Back in the day in Chicago,

I sat courtside for Jordan's revenge game, and stole wine from Oprah.

Every time in Chicago is a good time, but one of my best was in the early 90s with a hot rich guy named Charles S. who surprised me with tenth row tickets to: Game Three of the 1993 Knicks vs. Bulls, Eastern Conference Semi-Finals, at the Old Chicago Stadium.

He and I had recently hooked up in Vegas, and I was super-excited when he called to invite me for a surprise weekend getaway.

A ticket had been issued in my name at the United counter inside Denver's original Stapleton Airport, and like a straight up Jackie Collins heroine, I settled into first class, ready for a scintillating time in the Windy City.

A driver waited at O'Hare to take me to the Fairmont Hotel, where Charles and I spent the next two days having sex in the hotel's completely white Penthouse Suite, whenever we weren't out exploring.

• Dinner at the original 'Rosebud' Italian steakhouse, where (just for fun) we sent a round of drinks to strange third-party candidate Ross Perot, who happened to be seated in the next alcove over.
  

• Walking the streets very late, past incredible public art by Picasso, Miro, and Chagall; and then making out beneath Calder's giant metal 'Flamingo' sculpture.
  

• Pressed together inside a tight crowd at legendary blues club Kingston Mines, feeling young, beautiful, and invincible, transported to another time and dimension by the soulful power of music.

Of course, the absolute highlight of the trip was on the walk back from breakfast, when Charles pulled out a set of shiny silver tickets from his breast pocket, and announced he had another surprise for me.

I still can't believe I got to see His actual Airness live on the court, inside the old crumbling Chicago Stadium, let alone in an Eastern Conference Semi-Final playoff game against the Knicks (what?!) but there I was, seated not far from the 'Kid' half of Kid-n-Play, as Jordan came out with a huge chip on his shoulder, and immediately hit a long three-pointer from nearly halfcourt.

He was pissed because the Knicks were up in the series 2-0, and Game Two in New York had not gone well. The media blamed his all-night gambling in Atlantic City for the loss, and had been highlighting John Starks dunking on him ever since.

*** SIDE NOTE: There really is no tougher, finer athlete than a Professional Basketball Player, considering the specific skills they access on a dime: dribbling, shooting, blocking, passing, stealing, reading defense, setting screens. Besides the ridiculous ball-handling, there's the gravity-defying, superhuman windmill slam dunks, and cross-court no-look passes. In the best physical shape compared to any other pro athlete; basketballers run up and down the court in multiple games per week, on and off the road from October to at least April, matched up against opponents like Lebron and Yanis, unafraid to take the charge. They switch from offense to defense in a step, constantly tracking the shot clock before hitting buzzer-beating threes.

Oh, and did I mention, without pads or helmets?

(Way tougher than football... just sayin')

***

In the end, the Bulls beat the Knicks, 103-83, and I gratefully witnessed one of the most historic matchups of the sport, played (arguably) by the greatest player of all time.

***

In the early 2000s in Chicago, I found myself partying on Division & Rush with a very good friend from college, Matt Holcomb, (a.k.a. Hulky) and a guy he'd gone to high school with named Amon.

Supposedly, Amon had briefly hooked up with Sandra Bullock, when he'd been a production assistant on a movie she was in, (plausible considering his Michael Franti/Lenny Kravitz good looks) but now he was flipping properties for a private financial group.

Standing around waiting for drinks at the bar, Amon nonchalantly asked if we wanted to check out a nearby restaurant that had recently closed, which was in the process of being flipped.

Stepping inside Biggs Steakhouse and Wine Cellar, (located inside Biggs Mansion) felt like the place had just suddenly been abandon, with dried up food and dirty dishes in bus tubs, and unused tables still elegantly set. Signed black and white photographs of celebrities who'd eaten there lined the walls, and at the top of the grand stairway in an office, random paperwork was scattered all over the floor, next to a few gold records from the band, (Hard to Say I'm Sorry) Chicago.

The weirdly empty, creepy old mansion was unsettling, until Amon explained that the entire contents of the wine cellar had been purchased by Oprah Winfrey, sight unseen, and was scheduled to be picked up and delivered to her farm in Indiana the following Tuesday.

Then Amon said, “the inventory would never be counted, so we could: drink anything we wanted!”

Flipping directly to the last page of the extensive wine book, we chose the most expensive bottles of Jouet, and Dom Perignon, champagne, but then had to go find them in the scary dark basement.

For hours we sat in a booth over the back kitchen stairs, playing blackjack, listening for haunted footsteps, and getting drunk on Oprah's private reserve without her even knowing about it.

Eventually we'd go to The Weiners Circle on the North side for late night greasy deliciousness, where Amon explained how to give and take abuse from the hilarious mama-jamas behind the counter.

The scene was always crazy packed, fronted at all times by over fifty drunks clamoring to catch the attention of the women, who were usually scoffing and mocking whatever the drunks wanted.

Amon liked to wave his arms and yell:

"Gimme' a chocolate shake!!!"

And if he was lucky the counter girl would pull up her shirt and give him a good boob shake before taking his order.

***

I love Chicago... the Gold Coast, Magnificent Mile, Greek Town, South Side .... all of it, with it's edgy criminal history and spectacular world-renown architecture, nestled right up against the clear blue expanse of Lake Michigan. The people are always down for a good time, the food is extra delicious, and there's a general cool toughness about the place.

Therefore, I propose a new nickname for the Windy City, a.k.a. Chi-Town, I suggest:

The Cog

(In recognition of Chicago being such an important city in the center of the country, like a cog in the wheel of America)

It's already catching on... .Right?

.

Back in the day in New York,

I worked as a plant girl, hung out with models, and held the keys to the City.

A few top accounts included:

·       New York Public Library,

·       Lincoln Center,

·       Radio City Music Hall,

·       The Winter Garden at the World Financial Center

·       World Trade Center One

·       Calvin Klein Cosmetics

·       QE2 (whenever she was ported)

Even though I’d lied to get the job, I was really good at it, probably because I could vibe with

the plants, and sense what they needed.

I spent my days roaming Manhattan with a giant green bag flung over my shoulder; full of watering cans, gnat traps, and feather dusters, popping in and out of skyscrapers and historic landmarks, sharing dirty jokes with doormen, flirting with bored office workers, and caring for Dracaena Marginatas and Kentia Palms all over the City. 

I was quickly promoted to manager in charge of indoor plant accounts below 42nd Street, and ran a flavorful team of “horticultural technicians,” that included:

·      Marva from Haiti: (made delicious homemade gumbo / liked to shop at the Unilever store)

·      Peter from Nigeria: (super white smile / responded with one word: “Really?!” to every question or statement)

·      Ivan from Pakistan: (incredibly lucky at lotto / very large family)

·      Jo-Jo from Jamaica: (slow-moving big girl / wore large flowery headbands)

·      Angelina from Queens: (Puerto Rican with two little kids/ always talking shit)

Each day’s routine instilled more familiarity with the City, and each magic time it happened, it was a huge badge of honor to be mistaken for a real New Yorker. 

For instance when:

1. A tourist would ask for directions, and approach me with something like,

“You’re from here, right?”

And I could happily argue the best route they should take with all the other locals on the train.

2. The Greek guys at the deli would yell out my order the minute I walked through the door, smiling wide over the counter as they hollered:                  

“Tall, sweet, and light!”

Before making my coffee extra tall, with extra cream, and extra sugar.  

3. Or when the Kind guys held the best nugs for us, and made sure we got in free anytime their band played at'Wetlands'.  

"Go ahead - you're on the list."

As we breezed past a line of people waiting to get in.

(Shout out to: Darren, Dick James, & the other guy in Super Tuesday)

My roommate was a model, who’d I met through another model back in Boulder, and we lived in a tiny fourth floor walk-up near Bleecker & Grove, directly next to The Pink Teacup, which claimed to be:

“serving the best soul food in the Village” 

On warm days the smell of blueberry pancakes would waft all the way to Sheridan Square Station, making it a hard choice between:

·      Pink Teacup pancakes,

·      a hot bagel sandwich from Bagel Boy,

·      fried cheese sticks from Kravos Deli,

·      a hunk of pecorino from Murray’s Cheese Shop

·      (to go with) a loaf of semolina bread from Vito’s Staff of Life Bakery    

Kapri and I only had a small clock radio (no television) so we listened to a lot of 'Funk Master Flex' while playing countless games of hybrid UNO. Weekends were for exploring, and we’d ride up to Harlem on the 1/9 to walk across the George Washington Bridge to New Jersey, (just because) or take scavenger hunts for Godiva Chocolatiers, to claim their free truffle of the day.  Normally we’d each collect five or six of the fancy chocolates per outing, unless sidetracked by the call of a cream horn, which always required special attention.

It was a rule Kapri and I had made- whenever one of us stopped dead in our tracks and pronounced a loud,

“Doot-do-do-do!”

we both had to immediately turn in the direction of the Lafayette French Pastry Shop, march a few steps in place, and at the same time declare with fists raised,

“CREAM HORN!!!!”

Then we’d dramatically stomp to Lafayette Street, straight to the world’s best cream horn. (A crispy flaked shell shaped like a small goat horn, dusted with oversized square granules of sugar, filled with deliciously fresh cocoa chocolate cream.)  

<That’s probably what I love most about New York City: the fact that you can be as weird as you want to be, and nobody blinks an eye.>

Kapri’s Italian boyfriend, Fabio, showed up every so often, usually on a layover back from a scouting trip to Australia or California, and would dump piles of prospective models’ cards on our floor before deciding in one nanosecond if they had potential or not. 

He’d grab a random card from the mix and immediately declare:

“Teeth too small”

“Neck too wide”

“Weird ears”

“Lopsided forehead”

“Ugly knees”

Before tossing it in the discard pile and moving onto the next.

Kapri and Fabio were a strangely opposite pair, and met while he was scouting models in Florida when she was just a teen.  Kapri was of course long and lean and gorgeous, where Fabio was literally a cross between Rodney Dangerfield and Austin Powers: fucked up teeth, greasy hair, extremely goofy, and utterly hilarious. 

I drove Fabio crazy, because he could never understand when I talked too fast and used too much American slang. He would bark at Kapri and demand to know,

“WHOT, WHOT, WHOT, WHOT IS SHE SAYING KAPRI?”

And I would mimic him, and say:

“BOK, BOK, BOK, I SAY, I SAY, SON – YOU MUST KNOW FOGHORN LEGHORN!”

Which of course drove him even crazier. 

Our favorite time of year was Halloween, and the parade winding through the West Village full of outrageously risqué drag queens, and people dressed in incredibly clever pun costumes.  Kapri and I liked to go as “freaks on rollerblades,” and would wear: body suits, crazy tights, wigs, face paint, and of course rollerblades, which we used to zoom back and forth as much as we wanted, rolling alongside the entire parade. 

One year Fabio wore a long-haired blonde wig, and hung a tub of “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter” on a chain around his neck, walking around saying,

“WOT, I’M FABIO”   

I don’t think very many people got his obscure reference to Fabio, the romance novel guy, who at the time was in commercials selling fake butter, but to us it was very funny. 

The best was when Kapri’s Italian businessmen friends would come to town, since they always wanted a group of hot models along as their entourage, and I could usually squeeze my way in. 

She’d hang up the phone and excitedly say,  

“Hurry, get dressed! Gianmario’s in town!”

An hour later, a limo would be waiting to take us to:

• the theater,

• then dinner at a currently happening restaurant,

• followed by a second theater for another Broadway show,

• then somewhere for late-night cocktails & dessert,

• a stop at a cigar bar along the way,

• and finally, the Four Seasons Hotel to party until the wee hours 

Supposedly, Gianmario’s family had owned the renowned La Scala opera house for generations, and he came to New York to decide which Broadway shows would be offered a summer tour in Milan. Producers pulled out all the stops hoping to be chosen, including providing an entire center row for him to entertain his guests.

As Kapri’s tagalong friend, I was able to see some of the best shows on Broadway, and eat deliciously crispy spinach at China Grill. 

Since most of the models sat silent or would be gone on countless trips to the bathroom, I’d find myself arguing sports and politics with a bunch of uber-rich Italians and their German counterparts, and even though I wasn’t gorgeous and statuesque, I was funny and smart, and earned my place at the table by comfortably talking shit with the men.   

I begged Kapri see live music with me as much as possible, and a favorite night was at Tramps, holding onto the brass railing at the front of the stage while the Soul Rebels and Funky Meters played all night; dancing so hard and so long we could barely move our necks. It was full broad daylight when we finally left the building, somehow stumbling right past the sign at the entrance to the subway that said:

“This Station Closed Sundays”

We goofed around on the empty underground platform, dancing and singing:

"'Cuz if you can't be with the one you love honey, love the one you're with"

at the top of our lungs, wondering why no one else was there, and nearly an hour went by before we realized no train was coming.

Sometimes Kapri and I would bribe our way into the Empire State Building using Krispy Kreme donuts; first stopping on East 23rd Street for a fresh dozen glazed, getting to the building just before closing. We'd offer up a few donuts to the doorman and the elevator operator, and often be the only people left on the observation deck, gazing over a million lights, chowing down donuts, wind whipping our hair, laughing like idiots with icing stuck all over our faces. (This was of course long before the building became the tourist attraction it is now, with mandatory stops through multiple gift shop lines.)

A plant girl packed into elevators and subways up and down Manhattan, I tried to identify the countless different languages being spoken around me, and was able to witness the City’s incredible lust for life first-hand.

No matter the high heat or bitter cold, early morning or late night, through crisis, chaos, and celebration, New Yorkers just get it done - no complaints.

The absolute center of finance, fashion, publishing, and fine art, I would often find myself tucked in the back of a room removing dead leaves from a ficus, while global leaders discussed international monetary policy, or researchers described a latest examination of rare artifacts.  

EVERYTHING happens in NYC, and with unfettered access to corner offices, loading docks, and janitor closets, I'd interact with Park Avenue lawyers, transit authorities, and executive assistants everyday, one little chink in the chain, caring for nature inside the world’s most beautiful well-oiled machine - a plant girl in New York City - truly the best job ever.