I feel like I'm living in an Andy Warhol painting. New York feels like a vibrant hotbox of color and sound. Tonight we went to Rockefeller Plaza for wine tasting and dinner. It was a 5-hour dinner by the end of which I was famished because every course was doll sized. Maybe they used an easy bake oven for the fine squab and salmon tartar.
Back in the hotel, the bedroom, besides being tiny, has two lamps perched by the side of the bed both with giant eyeballs painted on them. Creepy.
Boarding the elevator (I say boarding because it takes off like a jet) music is constantly blaring - it wafts between jazz, rock, rap, and soul.
In my Andy Warhol life, though, I feel like the tomato soup painting in instillation art wing of the MOMA. Different, but not quarky enough to be rad.
I must say, though, I heart NY!
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