Saturday Night Spiral

I tend to pick my pals and scenes carefully, and have been pretty happy with my crew since I've moved to NYC. However, this tends to cocoon me from other, more hostile, environments, and I forget what a socially-anxious freakshow I can be when put in the wrong situation. Last night, I was reminded.

The night started out promisingly enough. I was scheduled to go to Rockwood to see Mike Grubbs of Wakey!Wakey! fame (and if you haven't checked them out, for God's sake, please do so. You're welcome). Then I was to meet up with some long-lost pals from DC, and dance the night away. This sounds foolproof, no? I was so stoked about the evening, I boldly sported a more substantial amount of cleavage than usual. My titties and I were ready to take on the city.

The music was lovely, the place was lively, the bourbon was doing its job. More pals materialized in the side bar after the show, conversations about sex, music, and museums ensued. I was kinda in my element. I was "on," you guys. Happyhappyhappy...

But I had to tear myself away to meet my out of town pals. So I left the relative safety and comfort of sweet home Rockwood, and headed out to points unknown. There were hugs and reunions. So far, so good. And then we got into the bar...

Here's the deal. I live in NYC. Spaces are small. Crowds are plentiful. I know this. So as long as the crowd is friendly and happy, so am I. But this was not good. Too crowded. Too frattish. And the only available space was by the bathroom, which not only smelled like rancid farts, but did not endear us to the teeming masses trying to make their way to the can. The molecules in this place started vibrating badly. I lost my confidence. I temporarily got it back with some drinks, but that was not a lasting fix. I started getting awkward. I started talking about my ex. It was bad, you guys. There was to be no dancing here. I ended up fleeing the scene, directing the taxi back to Rockwood, thinking I could re-set the time-space continuum by going back to my happy place. Alas, my pals had moved on. I was adrift. I actually started to panic that the night was so not going to plan.

Then I recalled that I had other pals at a birthday party at a club up the street. Maybe we could salvage this night after all! I texted my pals, and without waiting for a response, I went up First Ave, determined to dance my pants. Up to the bouncer I went, ID in hand, plunging neckline on display. He instructed me to wait by the door. So I did. This was going to be okay.

And then some glamazons approached. Very pretty girls. Freshly made-up. Not appropriately dressed for the weather. They smelled nice. Their heels were towering. And oh, landy, the boobage. I considered my now 6-hour-old mascara. My overcoat and Gap jeans. My slightly scuffed boots. And my comely, but incomparable, decollatage. I watched as they were waved inside. I watched as several more were waved inside. I watched as a third group was waved inside. This was worse than junior high and summer camp wrapped up in gym class. I knew I wasn't getting in this place. This was a New York I didn't know. This was a New York I didn't want to know.

I wound up slinking off to the Hot and Crusty, seeking solace in an Oreo cheesecake at 2 am. My pals finally texted me back. They were long gone from the club anyway, and called it a night a while ago. It was time to do the same.

Graphically speaking, the night went like this:



I think this is my first fight with NYC in the seven months I've been here. Which, when you think about it, is pretty good by any relationship's standards. And not every weekend can be a winner. But I think NYC owes me some flowers. Or some make-up sex. I'm putting it on notice until it does so.

Here's some footage of the high point of the evening, when Mike covered Cyndi Lauper. See how I could have been fooled into thinking this night was going to be amazing? Psh.

Conan O'Brien: Breaker of Hearts

I returned to New York this weekend and I'm very glad I did. Truth be told, I was feeling sad about missing out on things that were going on up there in recent days (most likely due in part to my lack of employment and recent, traumatizing loss of cable television). I just needed a quick NY fix, and I am satiated.

Jeffrey and I had business to attend to there in the way of shopping in SoHo, eating falafel in the Village, and meeting friends for Afghan food on 26th Street. But our primary reason for being there was an event sponsored by the New York Times Arts and Leisure Weekend in which Conan O'Brien was to be the speaker.

There are very few such people in the world whom I would race up to New York to see at such an event without a moment's hesitation. Messrs. Conan and Bono are two of those, and seeing as Bono's appearance this weekend was canceled due to a medical emergency involving nasty back surgery (it's always something with those rock stars), I was more than happy to see Conan be interviewed about, well, being Conan, as it turns out. Which isn't as heinous as it sounds. Conan's a really smart, nice, geeky guy who wound up in an extraordinary position through a great deal of dumb luck, and had a seriously tough time holding on to that position ten years ago when he took over from David Letterman as the host of Late Night. But he's a very well-spoken and insightful person and it makes me glad to see that such a nice, intelligent guy is capable of his kind of success. I guess I'm a bit partial to bookish redheaded misfits with twisted senses of humor.

The only tragedy of the night occurred after the conversation when Conan stuck around to sign as many programs as possible before his handlers made him go home. He stopped at the girl right in front of me, leaving me standing in vain with a program thrust sadly in the air imploring the handlers not to go away. Jeffrey will attest that it was somewhat pathetic. But if that's the most rotten thing to happen to me all weekend, I suppose I'm in pretty good shape.

Robyn

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

Social Creatures

Friday night was one of those nights when you feel like the biggest loser in the world and you're incapable of experiencing joy and you're going to die alone and afraid surrounded by seventy-two cats.

You know what I'm talking about.

But I'm happy to report that things are faring much better on the social front. My best friend from high school has been living in London for a couple months now, and was only too happy to show us around, take us to the theatre, and introduce us to her groovy Dutch roommate. Christine and I are now relatively comfortable with our small circle of friends.

And the navigation thang is slowly going better as well. We took a coach tour of London's Greatest Hits yesterday, so at least we know where most of the districts and landmarks lie with respect to our humble flat.

And I must be going because there is an ever constant line of NYU-L'ers who are lurking in the doorway coveting my computer. I must yield it unto them.

Robyn