After a day inundated by work, we resolved that our Tuesday was going to actually be full of something. Full of what? We weren’t sure. It was definitely full of rain, that’s for sure.

Our day started out with a dry work session at our apartment and then a wet work session at a Starbucks across the street from us, a move we did simply as a measure to avoid bedsores. It worked! At this Starbucks, we realized something: most New York Starbucks are dens for kids. It’s like the city’s best kept secret babysitter. There were teens talking on phones, teens sitting and eating scones, teens sitting and debating on how to say the word “finger” (“Is it feen-grr or feen-err?”: ahh, accents!), and many more. Of course, there were a few work people, working on whatever they work on in Starbucks–but, there weren’t nearly as many as there are in Los Angeles Starbucks.

Toward the end of this session, we realized a startling fact: it was actually raining outside! We thought we had successfully avoided all contact with this wet beast but, alas, she came and she pissed all over us. We ran out of the Starbucks and back to our apartment to suit up in rain gear, me in a poncho that looked like a dress and Bobby in a very dapper rain slicker. As we exited the building to stand in falling water, we realized we had no plans for the day but also no idea of what to do. What did we want to do? It was raining and shitty and we didn’t have very many options. Then, it hit us: let’s go to The Met!

Away we went via a frightening, stomach turning cab to the Metropolitan Museum of Art and we were quickly reminded that New York art museums are synonymous with zoos, just like movie theatres. People are all over each other, you have to fight to see some art pieces, the best art pieces and areas are completely devoid of viewers, and there are kids and non-English speaking tourists touching art pieces (shit you not on that one). The place is huge and likely the NYC equivalent of The Getty. But, what does The Getty have that The Met doesn’t? Nice weather and an assuaged mob of people. We couldn’t even go to see Tomás Saraceno’s Cloud City because of the weather. What a poop! Whatever: We got to see some great John Singer Sargent paintings, some old furniture, some Ellsworth Kelly drawings, and a little exhibit on nudity before movies on film.

From here we, again, wondered what to do. Wandering the Upper East Side in the rain, we aimlessly weighed options: should we try The Whitney? The Guggenheim? The Park? What? We ended up schlepping it to the Park Avenue Armory.

I’d never heard of this space but, boy, was it awesome. It’s basically an old gym converted into an art and event space. What is up there currently? Tom Sachs’ Space Program: Mars. Sachs is kind of an insane artist who just does whatever the shit he wants to. This show was a hysterical take on NASA and space. Sachs hacked into the ground and built giant assemblages that resembled space technology, all of which had little tags on them explaining “DON’T FUCKING TOUCH!!!” The show was not entirely technologically accurate and was a true artist’s show: it was science through the lens of art, an artist’s rendition of what he sees space and NASA to be. It was hysterically great. I like to think that if I were to create an art show myself, this would be it. The details, the humor, and the entire thought was just fantastic. This is a must see show if you are in New York.

The Armory made us realize that this really weird, huge, city-funded art space is something we certainly don’t have in Los Angeles. Why not? Some movie star who likes Los Angeles needs to buy up a big, old public space and let artists run wild every so often and hold programming every so often. Get it together, LA!

Our visit with Sachs left us a little confused on what to do: we had two hours until dinner plans and didn’t want to just dick around on the Upper East Side. What to do? Thus, we decided to go back to the apartment and work for an hour and then head out to dinner. Dinner was with my former boss from when I worked at MTV, Nick Predescu. We decided to go to our favorite, indulgent, stupid Hell’s Kitchen spot Vynl, where the food is OK, the drinks are stiff (get the frozen margarita!!), and the atmosphere is over the top gay, gay, gay. We had a bite here, caught up, and decided to venture Therapy around the corner, which is one of the nicest gay bars I’ve ever been to: it’s very modern, not douche-y, has an older crowd, and is not overran by morons. It was like The Abbey but not shitty. Again: we need better gay bars, Los Angeles!!

Once we finished A cocktail, we entertained the idea that we’d go to gay bars in Brooklyn but quickly decided to just go to this place called Posh that we saw walking toward cabs. This place, guys: what a silly bar! It wasn’t particularly good or bad but it ended up being fantastic because we happened upon a drag show–and who doesn’t love a good drag show? The performers were great and showed a wide mix of talents, which very much “played it safe” in their performances.

Around no-idea-when, we started to get glassy eyed and things became a blur. It wasn’t bad because we allotted Wednesday morning to be a time for us to not wake up early. We cabbed back in the rain and passed out, subconsciously praying the rain would go away.

New York, I’m Yours Rating? Seven soggy socks.