This week I won tickets to Shakespeare in the Park‘s “Measure for Measure” through the blessed virtual lottery. After missing Al Pacino last year, I made sure to enter the drawing every available night and sprinkled my planner with reminders. Lo and behold, after five or six attempts, I finally got the golden ticket. A pre-theater feast at Cascabel Taqueria—yes, I had a mango-tequila snocone—left me sated and thankful for the trek through Central Park to the Delacorte Theater. Years ago I came to the same venue for a Balkan Beat Box & Beirut concert. Sounds amazing, right? Wrong! The stuffy management wouldn’t allow any dancing! (listen to this to capture my outrage) Only sitting. And tapping your feet. And imagining a rush of rebellion.

The same whip of the law came lashing down after I sweatily settled into my luxury lawn chair. If you look at the picture above, right at your 12 o’clock, you’ll notice a large-ish being in a bright blue shirt. This being trudged up the steps and halted about a foot away from me. “Excuse me.” For a moment I thought my Chinese fan was prohibited, which didn’t make sense since theater-goers around me boozed and dined freely in their seats. “ExCUse Me! You can’t take pictures here.” I looked to my right and a young lassie grasping a Droid chickened her head around nervously. “You have to delete that photo.” The lassie obediently complied and waited for the ogre to slog off before exhaling her meek outrage. We cracked some national security jokes, thought of taunting the ogre by pretending to take photos, and I recounted my prior Footloose escapade. All fun chit-chat until we simultaneously saw our sweaty sunglasses-reflection and quickly returned to our personal pre-show rituals.

Corporate b.s. aside, Shakespeare in the Park transcends any theater experience in New York City. Despite the humidity and swamp-ass, “Measure for Measure” excelled in portraying one of Shakespeare’s famous problem plays. I sympathized with the fully robed actors under the tungsten lights, and yet not a bead of sweat dropped from their brow, not a single cue missed. I hope to have the pleasure of attending the other production this season, “All’s Well That End’s Well,” and hopefully not in 90-degree heat.

Thanks to one of Groupon’s October 2010 deals, I boarded a small helicopter and took off on a Bachlorette-worthy adventure. Taking off from Linden, New Jersey, we soared over Staten Island, Brooklyn, past the Statue of Liberty, up the Hudson and back down again. New York City looked like a city built of Legos—perfectly structured and void of humanity. Hundreds of sailboats seemed to freckle the water, and enormous freight ships appeared weightless. The birds-eye view of the city I’ve trudged through for six years reignited an ethereal passion for a home I’ve recently been quick to cast aside. Our pilot Ron narrated his textbook tour script amid my “That’s where we live!” and “We saw M.I.A. there!” bursts. 30-minutes felt too short to fully absorb the breathtaking cityscape of my homeland.

 Growing up, I never went to crazy pubescent parties where teens secretly drank and groped eachother in the dark of the night. Reason one: the innate and deathly fear of my stepmother’s wrath. Reason two: I was not invited. 1+2 = 0 drinking experience going in to college. At 18, my hooch knowledge consisted of the terms “beer” and “wine”, and a Belvedere martini straight up with a twist—the drink my dad ordered every repast, sometimes bookended by a few glasses of wine. When I reached semi-drinking-age and could boob my way into bars, I ordered what I knew: Belvedere martini straight up with a twist. After a few barfy-bar-bouts I grasped that despite genetics, I was constructed with close to 0 alcohol tolerance.

After barfing my way through most of freshman year, I realized martinis may not be for me (sorry, Carrie). Rather than focus on looking posh while I twinkle-finger-waved the bar tender, I listened to the encircling boozy cries: “Vodka Tonic!” “Rum & Coke!” “Cosmo!” “Malibu Bay Breeze!” “Mojito!” “Sex on the Beach!”. It felt like someone gave me a handful of Skittles for the first time. I sipped and blegh-ed and sipped and shared and sipped and sang and sadly, sipped and barfed again. A lengthy 3-year trial period later and I’ve found my Mary and Joseph of spirits: Malibu Bay Breeze and Nigori unfiltered sake.

Above: Sushi of Gari • Carafe of Nigori unfiltered sake

To celebrate the opening of the High Line extension, AOL inflated a Mario dreamworld called Rainbow City for sightseers to enjoy. Poking and prodding inflatable mushrooms successfully entertained children and drunks for hours on end.

Days before the final curtain would fall, I nestled into the cozy Golden Theater to view the Tony Award winning play “The Normal Heart.” The story follows Ned Weeks, an outspoken paragon who pioneers a battle against doctors, politicians and the press to gain recognition of the unspoken AIDS epidemic. This production spotlights the absurdities of American bureaucracy and how brainwashing social norms can be. Gay or straight, “The Normal Heart” left no heart string unstrung, no tear duct unflowing. Hopefully the success of this performance will finally give voice to the injustices and dispel future atrocities.

An inviting Thursday afternoon inspired me to map out a Hepburn-worthy stroll—up Park Avenue to the Lever House followed by a skip over to Bloomingdale’s. The Lever House presents David LaChapelle’s new fine art in this exhibition From Darkness to Light. A dramatic shift from bubble-gum-pop music videos and erotic celebrity tableaus, LaChapelle uses his photography as an element rather than the focus of his work. Using other media like water color and “found materials,” his massive collage “Raft of Illusion: Raging Toward Truth” alludes to Theodore Gericault’s painting “The Raft of the Medusa.” The other pieces on display use the bare human physique, again, not as the focus but as an element in a sans-ribald composition. Instead of an orgy of purple and pink people, you see a divine stained glass window. Instead of 14,000 naked bodies (front and back), you see a fleshy gradient of elementary streamers that makes you wonder where the party’s at.

The New York Palace generally attracts “Gossip Girl” fanatics, but the newest courtyard installation gives Gucci a hipster splash. Doggy John, an eight foot tall Color-Me-Mine-masterpiece by French artist Julien Marinetti, catches the classy off guard. In honor of the multicolor pup, the Palace Gate concocted a wooftastic cocktail. Add a disco ball and that pooch just might start dancing. 15 mini-me sculptures sprinkle the lobby and greet guests with their smeared smiles. One of them can be your new centerpiece for a mere $10,000—the price of 12.5 shiba inu puppies.

 Every summer Rooftop Films holds a series of themed short film screenings atop various establishments in Texas, Philadelphia, Brooklyn and Manhattan. Last year I trekked to the American Can Factory in Park Slope for “Rooftop Shots.” While perusing the schedule for this season, I noticed a familiar snapshot—the infamous baby who trashed a bar in Las Palmas! The series, “Friends Like These,” would debut the North American premiere at Open Road Rooftop. My fandom stemmed from an email my dad sent me with a link and the following description: “My friend from Sweden’s father made this.” After guffawing over repeated views I spread the hilarity to everyone I knew. The full Las Palmas short bookended the legendary clip with a comical story-framing intro and an epic Hells-Angels-worthy resolution. Prior to the screening, a nomadic band, Birdlips, graced the stage with their psychedelic backdrop and finger-snapping dittys.

The need for a pre-performance meal led me to Zengo—a rustic and chic, high-ceilinged east side love nest. A trip to the restroom brought me to the secluded and barely light bar. Zengo offers a Locker Service where you can buy a bottle of liquor, take a few sips, and save it there for future visits. I first sipped on some Murai family Nigori sake, followed by an appetizing Mahi-Mahi and Shrimp Ceviche—both flavorful but never enough dipping chips. The Steamed Buns al Pastor tasted surprisingly fruity and the Peking Duck-Daikon Tacos came with radish savings in lieu of real tortillas. The Lobster Gyoza dumplings tasted like buttery lobster ecstasy and I could have eaten one-hundred Thai Chicken Empanadas. Zengo’s atmosphere alone lures luxurious ladies and gentlemen, and the superb dishes are icing on the cake.