Friday, December 20, 2002

So Long, Farewell

I couldn't ask to leave New York in grander style.

Mum came up for the afternoon for lunch, and we went to the Rainbow Room at the Big Pretty Building. Unlike most times that we've gone to pricey, famous New York eateries, we actually enjoyed the food and atmosphere. When we first got up there, it was pretty foggy. But after awhile (and after Mom temporarily convinced me that a particularly nasty front was about to unleash a tornado upon Midtown Manhattan), the weather cleared and we had a lovely view of the south of the city. We followed the nice lunch with a victory lap through Rockefeller Plaza, Fifth Avenue, Grand Central and finally Penn Station. Now my feet are tired and I'm too weary to go out and do more even if I wanted to.

So I guess that does it for me in New York for awhile. It's been a swell three years. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't sad to go. But I believe I'm going for a reason that is infinitely worth whatever heartache comes with leaving. Besides, there's a lot more trouble to cause, er, good work to be done in Washington as far as making a difference in the world at large. So let's see what I can find...

Adios, New York. It was fun.


Monday, December 16, 2002

Soy Un Perdedor

Today was a lonely day, as Christine is gone and I'm all by myself in the dorm room. The threat of a transit strike and the crunch of finals have made it difficult for friends to come play with me in the evening, so I was left with the prospect of taking myself out to dinner, since supplies in the kitchen are low this week.

But before you cue the violins and break out the hankies, I did manage to have a pretty entertaining night, and was able to embarrass myself without anybody's help.

I decided to take myself to TeaNY, the vegan cafe/tea shop owned by one Mr. Moby. It's been awhile since I was there last, and since they have a marvelous selection of teas and it's within walking distance, I went by myself to get some dinner. I took some Christmas cards and my journal to keep me busy while I waited for my food.

It wasn't busy at all when I went in, and eventually I was the only patron in the place, munching on a fake turkey club and key lime tea (I know, I know. But since I'm only in Lower Manhattan for a few more days, let me indulge in some hippie dippy goodness while I can). Suddenly, Mr. Moby and some of his pals bound into the place and sit directly behind me. All of a sudden, I'm in the ninth grade again, sitting next to a kid I have a crush on but am too scared to talk to, let alone keep my hand steady enough to hold a teacup.

So not cool.

In the end, I didn't wind up talking to him at all. Which is okay in that I've talked to him before and he was with his friends and all. But I did feel like I should have capitalized on the moment. So I grabbed one of my Christmas cards, scribbled something about how I appreciated his music and the role that it's played during my time in New York and that I'm super-sorry about your recent beating, and when I finally left (which was a good hour or so after Moby & Co. did), I left it on my seat and fled into the night.

Needless to say, I feel less than super cool now. Especially when I realized that I slightly under-tipped my nice waiter. Sheesh. But that's okay. Because I'm never ever ever going back there. At least not for a good few months.

Incidentally, I discovered that vegan cheesecake is actually quite good and that eavesdropping on rock stars and their friends can be surprisingly boring when all they're doing is singing along to the New Wave tape that's playing in their restaurant.


Thursday, December 12, 2002


Evidently, after a performance in Boston, Moby was attacked by three guys who maced him and punched him repeatedly in the face and head. They got away before the police could catch them.

That is so not cool, to say the least.

For one thing, Moby is not the most physically imposing person you'll ever come across. If you want to attack somebody randomly, you could pick a better target that would pose more of a challenge. Unless of course, you're new to the random beating scene. In that case, by all means go for the skinny, hippy-dippy pacifist vegan musician. You can work your way up to people who would actually put up a fight once you perfect your skills on the wussies of the world.

I sincerely hope that the three gentlemen who jumped Moby didn't do so because of something silly like an Eminem song. Maybe Moby owed them money. Or slept with one of their girlfriends in college. That would still be pretty retarded, but not completely asinine.

Maybe they were from the beef industry.

Anyway, I recognize that the moderately serious beating of a music star is not real high on the list of problems of the world at large. It just bummed me out.

So not cool.


Friday, December 6, 2002

Ma-Ma-Ma My Menorah

I have procured for myself my first very own piece of Judaica.

I found a lovely silver-plated menorah at that bastion of all things Hebraic, Pottery Barn.

It's a damn fine menorah if I do say so. It's a bit too classy for my humble dorm lodgings, but I plan to hold onto it long enough to give it a properly dignified home someday.

As it is, the poor thing has to suffer not only being surrounded by craptastic Yaffa gear, but, due to a woeful shortage of Chanukah candles, it currently has pieces of paper rolled up to resemble candles shoved into its holes.

The menorah's a bit pissed.

Tonight being the last night of Chanukah, it only has a few more hours to go before it gets put away for the year. I hope it won't hold a grudge. A cranky menorah is nobody's friend.