Day 12: Never have I ever... seen a Sexhibition

Today I went to one of NYC's finest cultural institutions. Forget MoMA. Guggenheim-Schmoogenheim.  If you're seeking curatorial genius, look no further than 233 Fifth Avenue: The Museum of Sex. The gift shop says it all with Pink Sock Tissue dispensers. His and hers! 

Actually, I've been wanting to check out this museum for a while. I've passed by it dozens of times. But it always seemed like a strange activity to suggest. Hey guys, after brunch you want to hit up the Sex Museum? Lucky for me, my chosen day of attendance was a very special day at the Museum of Sex, or MoSex, as they've dubbed it (creative...). It was a calendar signing for New York City Hunky Firefighters of the Month. 12 of NYC's bravest and a sad turnout of even sadder women in large, giggling gaggles. It really added to the ambiance. 

The first question asked by a friend about the Museum of Sex, is "how porn-ey will it be?" The answer? VERY PORN-EY. The curators don't care about easing the visitor into the experience. First piece in the first exhibit... bam! Hard core porn. The entire first-floor exhibition chronicled the depiction of sex in film. I was shocked and humored to see the earlier works, some of which were quite graphic. There was also a section about sex in modern movies. N-O-T for the faint of heart. I felt remarkably uncomfortable watching the famous 9 1/2 weeks bathtub scene in a public setting. That's the weird dichotomy of MoSex. The carnal content sparks the most intimate of thoughts, but it's set in the sterile, analytical environment of a museum. And is there anything analytical about sex? 

The second floor was dedicated to a strange, disjointed mix of media: the depiction of sex in art, photography, sculpture, and thennnn... some sex toys you could touch. There was The Sex of Robots, a super-disturbing tiny metal model of a robot orgy, with a child doing things a child shouldn't be doing. Yikes. In a less freaky corner, there were some cool old pornographic photos. It was most interesting to see the sepia-toned Victorian-era photographs with poses that resemble the raunchiest porn photos from today. It reminds us that no matter how much our culture shifts, and no matter what inappropriate television show MTV has created this year, people have been knockin' boots since the beginning of time. Since before boots! So what's with the big taboo? 

The third floor was the most interesting. It was a special exhibition on the sex lives of animals. Mostly photos and lots of text, it focused a lot on nature's sexual anomalies: gender-bending animals, female penises, male mammaries, sex-role reversal and more. From homosexuality to gender, masturbation to monogamy (or lack thereof), the exhibition looked at animal sexual behaviors that humans have classified as deviant. Acts that we've outlawed, punished, and shamed, animals don't give a shit. And who's usually right... man or Mother Nature? It was cool to see that animal sexuality is every bit as weird and complicated as human sexuality. So next time you go to spank the monkey, you can feel better knowing that right now, a monkey is doing the exact same thing. 

Results:  Learned a lot of fun factoids about the animal kingdom, saw some weird, old porn, and checked an oft-overlooked NYC museum off my list. Uninhibited museum-goers will appreciate an intense look at the chronology of human sexuality in culture. It wasn't the most impressive museum in the city, but no one could ever accuse it of being boring. Oh, and definitely don't bring your mom. 

Status: Sexcess! 

Day 10: Never have I ever... sung a madrigal

Ok, I couldn't have done this one on my own. It's only thanks to 12 other ladies that I am able to include this new experience in my 30-day project. Therefore this is more of a "we" post than an "I" post. However, I can't speak for the rest of my group mates. Perhaps madrigals are just another day in the choir room for them. But for me, this was a first. 

Madrigal Mates

The musical group I sing with is strictly a pop group. In our repertoire, the 1938 jazz standard "Our Love is Here to Stay" by Gershwin is as ancient as we get. So singing a madrigal is completely out of our wheelhouse. Many of us, myself included, were trained to sing in classical choirs. I've sung my fair share of true choral works: Handel's Messiah, Fauré's Requiem, Mendelssohn's Elijah. Legit stuff. But a madrigal is something I've never touched. Madrigals are a type of chamber music that originated in Italy in the 14th century. It's perhaps best connected to its second popularization in the late Renaissance and early Baroque periods. Either way, this shit be old. 

Most importantly, Madrigals are sort of like a cappella musical poetry. The usual form is two or three stanzas of three lines each, with 7 or 11 syllables per line. It also usually changes tempo from common time to 6/8, which is a particularly tricky tempo change to maneuver. And it's polyphonic, meaning it's always meant to be sung by multiple voices. Enter Treble. 

We began learning the madrigal two weeks ago. It was a piece of cake. We nailed it. The end. 

Yeah. Not so much. We started out by learning the rhythm only. We spoke the lyrics to rhythm over and over again before even attempting the music. That seemed to go OK. Then, we banged out the notes. Ok, time to put the two together. It was like a peanut butter and vaseline sandwich. There was nothing... no song... not even a sloppy madrigal. Cacophony. So, under strict instructions, we went home and worked on the piece individually. I must have listened to it 25 times over the past week. 

We reconvened last night. The first go wasn't impressive. We banged out the tricky measures over and over, building the sound brick by brick, layer by layer, until we were making it through... slowly. Then, something just clicked. We could hear what it was supposed to sound like... rich, beautiful harmonies, tightly bobbing and weaving around each other in less than two octaves worth of musical space. It was gorgeous. The movement of each part showed its purpose. But that purpose couldn't be revealed alone. Only when the four parts lock together could we see the composer's destination. We were singing a madrigal. 

This awesome high carried us through the rest of an awesome (and long) rehearsal. Our sense of achievement was palpable. Every song we sang after that was better, juicier, more dynamic. The madrigal was almost... magical. 

Did I forget to mention that it is a madrigal version of "Hit Me Baby One More Time" by Britney? Oops. Must have forgot. 

(Yes, that Britney.) 

Results: Though chamber music isn't my usual genre of choice, I'm so incredibly happy to have learned one. And I cannot wait to perform it with 12 amazing musicians next week! 

Status: Success! 

Day 9: Never have I ever... tasted the Jewel of the Sea

Mushrooms. Cilantro. Blue Cheese. Oysters. Filed under "foods you love, or foods you hate." There is no middle ground with these dealmakers and dealbreakers. Have you ever noticed that no one is ever so-so about cilantro? People have opinions about cilantro. 

And I had opinions about oysters. Completely unfounded opinions, because, until yesterday, I had never tried one. But I held firm in my opinion: they are gross. Who wants to eat something that looks like a pack-a-day smoker coughed into a barnacle? 

Let it be known that this wall doesn't extend to any other type of seafood. J'adore les fruits de mer! And I have always watched my entire family eat, offer, and glorify oysters. It's the jewel of the sea! A wonderful delicacy. I'm sure you will love it, it's like nothing else you've had. No deal. They just don't get me. It wasn't until a recent outing with three friends where I watched them happily slurping down oysters that I thought "Gee, maybe I am missing out here." 

Last night, I went out for drinks with friends. We enjoyed fancypants cocktails at Raines Law Room, an establishment where you must ring a doorbell to enter, and patrons pull a small metal ball-chain next to a velvet banquet to call the waitress. The motion feels like turning on an antique lamp, except the light is an attractive waitress who asks you whether you prefer a cocktail that is refreshing, bitter, or herbaceous. This sophisticated Gatsby-esque hideaway was the perfect primer for my great leap into the high-class world of oysters. After several drinks, we headed to the nearby Blue Water Grill, the upscale seafood palace. Unfortunately, we had a little too much fun ringing for the waitress, and it had gotten late. Blue Water Grill was closing, and taking the integrity of my blog with it. I asked the waiters if they knew of anywhere nearby that served oysters and might be open. Without hesitation, one replied "Yes, across the street, the Coffee Shop Bar." 

Oh. The Coffee Shop Bar. This is not a place known for seafood. It is known as a late night dining spot to the pretty and the pretty drunk.

We ordered half a dozen oysters and I ordered a glass of white wine. (You know, just in case.) The plate arrived minutes later, and my partner-in-crime noted that the oysters looked a little funny. Great. Now I'm really excited. We raised the open shells with an air-cheers, and I placed the fleshy, watery lump in my mouth. The flavor was underwhelming. It tasted like sea. But the texture overrode any flavor distinction anyway. It was like swallowing a slimy dead slug. I tried a second oyster to give it another go. Yep, slug again. 

Results: Two oysters consumed. The flavor was fine, actually. There wasn't much about that to dislike. And now I know definitively that a) oysters don't make me sick, and b) if I'm ever in the position where oysters are being served, I am good to go. But I didn't really enjoy consumption, and from the way people go crazy for these little suckers, I'm clearly still not getting something. My oyster-loving friend Chris who accompanied me insists that this was a terrible introduction to oysters. He's probably right. I intend to treat myself to oysters from Aquagrill, Pearl, or the famed Grand Central Oyster Bar sometime in the next few weeks. I'm not too proud for a blog redaction. 

Status: Success! 

Day 8: Never have I ever... actually watched the Superbowl

I was raised by a dad who's more farmer than football. He would never spend a perfectly good Sunday afternoon watching sports. Find him in the garden, in the basement, fixing something, or on a boat. But never watching sports. Never. 

As a result, it's not a surprise that I don't possess a great affinity for team sports. No that I'm anti-sports. I like basketball, and follow the Knicks on and off. I like hockey, it's quite an exciting game to watch. And I like baseball best of all--the nostalgia, the Americana, the hot dogs. But I have no love for football. No. Love. I find it tedious and boring, and I just don't get the crazy fan-dom that surrounds the NFL. Sundays are religion. The stadium is the church. I bleed blue! Just ask my ex-boyfriend.

But, since the entire nation was watching football tonight, I decided it was a perfect time to stop judging football fans and actually learn about the game. It's easy to dislike something one knows nothing about. Surely I could muster up some appreciation for the most popular sport in America.  And I was invited to a small Superbowl party by my friend Beth. So I spent 90 minutes on the internet actually learning about the game of football. Ohhhh, that's what a down is? Finally, I knew what the announcers meant when they say "3rd and 6". Ohhhh, they're not just saying random numbers! I learned about down and distance, scoring, team structure, and other basics. 

In the past, I have watched the Superbowl with my dad, if I watch it at all. But let's face it, we're both only watching it for the commercials. He usually feigns attention while I surf the internet or read. I look up only to see these most-anticipated commercials of the year, and our only dialogue occurs about whether we like them or not. We usually like the halftime show, too. And we nosh. That's our Superbowl. But this year I was going to go to a real, live Superbowl party, my first-ever! 

Madeleine the Mascot

I picked up a case of Modelo Especial and headed over to watch some Steel vs. Cheese. It was the perfect Brooklyn Superbowl party: Eight ladies, two hipsters, a gay guy, and a French bulldog named Madeleine. At the core of this unlikely crew was our hostess, a native Pittsburger. She was adorably hopeful for her hometown, full of contagious enthusiasm. When the Steelers scored, or did other good football-y things, she politely said "Excuse me" and then whirled her Terrible Towel above her head while shouting "Woooooooooooooo!!!" I sat next to her, and truly paid attention to a football game for the first time in my life. It was hard to differentiate with all of those yellow thunder thighs on the field. It was an exciting game, as sports games go, thanks to the almost-comeback by the Steelers that almost resulted in the largest comeback in Superbowl history. But, as my dad always says: Almost only counts in horsehoes and hand grenades.

Sad Steeler

Results: Steelers lost to the Packers, vindicating the good luck charm selection off all those idiots wearing rubber cheese wedges on their heads. I definitely enjoyed football much more with a basic understanding of what the heck is going on with all those lines and numbers. But I'm sorry to say, I still think football is bo-ring. My favorite parts were the commercials, the train-wreck of a Halftime show, and the Very Special Glee episode. But I do I think that next year when my current roomie wants to put the Jets game on, I won't groan quite as much. 

Status: Success! 

Day 7: Never have I ever... driven draft horses

Ithaca is home to the multi-talented, all-around awesome husband and wife team Kirk and Jen, two of my most unique friends. Kirk, a farrier who hails from South Dakota, and Jen, a doctor of veterinary medicine and fabulous chef, live together with two dogs, four horses, and a cat and on 100 acres of their own beautiful Arcadia. 

I was thrilled that a visit to the their compound would coincide with this blog project; a weekend with Kirk and Jen is a welcome departure from our urban (or suburban) norms. Their home is heated entirely from one wood-burning stove. The wood is felled from their own land. Jen bakes bread from scratch. Kirk taps his maple trees, and makes homemade syrup. They raise pigs in the spring, and enjoy bacon all winter. During this particular visit, we enjoyed a delicious White Chicken Chili....except the dish wasn't made with chicken. Try wild pheasant. And Jen shot it herself on a recent hunting trip. 

Saturday morning meant fresh coffee and some of their delicious homemade bacon, followed by an outing to 'the barn', the newest addition to their dominion. This barn is another unbelievable feat: made from wood that was felled and milled by Kirk himself. He built the whole barn, too. Every nail. 
I know. Being around them does make me feel utterly useless, too. I was proud of assembling an Ikea dresser?!

Bob, Pete, the Barn, and the Rig

Kirk harnessed up two of their four horses, Pete and Bob, a Clydesdale and Percheron. He hitched the wagon, and we all piled on top of the hay bale seats. We were off. A few minutes into the ride, he passed me the reins, and I guided the horses from my position. I held the reins with both hands, trying to steady. Whoa Nelly,  this was tough. 

Within moments, Pete was out in front of Bob. The horses had detected my inexperienced hands and lapsed out of sync, like devilish children with a babysitter. I tried to correct this imperceptible problem, but it only got worse. Kirk told me to stop the horses. I pulled gently on the reins and said "Whoa". They came back into alignment.
"Let's start them going again," he said. Turning forward, he called "Waalllk", as I gave a gentle jolt on the reins. They started going forward.  
"Did my rein motion get them started?" I asked Kirk. 
"Nope, not really."

I did not have the talent or experience for this task. I asked Kirk how I was doing. "Well you're driving them," he said, "...but not well." Gotta love Kirk. Man of few words. 

I began to get a little freaked out as the open path started to disappear into a tiny trail. The wagon's weight is huge and burdensome on the horses, and I knew that I wouldn't be able to handle navigating the tightly wooded section up ahead. I didn't trust myself, and I think the horses sensed that. Since "never have I ever been in a wagon accident" is not at the top of my to-do-for-blog list, I decided to relinquish the reins back to Kirk and enjoy the ride. 

Holding the reins

Kirk guided us through the snowy woods with effortless ease. The horses respected him entirely. He used the occasional "Gee" or "Haw" to maneuver Bob and Pete left or right, over some treacherous terrain that left us clutching on to each other, giggling. I paid close attention to his voice commands and hand motions, because I would love to try my hand with these beautiful horses again sometime. Next time without four of my heckling friends watching. (see photo right of heckler #3) 

Results: The wagon ride was thoroughly enjoyable... as a passenger. I felt like a smiling pixelated bot from Oregon Trail as we traversed Kirk and Jen's beautiful land. No one suffered Dysentary. And I think everyone in the wagon felt more secure with the Horse Whisperer holding the reins. But yes, I did technically drive two draft horses and a wagon. Briefly. 

Status: FAIL. 

Day 6: Never have I ever... had AppleJack

Am I the only person who didn't know that the popular breakfast cereal marketed to children is actually named after a moonshine spirit popular during Colonial times? Who knew the folks at Kellogg's had such a good sense of humor. 

One of my friends, who shall remain nameless, crafts his own applejack for personal consumption. He is among the many people I know who live in Ithaca, NY.... a college town that's the perfect blend of hippie town+scenery. Not by coincidence, many of my friends went to school in Ithaca. And so began a tradition of a winter pilgrimage to Ithaca... a friend convention, of sorts. An adult sleepover. 

Two glasses about this size=drunk

To kick off the merriment, my friend arrived with a 2-liter coke bottle full of cloudy, piss-colored liquid, and announced we'd be drinking it. Mmmm. Sign me up. He poured small amounts into 10 glasses, we toasted our annual gathering, and down the hatch it went. Applejack? More like Applesmack. That's exactly what it did to my tongue. Ka-pow. 

But, since consuming Applejack was my *new* task of the day, one sip wouldn't do. So I poured myself a full glass and feared the aftermath of an Applejack hangover. A few sips in, and the bite was gone. I was now swilling tasty apple juice as the temperature of the room suddenly spiked. 

This is the orchard from which
the apples were picked

This A-J is particularly special. My friend picks the apples from his own orchard.  Seriously, who's ever had alcohol made from their own land?! I think this is pretty rad. First he mashes the apples, then presses them. Voila, homemade apple cider. From there, he puts in brewer's yeast, which munches up the sugar, excreting alcohol. And then he lets it sit. In a few days, he takes this alcoholic liquid and freezes it. The H2O freezes, leaving liquid with a higher alcohol content. He pours off this reduced liquid and tosses the frozen slush. This process can be repeated for a higher proof final product. He estimates that his Applejack is 50-70 proof, but there's no way to really know. Part of the excitement of the consumption is this mystery. How drunk am I gonna get here??

Results: Two glasses later, I was happily inebriated with a very light headache coming on. It wasn't a wine drunk, and it wasn't a liquor drunk, it was something in between. The Applejack was now delicious, and I craved one more, but I switched to a beer for my final bevvy of the night. And then I slept like an apple-cheeked baby. I woke up feeling a bit sluggish, but without a headache or any other measurable hangover symptoms. The second bottle of Applejack was just cracked moments ago, and my friends are currently hollering at me to stop typing and come have a drink. Gotta go...  

Status: Success! (not that consuming alcohol is exactly fail-able..) 

Day 5: (Boring Alert) Never have I ever... Haggled with a Big Bank

What? Every day can't be babies and adventures and rainbows. Some days are a little more oatmeal than omelette.

By nature, I'm not a haggler. I can negotiate well for business, but when it's MY money, I'm much less aggressive because it just seems.... pushy. So I've been putting off this annoying life task for months and losing money in the process. Stupid, I know.  It's easy to procrastinate on a task you've never done, because you tell yourself it's going to be JUST AWFUL. Ugh, i'm going to have to go there, and spend HOURS at the bank, and fill out tons of paperwork, and I probably won't even have the right documents, and then I'm going to have to go home and research tons of boring stuff to make sure they're not screwing me over... and I really don't want to do that on my Saturday morning. I'll go to brunch instead. 

Six months later you realize that you've spent more on sneaky little fees than you've spent on gas. So it was time to man up and go in there and get myself a better deal. This is America! Land of the deal!

I opened my accounts with my current bank when I was still a minor. So I'm a longtime client (you do the math.) For the sake of this blog, current bank will go by the alias Blochovia. It's not a bad bank. Actually their fraud protection has proven to be quite thorough. It's just that they charge me $2 to use an out-of-network ATM, in addition to the $2-3 charged by the ATM bank itself. Because the bank only has, like, 3 locations in all of New York City, and ZERO in Brooklyn, that brings their service from OK to useless. 

So I headed in to the bank (the very same suburban branch that I sat in more than 14 years ago opening the account with my Mom) and told my assigned Personal Banker that I wanted to stay with Blochovia, but now that I live in NYC, it's just not practical, unless they can work with me on the back-end ATM fees.  "Many other banks don't charge these fees, and several will even refund a certain amount for the other bank's ATM fees annually. How can Blochovia expect to keep clients if they can't match the competition?" I said.  I showed her fees from my account and compared them to other banks' fee structure. I was reasonable. I was polite. I was prepared. I was firm. 

I was also (later) appalled. First, my Blochovia rep looked at me blankly and say there was nothing to be done, before continuing on with her explanation. 
"Yeah, if I was spending money on ATM fees, I would be pissed, too. I don't blame you." 
I replied "I'm not upset, I hope I'm not coming off that way. My hope is just that Blochovia will work with me as an individual to keep my accounts. Because I should be saving my money with Blochovia, not spending it on ATM fees." 
Blank stare in return. 
She then continued on in an inappropriate tangent about how the bank merger with the Bell's Embargo Bank (alias) means that things are just "day to day" for them right now. 

What does that even mean? Why is she telling me this? I didn't want to give up. I tried harder to get her to understand, and make the exception, or get a manager, or something. I asked again politely. I said, if Blochivia couldn't help me resolve this, I would have no other option but to close my accounts. No luck. In the end, I'm just one of millions of accounts, and helping me is probably a bigger pain in the ass fo her than closing my account. 

I inquired about the process of switching banks and she handed me an annoying packed of papers to sign. With that, I said farewell. 

Results: Just as I expected, the conversation was uncomfortable. I hate uncomfortable conversations, which is why I procrastinate on stuff like that. Can't say this is a new experience I want to repeat. The closing/switching part was remarkably painless, and I can't believe that I let myself think this was going to be such a hassle. The biggest hassle was trying to get any useful information out of Ms. Blochovia. Though she was remarkably informative about account closing procedures. 

Status: Depends on how you look at this one. I'm sure I'll just be gauged by a new bank in all new ways, but for now, I took care of my something new by crossing off an old task!