Thing of the Day: Fame

Up until very recently ago, I was under the mistaken assumption that if, as an adult, I was successful, healthy, wealthy and content in my relationships, I would be happy. The past week has proved me wrong. Yes, I would very much like to have success and money and good health and a great life partner and lots of small adopted African and Asian children, but I have decided that this will not be enough. I would like to be famous.

Several things have led me to this conclusion. Last Wednesday, I had the luck to work the red carpet at the Country Music Awards in Nashville. Since I do not like country music, standing for long periods of time, or taking directions from others, I thought this would be a pretty average and not terribly exciting experience where I would briefly glimpse several B-list celebs, snap a few iPhone pics, perhaps get some free shit, and be on my way. Wrong. Working the red carpet, apparently, means you get to actually be on the red carpet. Next to those who are walking down the red carpet, being photographed and interviewed and fawned over. Now, a fan of country music I may not be (Seriously. George Strait, Kenny Chesney, and the Zac Brown Band walked into the awards within one foot of me and had to be pointed out to me by my co-intern, to whom I responded with "who?!"), but when I found myself within approximately 2 feet of Carrie Underwood for a prolonged period of time I had to physically restrain myself from reaching out to stroke her perfect blonde curls. As if this wasn't enough, I actually touched Nicole Kidman. I don't particularly like Nicole Kidman--I think she desperately needs to go tanning, or if she's concerned about 'cancer' or something, use a no-side-effects tanning spray, stop getting Botox, and be generally less creepy-looking, but when we briefly grazed hands and exchanged greetings I would have chopped off my left arm, freeze-dried it, and crushed and spoon-fed it to my first born for the opportunity to hang out with her for five more minutes.

Hyperboles aside, I spent the following four days excitedly Googling CMA pictures in the hopes that I would appear in the corner of one (fail, but the co-worker who calls me "fashion girl" (I like you, co-worker), did tell me he saw me holding up the red-carpet sign for Reba on C.M.T! What I would give for that to have made it to my TiVo...), and on Saturday night, my lingering thoughts that I would maybe one day like to be famous were confirmed beyond any reasonable doubt. The reason? Jay-Z.

Jay-Z played at Vanderbilt's Memorial Gym this weekend and by the first song, quickly moved onto my list of favorite-concerts-I-have-ever-attended (other contendors: Radiohead in Miami, Regina Spektor in Nashville, N.E.R.D in Nashville, Backstreet Boys Reunion Tour in New York). The man is a performer--to see him live is truly an honor, and to see the effect he has on the crowd is breathtaking. Within ten minutes, my Jewish-white-girl friends were sweaty, screaming song lyrics at the top of their lungs, bopping to the beat and attesting that if the only way they could engage in sexual intercourse with Jay-Z was on stage in front of the crowd of 5000 at that very moment, they would absolutely do it. And I found myself thinking...I want people to say that about me.Not quite that, because it would be creepy and offputting, but I would like people that I don't know to get moderately excited to see me. I'm not striving to be an actor or a singer, or a reality TV star turned actor-singer (although if anyone wants to pitch me a good reality pilot, please don't hesitate for one second), but I'd like to be known. Perhaps in a really good author or cool talk-show personality way. Or a wife of actor/singer/reality star turned actor-singer who uses her husbands' money benevolently to start a scholarship fund for Russian immigrants and makes frequent appearances on Oprah and The Today Show while running her non-profit and casually attending culinary school/submitting weekly columns to New York Magazine. Not that I've given it much though, really.

In other news: I am going home to New York for the first time since August and I am so excited. I am making a brief stop at my friend Megan's house in D.C for the weekend to eat good food, bar-hop around Georgetown, and decide if I would ever want to live there after graduation. I plan to make her tour to me around all of the places I toured in middle school and take many embarassing tourist photographs, and then on Sunday I will re-unite with my one true love: the great NYC. People often ask me why I am so set on not living in New York right after graduation if I love it so much and I've come to start explaining it like so. You know those couples that have been dating forever and are obsessed with each other but decide to break up to see what else is out there and date new people and realize if they are truly right for one another while always secretly harboring the intention to get back together? That's like me and New York. It was wisely pointed out to me that in the case of these couples, one or both halves do tend to find someone they'd rather be with and then months are wasted Facebook stalking and writing angry emails that will never be sent and shooting imaginary poisonous arrows into each other's backs and all sorts of other dramuhhhh....

But lucky for me, New York can't ever break up with me. Only I with it, briefly, for D.C or Chicago or maybe even an extra year in Nash-Vegas, where I will cultivate a short-lived but undoubtedly exciting affair with the lesser city before coming back with open arms and welcoming myself home.

Thing of the Day: Taxis

Things I dislike: cab drivers who do not have change for really small bills. What the f? How can a cab driver, a person who by profession picks you up, drives you to a location, accepts your payment, and does virtually nothing else (except perhaps the rare breed of excellent cab driver friend--that which consoles you when you are intoxicated and sad, tells you stories of their homeland, blasts pop music and allows you to smoke out the window while encouraging you to find Jesus), not have change for a FIVE dollar bill? This morning, I hopped into my usual Allied Cab, prepared with Starbucks and cab cash (for those of you who do not go to Vanderbilt--cab cash: a genius Vanderbilt University invention that allows you to charge multi-colored Monopoly money to your student account and then pay cabs with this "money") to go to my internship. $6.90 later, I arrive at my destination, hand the driver two cab cash fives, and ask for two dollars back. To which he responds, "Oh, no, I do not have change." SIR. Are you joking. How is it possible for you not to have TWO DOLLARS in change? I may be gullible and impatient, but I was not about to let the scheming no-change driver keep my ten dollars. So I sat at the corner for at least a full minute, scooping dollar bills, quarters, and even dimes out of my purse. I would have considered this a low point had I not found a twenty dollar bill neatly stuffed behind my ID card in my Blackberry case (on this note, I think I am going to start hiding monetary surprises in all of my belongings for such low-point situations). I paid the man, got out, and am now left with a sense of disappointment in Nashville cabbies, impressment (word?) with the amount of money I found in my purse/pockets/Blackberry case, and reminiscent of cab rides past.

So, despite the fact that I love and miss my subway commute and will always be a huge and devoted fan of public transportation, a list of my favorite cab experiences to date. In no particular order.

-Last week, on my way back to campus from my internship, an Allied Cab driver asked me if my weekend plans included church. When I explained to him that I was Jewish, he enquired politely whether Jewish people a)go to church, and b)believe in Jesus Christ our Saviour. My answer of "no" really didn't strike a pleasant chord with this man, who then turned abruptly and demanded I explain how I think we all came to be in the first place and do I believe in anything and don't Jews go to "Jew Church?" After five minutes of explaining/arguing the Big Bang theory in broken English, he accepted my cab cash, hugged me, and encouraged me to find God as soon as possible. Then he gave me his card.

-This summer, en route to meet a friend for cheese fries at 3am, I got into a yellow cab and explained to him that I had no money and really high heels, so if there was any way he could just drop me off at Pomme Frites and call it a night, I would really appreciate it and be sure to send good Karma wishes his way. He did. And waited outside while I entered the glorious french fry establishment to make sure that I was okay.

-Last spring in Rome, when my friend Geneva and I took a cab from the airport to our hotel in Campo di Fiori, the cab driver used the hour-long ride as a guided tour to the city, taking us past all the major monuments in the city and explaining their origins, history, and key details. He then dropped us off at our hotel and recommended a restaurant on the corner that served giant glasses of boxed wine with massive portions of pasta for 8Euro per pasta/wine dish. I believe we got two each. And then free tequila shots which Geneva's friends requested in Spanish, because "they don't really care what language you speak if you're pretty."

-Not a single experience but does anyone remember the Disco Cab? It used to drive around campus freshman and sophomore year decked out in strobe lights, Mardi Gras beads, and surround sound blasting the lastest hits and allowing you to cram as many people as you wish into it's comfy leather seats. I believe our record was 14 girls in two rows of seats, with two crammed into the front, loudly singing/screaming "I'm bossyyyyyyy" while en route to Bar Car. Ugh, on that note, does anyone remember Bar Car?!

-Last winter in Copenhagen, when a cab driver allowed me to not only stop for a gyro (oh, the pre-vegetarianism days of smoked meats, assorted sausages, prosciutto by the slice, greasy fried chicken and onion-ring smothered steaks...despite almost taking a bite out of a tailgate hotdog this weekend, I have held out for almost four months now and feel great about it), but proceeded to let me eat said gyro in the front seat while discussing the Danish system of socialism, universal healthcare, and free education and its' many benefits over the American system. He was a really young and attractive cab driver (due to the Danish system of socialism, 20-somethings often hold jobs they never would in the United States), and I gave him my Danish phone number. I'd like to think that I gave him the wrong number, or perhaps he was just playing me like a fool, but I never heard from Sven(?) again.

-The time in high school where my best friend Rachel and I sat in the backseat and dangled our feet out of opposite windows while our driver stopped at every red light to pray over the wheel--upon third or fourth prayer we realized that in addition to being a religious fanatic, our cabbie had NO FINGERS on one hand. I miss high school.

Off to a delicious lunch at Cantina Laredo with the roommate. We will be driving ourselves, thank you very much.