Turkey in Lower Manhattan

Here's something you may not know about the Sheps. We like birds. We like birds a lot. We're not one of these families that goes on birdwatching expeditions, as that requires too much effort, however we do tend to lose our collective familial shit when a new songbird graces the backyard. Or perhaps a thrush. And don't even get me started on the fits elicited by a pheasant. Birds are good.

Much like my love of cooking and the ability to make badass, military-approved hospital corners when making the bed, I have carried this family-bred ornithological appreciation with me in my adult life. So wasn't I just tickled when I stumbled upon this scene in Lower Manhattan, in the shadow of the Statue of Liberty, of all places:



It turns out Ms. Turkey actually lives there, after spending some time in Tribeca before re-locating downtown. Clever of her, as the real estate market really favors Battery Park these days. And her name is Zelda. After F. Scott Fitzgerald's wife, who wandered around the park when she had a nervous breakdown. Which is frankly pretty sick, and not like the way the young kids say sick now. But a turkey-in-residence is awesome. Did DC have a turkey-in-residence? No. No it did not. Which is one more reason why NYC kicks DC's ass six ways to Sunday. Go on, turkey. Ms. Zelda if you're nasty.

Ukulele Debut...Kinda

My friend Jess came to town this weekend, officially to participate in Ukulele Fest at Banjo Jim's, but unofficially to join me in an exhausting weekend of bar-hopping, late night dancing, gigs, brunches, shopping for dresses, losing said dresses in said bars, and getting into a manageable amount of trouble. Saturday alone we went to eight bars...three of which were Rockwood Music Hall (at 4pm, 6pm, and 1 am, respectively). It wasn't even that we overindulged in adult beverages. We kept that at a respectable pace, thank you, no matter how much Piano's deadly margaritas tried to do us in. It was more the sheer ambition of the agenda that wiped us out, and ensured that I spent most of Sunday homebound with a box of crackers, a brick of cream cheese, and the NFL.

Also at Banjo Jim's, I was convinced to pick up an instrument in front of an audience for the first time since the heady days of the Council Rock High School Orchestra. Here's me playing the ukulele. Or at least, one note on the ukulele. Accompanying a nursery rhyme version of "I Am the Walrus." Weirdness abounds:



And here's some proper uke strumming, courtesy of Jess:

DIY High-Concept Halloween

I never was one for pre-fab costumes. I don't think I've actually purchased one since grade school, and even then my spending budget was limited to cheap accessories to augment some kind of thrown together deal. Sometimes this didn't work out quite so well, as in the unfortunate toilet skirt-viking ensemble I rocked for the 5th grade explorer's pageant as Leif Ericson. But my track record's pretty good otherwise. Now's as good a time as any to think about next year, so here's some helpful hints from costumes past:

Taped together paper boxes + Crayola poster paint + low center of gravity and ability to shuffle = Pez dispenser

Black hooded sweatsuit+ paper emo drawing taped to stomach + cutesy headpiece + bad attitude = maladjusted Teletubbie

White hooded sweatsuit + cotton balls + construction paper ears = sheep

Orioles hat + oversized googly eyes + yellow leggings + walking cane = lame duck (best implemented in major election years and on Capitol Hill, where I promise this is hysterical)

And this year's accomplishment, which is admittedly a bit baffling at first: blue tube dress + blue wig + roll of blue painter's tape + moderate threshold for pain when it comes time to take the damn thing off = "Tangled Up in Blue"

Best implemented among those with similar musical tastes and high tolerance for borderline pretentious wordplay.

Radiator Denouement

Why I choose to do these prior to putting on makeup, I don't know.

I Think My Maintenance Guy's Full of Crap

I have the loudest radiator in New York City. Is this normal? You decide!

Andy Mac Live at the Living Room

From my pal Andy Mac's CD release party at the Living Room on the Lower East Side.

Robyn Featured in Beauty Blog; Flurries in Hell

Let's be clear. I'm not slovenly, and I'm not a raging tomboy, but I think it's fair to say that I'll never be mistaken for a fashion or style maven. Ever. It's just too much effort. I can clean up reasonably well, but I'll never be counted among, for example, the leggings mafia that currently is swarming NYC. Don't get me wrong, those gals look great in their semi-pantless, giant sweater, elaborately scarved getups. But I'm too lazy, and too cheap to bother with things that will look ridiculous three years from now. Plus, I have these things called "curves" and an "ass," which just precludes the whole thing.

Which is why it's semi-hysterical that my makeup artist/hairstylist friend Cassandra Kenendy featured me in, of all things, a beauty blog. She made me up right purty for the wedding of my friends Bryan and Emily. Bryan and Emily, being the artsy sorts, had their awesome, rock and roll wedding at the Williamsburg music venue Public Assembly, which is unspeakably cool. Emily encouraged the ladies to "dress to get noticed." So, this one time, I figured I'd comply. With a vengeance. We just went Rita Hayworth on this thing. Or Rita Hayworth goes to Billyburg. Elbow-length gloves, my old slinky black prom dress (god bless you Weight Watchers and everything you stand for), crippling silver heels, and black eyeliner. A lot of black eyeliner. Like, still-wearing-it-at-the-laundromat-the-next-day-after-four-attempts-to-remove-it amounts of eyeliner.

How did it turn out? Check out
CK's blog, and judge for yourself:

Oh, okay, sneak freakin' preview:



And to think, when I first met Cassandra when I was a 22-year-old new hire she described me as slinking awkwardly around the office "like Gollum in a twin set." Upgrade.