Another birthday pictorial...?

Night Hotel NY

...why, yes. Yes, it is. Because YOLO, as the Youth said in 2012.

I unintentionally turned inward in 2013, especially in the fall months. Perhaps that's why I opted for a solitary birthday celebration. If "celebration" is the word...I aimed to make 2014 the year of the Very Goth Birthday and didn't fall too wide of the mark.

I'd accrued a couple of free nights on Hotels.com (which I use to book all my work travel), so I checked into the Night Hotel NY (not to be confused with its sister hotel, the Night Hotel Times Square) (although both of them are pretty much in Times Square).

Mah room

I was running late the day I checked in (my actual birthday, December 21) and had to forgo one of my planned stops for the day, so I was in a bit of a snit as I stood in the lobby awaiting attendance. Though the ambiance was what I'd hoped for, the piped in music wasn't. "For fuck's sake," I grumbled to myself as my lip curled in a disgruntled sneer, "why are they playing this stupid dance shit? They should be playing The Cure, or Joy Division, or frigging Depeche Mode, or something." Thankfully, I could breathe a sigh of relief when I entered the blissful quiet of Mah Room.

It'd been a couple of years since I'd last visited the Museum of Sex so I betook myself there, verily. I couldn't help but note their earnest exhortation for guests' best behavior (pictured left) as I paid the entrance fee, but I told the cashier I wasn't making any promises. (Especially regarding that last bit, W00F.)

He didn't mean to turn me on, poor chap.

One of the exhibits was the darkly dirty and whimsical sex puppetry of Peruvian artist Ety Fefer called Grumildos (see image right). It was my fave of that particular visit, I only wish the artist had given us more scenes to enjoy...or, perhaps, made some for sale, so sick puppies like me could bring a scene home as a souvenir. You can see more (and infinitely better) pics of the installation by clicking here.

You'll be heartened to learn I found mine. (As it were.)

I'd looked forward to checking out the Funland: Pleasures and Perils of the Erotic Fairground installment but found it kind of meh. I thought the best (and spookiest) bit was The Tunnel of Love, in which one has to manage various twisty turns in the dark in search of the supposedly elusive clitoris.

I ambled about the MofS shop, then buggered off for some Burger King (not too exciting for a birthday dinner, I know, but I so totally dig their onion rings and that spicy dipping sauce that accompanies them) and Cold Stone Creamery (the night was mild enough to enjoy the chocolate and crumbled Oreo goodness). I went to the 10:15pm showing of Michael Keaton's Birdman, which was brilliant and engrossing though not the lighthearted romp I'd anticipated (if I'd actually read the reviews, I'd've known "lighthearted" and "romp" were hardly appropriate descriptors for the film). It was about 1am, I think, by the time I trekked through a still active Times Square to get back to my hotel. I was emotionally exhausted from the movie ('cause I'm sensitive and whatnot) and feeling myself very alone. 

As I entered the hotel I spied the restaurant/bar and strolled over to check out the action. There wasn't any, though the bartender Licensed Mixologist was still there. I asked if the bar was closed and was delighted to learn drinks could still be had, 'cause I needed one. I ordered a Painkiller (again—so totally needed one), a cocktail composed of dark rum, pineapple and orange juices, cream of coconut, and a sprinkling of nutmeg.

As I sat and soaked up the atmosphere (and cocktail), I felt my shoulders sink down. Then I grinned broadly as the absolutely most appropriate song thundered from the bar's speakers—Depeche Mode's "Enjoy the Silence."

One Painkiller, to go.

When I settled my bill for the one cocktail with my Mixologist, I jokingly asked if I could get one "to go" (back up to my room, that is). And the answer, to my surprise, was YES!

Next day I went for an indifferent breakfast at some bistro around the block (Bistro Around the Block would be a brilliant name for a restaurant, wouldn't it???), then headed up to the upper east side to the Metropolitan Museum of Art so I could check out the (what else?) Death Becomes Her exhibit. Offered by the Costume Institute, this installation featured mourning garb spanning a century from 1815 to 1915. Bombastic organ music played as one meandered through the beautifully attired mannequins. Quotes from periodicals, journals, and letters of the era were projected onto the wall, and the lighting was fittingly sombre. I certainly admired the remarkable work, but after two hours was ready to leave death to its own devices.

Toward the latter half of this time period,
sparkly dress in light mourning colors of mauve and purple were acceptable.

I admit to being all Gothed out and in need of cheer. So I did some shopping at Desigual, made a stop at Starbucks for my usual (a lovely, buttery Toffee Nut Latte), enjoyed a fish'n'chips dinner at the Cock and Bull (heh heh) with a Dark and Stormy drink, and did some more shopping at Barnes and Noble, where I picked up another Georgette Heyer to add to my collection. I capped the night with a different Licensed Mixologist who, upon learning it was my last night there, insisted we do shots of Jack Daniel's Tennessee Honey. Now, I'm not really a whiskey drinker but DAYUM, that jazz was the bomb diggity, as the Youth said in...hell, I can't ever remember.

Right, so; that's all I got. Hope all y'all enjoyed every danged December holiday you cared about and wish you a happy, healthy, love-filled, and prosperous 2015.