Not wanting to feel entirely out of place for the Robert Burns Dinner, my friend and I spent the afternoon searching second-hand stores for tartans. We had the best time trying on every color combination and fashion of tic-tac-toe fabric you could imagine. Plaid pants are a riot! And, after all the racks were scoured, we came out looking like two tasty tartan tarts, if I say so myself. We settled on the very standard, if not traditional, black and white, already having fitting accessories. Every girl has black tights, shoes, and a turtleneck. And I even found one of those oversized safety pins.

The Italian-American Community Center is an impressive structure, especially glowing against the white snow. Things were just about to get started when we arrived, so we quickly got some scotch and settled down to enjoy the show. The bagpipe player led the parade, with the haggis bearer, scotch bearer, and swordsman following. We all stood and clapped, and I don’t think there’s anything better than a bagpipe to set a jovial mood. Then there was the “Address to a Haggis,” dramatized with a very thick accent and poking the haggis with a knife, a “To the Haggis!” toast with scotch, and then more toasts to the lads and lassies. Apparently, Burns was quite the gigolo of his time. Then a trolley of bowls of haggis was brought out. Before it’s stabbed with a knife, it looks like an oversized sausage. It kind of is a sausage, with bits and pieces of stuff that you really don’t want to know about, just like with any sausage. It tasted like liverwurst pate, and tastes way better once someone tells you to use scotch as gravy. My friend said she was a little worried that she liked it.

Everybody settled down to eat dinner and we began our questions. The thing flapping in front of a man’s kilt is called a sporran. It’s a purse. They originally were worn on the side to hold ammunition. They almost always have tassels, sometimes of things like rabbit feet. The fur ones are quite nice. I want one.

The patterns of tartans used to be by family, but once the weavers realized they could bank on it, they began making all sorts of patterns.

The socks are called scones. Watch out for hidden daggers!. If you can see the dagger stuck in them, it means we’re at peace. The safety pins don’t really pin the kilt, but are to weigh the flap down so as not to flash someone. “What’s under your kilt?” It depends upon the weather. The Scottish version of going commando is going “regimental.”

After dinner a sole bagpiper played on the balcony, which was quite soulful sounding, but when he was accompanied by the entire Rochester Scottish Pipes and Drums, even the air began to vibrate. Such a show and song I’ve never seen! The twirling drummers were amazing! I was told the RSPD is the oldest continuous playing pipe band in the United States. The night ended with a sing-a-long of all four verses of "Auld Lang Syne," which Burns wrote.

We two tartan tarts decided to stop by Johnny’s Irish Pub for a final toast. We’ll be keeping an eye out for more tartan attire for next year.

Next up: “Bystander” at RIT’s SPAS Gallery

The SPAS Gallery at RIT is on the opposite side of the breezeway from the Bevier Gallery, which is the one I’ve been to. Before even getting to the gallery, I was diverted by the photos from the school’s archives that line the halls. All blown-up black and whites from back when men wore suits and the very few women wore dresses to school. Then there were the Psychotic Shootout 2008 winners (cool!), and the student advertising shots of peeps in their skivvies. After all that viewing pleasure, I found out I was on the wrong floor.

Up one floor in the gallery hung photos of people splattered with blood. More than 50 photos of people splattered with blood. The exhibit is part of Paul D Van Hoy II’s MFA thesis, the intent partially to be to explore the fact that we are calloused, numbed by violence. The thing is, you know none of them is really a bystander (which is also the name of the exhibit), a witness to some horrible crime. The looks on their faces aren’t dramatized, most of them have the same blank stare. They all look like they were standing too close to Lizzie Borden when she demonstrated her slicing and dicing skills.

Going back down to the wrong floor again, I decided to take the other way around the building. On these hallways, there were some neat last-term projects, the neatest to me being the room-sized camera obscura created by one student. The hallways are really worth strolling.

Next up: Flying Words

I'm not much for poetry, although I do like hearing the occasional apropos quote. But, I wouldn't define Peter Cook and partner Kenny Lerner's "Flying Words Project" at RIT's Webb Auditorium on February 2 as singularly as the word "poetry" suggests. It's more like performance art incorporating stand-up comedy, theatrical dramatics, and audience participation, all under a poetry umbrella.

Cook, who is deaf, presents his work accompanied by Lerner, who is hearing. Or maybe that's deaf-disabled, as illustrated by the stories Cook shared whereby Lerner's hearing was indeed a disability, like sleeping in the hotel room closest to the ice machine. Cook became Lerner's assistant as they propped a mattress against the wall to shut out the sound. And then, Lerner set the air conditioner to high so that the sound would drown out the ice machine rumbling. Logical, yes, but also a bit ridiculous seeming to the deaf community.

Throughout the performance, it was easy to spot some of Cook's favorite things: raindrops, sunsets/rises and rays, walls, doors, gates. These images seemed to pervade all of his work. From issuing applause instructions -- clapping at chin level so that Cook could see and Lerner could hear -- to taking the audience on a directed airplane flight (and crash), complete with flight attendants serving drinks and birds flying into propellers, Cook kept the over-capacity audience at attention. It was all a lot of fun, something I thought I'd never say about poetry.

Next up: Tribeca opens

I'll preface this with the fact that Tribeca isn't my sort of spot. And I don't think many, if any, of the suits present at the VIP opening on Friday, February 8, will be returning. It surely doesn't seem to be the sort of place you'd run into Mayor Duffy ever again. But, if it were my sort of spot, I'd be pleased. It serves up every flash and fashion a meat-marketing discotheque should have, from its projection of geometric designs above the main bar to its water falling bowl-shaped sinks in the ladies room.

Getting into the place was a trip in itself. Black lanyards, surrounded by big burly brutes, lined the sidewalk to control the expected crowds. Once inside the vestibule, they took my police ID and swiped it through some high-tech machine where it displayed my age. This seemed a bit silly to me -- I mean, can't they count? -- so I asked the big guy what other info it gave him. He told me it hooks up directly to the DMV and tells him if I have any warrants out on me, if I've been in any trouble recently, etc. I'm not sure if this is true, because as soon as I began asking more questions and expressing that it seemed an invasion of my privacy, big guy shut up. Asking some other employees later only got me mishmash about how it protects the club from troublemakers. Huh. Somehow, I'm still leery.

Inside, it's huge. The main area has a large horseshoe-shaped bar, a dance floor with DJ station above, and on two sides there are private curtained-off booths that you can rent. Each booth has a theme. One looked to be Laura Ashley or Martha Stewart, one Marilyn Monroe, a Salvador Dali, and I didn't pay attention to the rest. Every once in a while a video would begin above the DJ stand introducing us to Tribeca, like it was in NYC, with a Florida time-share sounding spiel, all the while pumping out the Verve Pipe's "Bittersweet Symphony." Very strange.

In the far corner is a stairway that leads up to the open-air Martini Lounge, where you can easily survey the crowd. The steps are easy to walk up, but the lighting coming down is begging for someone to take a fall. Below the Martini Lounge is a doorway to the Cherry Lounge, a somewhat quieter space with its own music and dance floor lit by dozens of overhead disco balls, black leather booths lit by red glass chandeliers. My friend said it looks like where a guy brings a girl after he's slipped something into her drink. It seemed a bit David Lynch-y to me.

The scene was a bit crazy with the half-priced drinks. The dance floors began to fill up and I filed out.

Next up: Lakeside Winter Celebration

After my late night of partying at Tribeca, I wasn't really in top form to get up early Saturday and drive to Charlotte for the Lakeside Winter Celebration. But I did. And I made my friend come with me. Misery loves company.

I'm almost embarrassed to write this, but being the calendar gal, which means usually being in three different weeks at any given time, I'm giving myself a break. One mess up in a year and a half is forgivable. The first clue was the parking lot: empty. So then we drove to the bath house where a big sign posted on the building assured us it was where the Polar Plungers would be convening. We parked, got out of the car and asked the man walking his dog if this was indeed the place. Yep! But, not until tomorrow, Sunday, which if I'd bothered to even read the sign, not to mention read my own calendar, I would have seen. Oh well! We were out, and went to breakfast.

That's when we got the idea to go see real polar bears, so we drove over to Seneca Park Zoo. The polar bears were out and playing "catch me if you can." Apparently, the couple had been separated for a while as a form of birth control and were recently reunited. The guy just kept following the gal around in the same big circle while we wanted them to go swimming. Finally, both of them took the polar plunge!

Next up: Love Sucks at Lux

Not having true loves to bestow our amore upon, my two friends and I began the night with a Valentine of our dreams -- Johnny Depp. At the Cinema neither Johnny as the vengeful barber or Princess as the Kitty had any objections to being our Valentines, at least none that we heard. We then hit Lux to drown in our sorrows. Not really, but I've always liked that metaphor.

We arrived a bit after 9 p.m. As we walked in there was a red furry box with gold trim and black bead tassels with a sign reading, "Pick a Chip & Win!" We reached in and I got a "Tasty Treat," which was a small paper bag of candy. It felt like Halloween. Friend No. 1 got a "Surprise Prize" and got to pick from a box of toys. She picked an IQ Puzzle -- which none of us could do -- the rest of us agreeing we would have chosen the coconut-shaped mug. Friend No. 2 was disappointed that she only won two fortune cookies. But, as I kept reminding her, she had yet to open them and see what her fortunes were.

We then bellied up to the bar to order our Shots Through the Heart, but there were none. There weren't any conversation hearts either. Or Love Sucks pins. All, apparently, were on the way. We ordered substitute drinks and by the time we had finished, heart-shaped sweet tarts had been set on the bar in martini glasses. We were thinking that for next year, Lux is the perfect place for X-rated conversation hearts. As we left, we saw they had set out the bowl of pins, only this year they said Poop on U. Still, fitting.

We wandered around to the Keg for another drink and ran into a peculiar man named Rusty. He had a Ziploc bag with the paperboard cover from some parmesan and garlic microwave popcorn in it. When I asked what else was in it he instructed me to tell him my favorite color, and to come back in 10 minutes. OK...

When I returned he had made me a rose from purple and green napkins (he didn't have blue), complete with a scent, which he called "cotton blossom," but reminded us of bathroom disinfectant. He said if I didn't water it, it would last forever. Hey, they say it's the thought that counts, and I DID get a rose for Valentine's Day. Thanks, Rusty!

Next up: "Photography in Dubrovnik" at Gallery r.

I think every student who spent the semester at RIT's satellite in Croatia was there for the Friday, February 15, opening of "Photography in Dubrovnik." Gallery r was stuffed. Overstuffed. It literally was difficult to move and almost impossible to see all the photos. Forget about carrying a glass of wine. The photos, of course, are wonderful, like looking through one of those "Day in the Life" books that I always ask for as presents and never get. Hint, hint. And, like rereading a book, I'll have to go back again because it really was overstuffed.

Tickets for the Upper Strong Auditorium were sold out for Bill Nye the Science Guy on Thursday, February 21. After I assured the event's peep that I wasn't some "random blogger" from the internet -- something my City Press Pass failed to do -- I was escorted down to the Lower Aud to watch the simulcast. My intern, on the other hand, walked right in with no ticket, no credentials, and carrying a camera. He said they probably thought he was a photog for the event, but I doubt that, as they announced about four times - LOUDLY - there would be no saving seats, move toward the middle, and no cameras or recording devices of any kind. I think they just thought he was cute.

Anyway, the Lower Aud was old-school nice with its wood wainscoting. It quickly filled up with college students, and even some high school students on a field trip from Pavilion. The projection screen hung above the stage, and I'm not sure what set-up they were using, but the lighting was what filmmakers call "hot," meaning the picture was very bright and therefore blurry. Bill's hair looked very orange.

Bill Nye is a funny guy. He led us all on a magical ride with stops at a bow-tying undertaker, a lunar eclipse above NYC, the Washington Monument as a sundial, a sundial on Mars, the tube inside a 747, the hell of Venus, colored shadows... In essence, he shared with us what keeps him going as the Energizer Bunny of Science - JOD (The Joy of Discovery).

I'm not really sold on the global warming hysteria. I guess I have more trust in Mother Nature than in scientists and politicians. However, his pitch came out of a left field that sounded just right to me. Instead of the religious beliefs based argument of how we've all been very naughty little boys and girls and we must atone for our sins by giving up the lifestyles to which we've become accustomed, he thinks we need to create more, only by using less. He explained to this Goldilocks how Venus is too hot, Mars is too cold, and Earth is just right. How we all share air. He prompted me to think about how we as nation would make very different choices if we were getting three times the mileage on our cars, as half the world's energy is used for transportation. Just thinking about how different our choices might be is awe-inspiring. His pitch was speck-tacular.

Next week he begins filming his new show for the Discovery Channel, "Stuff Happens." Named so ‘cos when you do stuff, stuff happens. Maybe some stuff we could do is cut our energy usage by 80 percent in 50 years and "change the world."

Next up: Oscars at Eastman

We saw the searchlights stroking the sky before we got to the George Eastman House for its 2008 Academy Awards Party. As we pulled up to the University Avenue entrance as instructed, the presence of flashing police cars was a bit unsettling, until we realized they were there for us, the beautiful people. As we waited in the car putting the finishing touches on our make-up and watching the valet guys running to and fro, our excitement began to build. Pulling up, our doors were opened and we were helped out of our seats, with wishes of a good evening as we were led to the red carpet. The doors were opened and the paparazzi were upon us - Flash! Flash! Flash! What fun! Even more fun knowing that our pictures weren't really being taken, so there was absolutely no chance of there being a bad one.

Inside we were given programs and our drink tickets. The hallway was lined with feeding stations with movie themes. "The Godfather" was Italian, of course, with olives and peppers, ziti with sauce, and really yummy tortellini in a cream sauce, and garlic bread, all surrounding a stick pony head with blood. "The Wizard of Oz" had mini pigs in a blanket, quiches, veggies, and cheeses. "Brokeback Mountain" served a cowboy menu of barbequed meat, cornbread, biscuits, and baked beans. "King Kong" offered every dessert imaginable, with a chocolate fountain to die for. My fave was dipping the crème puffs into the chocolate and topping with a dollop of fresh whipped crème.

Prying ourselves away from the food, we made our way into the Dryden Theatre to watch a bit of the Oscars. Unfortunately, we arrived during a commercial. It was pretty empty in there, but I can imagine it being a wonderful place to watch the show with a big bag of popcorn.

Throughout the museum, there were tables of items for silent auction. In the dining room, which was not roped off for the event, a lovely blue Tiffany bag had my name on it. Alas, the silent auction sheet did not. There was also a wine bottle grab bag. For $10 you could pull a tag out and get that bottle of wine. Surprises are fun.

Nik, in the Consevatory, with an ax. (A Clue reference.) Really, in the Conservatory Nik and the Nice Guys (and gals) inspired people to move in unmentionable ways underneath their formal wear. The huge elephant head was a perfect centerpiece for the zoo-like atmosphere. They stopped playing way too soon.

The night was a blast, except when the guy in the ill-fitting tux told my friend her hair was "horrid." Some people shouldn't drink and criticize. Back in the car there was a pretty little wrapped-up present containing two Hedonist truffles, a yummy farewell favor.

Next up: Dancing at Lughnasa