whitty a la city

Somewhere between corduroys and skater shoes to handbags and mascara wands, I missed the tutorial on "How To Use A Curling Iron Without Giving Yourself Third Degree Burns." Although I've thrown my coif into a ponytail or bun for 76% of my life, there have been days when I thought, "Ya know, I'm going to put a little effort in today." But with effort comes a price, and this pretty penny wasn't so pretty... it was more of a guessing game: hickey? birthmark? gang sign?

Whit vs. Curling Iron

 For anyone that has had the pleasure of seeing "Bridesmaids," you'll appreciate the photo below... during a long walk from Columbia down to midtown, I cut into Central Park and took pleasure in the watching of the fitness freaks... I took this from the bushes... great way to get a workout in without paying your first months rent for a private session... I did get some funny looks jumping around in boxing gloves...

Hi-Ya!

In other news... I joined a new friend, DW for some mexican food on the UWS.* DW is a friend of a friend- an actor/music producer/lover of dogs who has lived in the city for years and years, and slightly resembles Kevin Kline and Ray Liotta's estranged brother. Great guy who has been showing me the ropes and lends acting advice for my ongoing mastery of interviewing celebrities... "Make them think you genuinely care when their last BM* was!" We cruised through Central Park late night and he introduced me to the Dakota where Lennon was killed, as well as the building he used to live in with Steve Martin. Wild and crazy guy!
*Upper West Side and Bowel Movement, FYI... For Your Information

After the photo shoot on Sunday, I cruised through the Chelsea Market and spotted a few celebs shoving crepes in their faces... I meandered through the very unique High Line Park, which was originally constructed in the 1930s, to lift dangerous freight trains off Manhattan's streets. The elevated park runs through the West Side neighborhoods of the Meatpacking District, Chelsea and Hell's Kitchen, and upon completion, will be a mile-and-a-half long.

Ahhhh the public transportation. Psycologists should have their offices in underground transit carriages. The poopoo platter of people watching is priceless. You never know who you are sitting next to... serial killers, Nobel Peace Prize winners, ewoks... seriously. There was an ewok on the subway this morning. (It) sits at 79th street eating potato chips and gets on and off randomly... and (it) literally sounds like an ewok. I started to feel sorry for (it) until (it) started yelling and throwing potato chips. Somewhat frightening, but there was a female body builder who's veins were about to explode from under her neon orange skin standing between me and the 'wok, so I felt safe. The other day there was a man selling his book, "Don't Beat Your Kids Or They'll End Up Like Me." Catchy title, but I'm not sure about his approach. I would go for the subtle, open-mic tactic... sit in the corner, reading Blond Voyage excerpts out loud...with different accents.  Surely someone would discover me. Maybe I'll wait until I get kicked out of Dean & Deluca.

As you may know, I work in right in Times Square, between Radio City Music Hall and Rockefeller Center, so my walk to the 1 train includes dodging a lot of tourists and witnessing some serious claustrophobia. Yes I know there is open air, but sometimes I feel like I'm in a bikram yoga class with 8 million people. Example A:

Yogurt on 7th Ave... no thanks

But when I get uptown and walk "home," I see little gems like this... bad-ass chess phenom.

Bobby Fischer