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.

Robyn

Moby

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.

Robyn

Here a Moby, There a Moby

It's a grand thing when your favorite musician comes out with a new album. For then you can collect a bevy of magazines and television appearances to amuse and delight you.

At least that's what you do if you're a flaming dweeb.

Moby's new album 18 came out this week, and it's quite good. I was a bit concerned when the single We Are All Made of Stars came out. Suffice to say, even if you haven't heard it, the title tells you all you need to know. Whatever you say, Mobes. Stars. Mmm-hmm. Very cute. Now run along like a good little vegan.

But happily, the rest of the album fairly rocks. Pretty stuff. And I got to meet Mr. Moby (again) at a Tower Records signing. Such a nice guy, even if he needs his goofy artist friend to sit next to him and stare dumbly at the fans when they aren't surreptitiously conversing about things that only hipster rock stars and artists converse about. An appearance on Saturday Night Live rounded out a merry Mobylicious week. Gravy.

By the way, if you're planning to take your two-year-old to see the PG-13 Spider Man movie, don't. Trust me. You'll be happier, the kid will be happier, the movie patrons will be happier. Everybody wins. Rent him Bob the Builder instead. You'll be glad you did.

Robyn

In Summation...

So this would be the last update from London. I fly back to New York tomorrow and am currently pretty much ready to go.

Is it sad that I have spent an hour and a half of my last day in the computer lab? No one else is here, which is very nice, and I'm rather exhausted. So there's my justification. I did go to the Tate Modern today. This visit, combined with Thursday's jaunt to the Tate Britain, confirmed my unflagging resentment of modern art. I could go on and on (and in fact, I did Thursday night, subjecting poor Christine to a 45-minute tirade), but suffice to say I find it mostly to be a big steaming load.

I liked the Rodin sculpture though. Too bad there were only two.

But why dwell on that? Here are a few reasons why I'm sad to be leaving London:

• Free museums. Somehow it feels better blowing twenty pounds at the gift shop if you didn't pay five to get in.
  
• Historical context. America preserves a square mile of Philadelphia and creates Williamsburg, VA in order to celebrate its 300-year heritage. London sits back and laughs and laughs and laughs.
  
• Gratutitous pageantry. They may be a drain on taxes and a gangly brood of anachronisms, but the Windsor dynasty is way more fun (and far less frightening) than the Bush dynasty. And when they decide to party, they do not muck around. Jubilee 2002 versus the inaugural ball? I hardly think there's a comparison.
  
• Yellow journalism. London's tabloids achieve heights of tackiness and sensationalism that the New York Post only dreams about. It's the stuff that makes me take the hypocritical stance of abhorring the notion of ever being professionally involved with it, but happily giggling over it in the supermarket checkout.
  
• Proximity to Paris.
  
• Proximity to Dublin.
  
• Professors who are knowledgeable and enthusiastic about the subjects they teach. Who knew?
  
• Regular use of the word loo not as applicable in the U.S.
  
• Parks. The well-landscaped, sprawling, lovely Hyde Park beats the overcrowded, over-paved, fishbowl that is Central Park any day of the week. Plus, pelicans at St. James' Park!
  
• Fish and chips.
  
• Digestive cookies.
  
• Padded seats on the Tube.
  
• Charing Cross Road and its financially-draining but oh-so-stimulating bookshops.
  
• Virgin Radio.
  

And why it's nice to go back:

• Paying in pounds is not healthy for students and other living things.
  
• As lovely as Britain's museums are, the Met could take any one of them in a fight.
  
• The scary public-service announcements have spread to the radio now. Time to leave the country.
  
• Moby will be signing CDs at Tower at 4th and Broadway on Tuesday.
  
• Living arrangements will no longer be confined to one room.
  
• No more feelings of self-righteous indignation after listening to NYU London Students wear their ignorance like a badge of honor ("Omigod, my friend told me the Changing of the Guard is, like, so not worth it. One guy, like, taps another guy on the shoulder and tells him to, like, take a hike. It's, like, f---ing ridiculous, y'know?")
  
• Iced tea.
  
• Seeing family, boyfriend, friends, kitty, etc.
  
• I will now have the opportunity to earn back all the money I squandered this semester.
  

I believe that covers it. See you Stateside.

Robyn