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

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.

Robyn

Craptastic!

Well, that was an arduous week.

But I learned a lot. I learned about how Tower Bridge opens due to a complex system of bascules, and that Henry VIII had a festering wound on his leg, and he needed glasses, so he got nich Dutch people like Hans Holbein to portray him as the strapping character that we know and love today.

Ain't that cool?

So with only one paper left on the horizon, I'm bound and determined to enjoy the rest of my stay in London. I think I'll start by reading one of the many magazines and books that I've accumulated over here.

Between Christine and I, our room looks like a British bookstore that ate some bad sushi and threw up all over the place. Many an issue of Hello! and Q and Entertainment Weekly, and copies of the Independent and the Guardian, as well as several tomes pertaining to monarchs of today and yesterday and Irish rock stars and Victorian novels and art musuem guides and histories of London clutter the place. How we're going to get them all home I don't know.
I also have a bird whistle, a Vincent Van Gogh doll, and a thing that goes "Baa" when you turn it over.

I should maybe try to keep my propensity to accumulate crap in check, at least until I get my own place.

But it's fun crap. I don't regret it.

I think we should all periodically take the time to enjoy all the fun crap there is to be had. You'll be glad you did.

I think I'll go do that right now.

Robyn

Dinner Time

So, I suppose the biggest drawbacks to spending eight lovely days gallivanting around London with your long-lost boyfriend are a.) saying goodbye to boyfriend who you won't see in two months, AGAIN (ah the joys of the nomadic student existence) and b.) spending three and a half days sequestering oneself in the dorm whilst writing and researching a paper on knighthood in the Middle Ages. It requires a lot of perseverence, discipline, silence, weeping, whining, and unwonted hostility to your innocent roommate, but in the end it all shakes out. Now my paper's done and Christine is no more terrified of me than she was before.

But I don't regret it. NosireeBob. I knew it was coming. And now I get to go to Dublin on Friday. Yep. Life sure does suck.

I've had random lines from Braveheart running through my head for about a day now. Should I be concerned?

"I love ye, always have."

"That's my friend Irishman. And yes, if you join me, you get to kill the English."

Anything the Irish guy says, most of which is unprintable.

"Why do you help me?" "Because of the way you're looking at me now." [big sloppy kiss and ridiculous scene in which we're to believe that William Wallace has just impregnated Sophie Marceau with the heir to the English throne, which is, like, soo historically inaccurate because Isabella was so two years old at the time and...oh never mind]

Never watch Braveheart twice in three weeks. It sticks with you. Like oatmeal sticks to your ribs.

Christ, I don't even know what I'm talking about. I think it's dinner time.

"That's something we shall have to remedy."

Robyn

Virgin Radio

In case you were wondering how one amuses oneself in one's tiny, dirty, TV and computer-less one-room flat when one isn't studying, sleeping, or eating rancid chicken, I will reveal it to you now.

Christine and I live and die by our cheap-ass little FM radio and keep it constantly tuned to Virgin (being part of the vast empire owned by Richard Branson, not some dirty talk-radio station. Get yer mind out of the gutter). We delight to the great mix of rock from the 60s to today, and delight in the fact that they only seem to hire mental patients as their DJs; charming folk who play games like "What Are You Having For Your Tea?" (wherein you call and tell them what you're having for tea) and "What Has A Monkey Done To You?" Great fun.

In other news, we're off to Paris this weekend, Jeffrey sent me a smashing new CD, and U2 won four Grammys last night. All's right with the world.

Robyn

Technologically Stranded

You never really fully appreciate the benefits of the modern world until you're deprived of them.

Last night, my computer decided not to start and my phone went dead, leaving me with only a cell phone with a Philadelphia area code to defend myself. It may not be the biggest problem in the world, but it is a trifle unpleasant.

So if you've tried to reach me and wondered why I haven't called or e-mailed back, I apologize. I'm currently taking advantage of the lovely NYU Journalism lab facilities at every opportunity.

No phone, no computer, no microwave in the dorm -- it's kinda like pioneer days, without all the cholera. And with cell phones. And cable TV.

I guess it's not like pioneer days at all.

Talk to you soon, I hope.

Robyn

Froggy Funeral

Alas, a beloved member of our humble household here at Apt. C1-4B has passed on to that big lily pad in the sky.

Nikki's frog Mona was discovered this evening reposing at the bottom of her bathroom-situated fishbowl (Mona was moved to the bathroom after she started making noises like an electric razor, keeping Nikki and Arielle up).

Mona was three years old, which is a respectable froggy age. We're not quite sure if she was even a she, but we do know that she was a good, faithful frog.

She really looked funny lying at the bottom of the toilet before we flushed her.

Good night sweet Mona, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest

Robyn