aussies among you - this year's famous Lamb ad is a must-see for the culturally curious. Click here to watch it.

I've picked up

... A lot of my furniture and bits from the street, though here they call it 'sidewalk surfing'. Bought some bits on Craigslist, some at the Salvos, floor stock at furniture stores, ordering cheap online, and pilfering flea markets. Finally, I've got something to sit on in every room, and none of it grosses me out (except maybe that one chair, which will be good for painting). Who would've thought I'd end up owning purple and beige luggage? Old skool...

Today I had a pretty 'New York' experience. I bought this table at the Salvos (pictured above in all it's Fifties formica grandeur) and then got a car service to take me - and it - back to my apartment. I paid the guy extra to help me take it upstairs, but this part of the deal was done in the foyer of my building. Next thing I know, the weaselly little fucker has nicked off leaving me stranded and laughing incredulously in the hallway. I had to be on a conference call that very minute, so I ran upstairs leaving a note for my neighbours apologising for the obstruction.

An hour and half later there I am hauling the thing up the stairs myself, making a huge racket as I bumped banisters and slid along marble. But all ended well - one slightly wider doorframe later, here I am tap tap tapping away happy as a pig in mud, and grateful to once again sit upright.

White lines

Woke up to snow this morning. A thinnish blanket, but a blanket nonetheless. One which revealed that I have a squirrel perving on me through my bedroom window, if I can go by the tracks left on my fire escape. What am I to think about that?

Going through the motions

I have yet to see new work by an artist in New York that is really interesting, inspiring, anything? Maybe there is too much pressure - the pressure of being surrounded by some of the world's great art and artists; maybe my expectations are too high; perhaps New York has had its moment in the sun; perhaps everyone's too busy shopping? Or maybe - just maybe - I haven't seen it yet.

I've seen clever exercises in storytelling, too-too much video, and the occasional glimmer of hope like the work of Geneva-based, French artist Vidya Gastaldon (pictured here, "Cœur de guru", 2005) now on show at the Swiss Institute. The one consolation: at least they serve nice drinks at openings.

Seven minutes of snow

I had my first taste of New York snow today. Or rather it was shoved up my nose and pushed into my ears by a strange whirlygig phenomenon on Walker Street. Lasting a good 7 and a half minutes, I now understand why New Yorkers hate it. It’s all about Snow’s evil twin which, for the purposes of brevity, we’ll call Wind. I never knew eyeballs could feel the cold – now I do. And I smiled through the whole thing - what a tourist.

Completely off-topic, the street posters are cool around here. Those interested in seeing more can email me for close-ups.

Newlyweds

I flew down for the Southern fried wedding of Stuart and Jessica over the weekend. The First Baptist Auburn was filled with the Scottish sounds of air being blown through bags and out through tiny tubes. Men wore skirts. We ate Mac&Cheese below a giant colour-matched Chihuly sculpture. I learnt to dance again, the way we used to in primary school (spinning, spinning, spinning) and then ate 2 kinds of cake. You can't ask for more than that.

Sometimes when you don't ask, you get it anyway. The evening was rounded off - after our departure - with the ceremonial stripping of a Scottish elder. If you see a kilted, red-faced larrikin doing the Full Monty on YouTube.com in the next few weeks, you'll know from whence it came. Maybe someday soon I'll work out how to put video on this thing.

New Years post-partum

No snow for Christmas. No snow for New Years. All sun and no snow make Jack a dull boy. Or Connie feel ripped off. The ball-dropping evening was spent in the $10,000-a-month loft of a 20-something hedge fund manager, in the company of Dr Jules, Narguess, Hannah, Ketan, Jessica, and a crowd of other semi-strangers sipping free champagne. There was love on the dancefloor, love in the bathroom and love all the way home.