Can't Stand Up for Falling Down

Last weekend made me dizzy. First there was the Ratatat show at the Guggenheim, which I have to admit was pretty awesome. Although, after a couple glasses (or plastic cups) of sugary wine, the Zaha Hadid exhibit was less impressive as before, as it felt like "seeing art in a mosh pit," and Peggy Guggenheim's stairless tiers became a bit nauseating. Then we headed over to the Four Seasons - because I guess that's what you do when you're out on the Upper East Side - where I had a glass of water. A classy glass of water.

The rest of the weekend consisted of the Avant-Garde-Arama, a night in Greenpoint, where we walked around in circles until we found Studio B, only to wait in line for-fucking-ever, before ending up at Enid's, where we danced in circles. Sunday, we sat in the very, very front row of the movie theater, which is what happens when you don't wait in line, and craned our necks for two hours, watching Jack Nicholson tear Boston up in The Departed (three point five stars).