Alas, Poor Isaac. I Knew Him Well.

Newtown, Pa. (and the surrounding bedroom communities) has suffered a devastating loss this morning. Local restaurant Isaac Newton's was gutted by fire.

Now, an obscure, quaint (if overpriced) eatery in the middle of an obscure, quaint (if over-gentrified) little town might not mean much to you. But it meant a lot to lovers of fine club sandwiches and "gourmet beer" and quiches of the day and good bread soaked in herbed olive oil.

Odd, how the beloved local eatery burns down the same week that Chik-Fil-A opens. There's an irony there that I think we all can appreciate.

Odd too, how I entered their parking lot two hours after the fire whilst I was turning around to get back to the bypass, and yet failed to notice the building. Faraway, so close. Or something.

There's an irony there that I think only I can appreciate.

I guess we'll be going to Applebee's from now on.

Viva Isaac's.

Robyn

Kickin it 'Burb Style (Y'all)

Today Bobby and I drove into Newtown in the Eminem-blaring, tire-rattling 1992 Buick LeSabre to visit the brand new Chik-Fil-A restaurant which was overrun with high school kids celebrating the next-to-last day of school and myriad others who were curious to see the latest addition to the area's ever-growing cache of corporate outlets. After which we watched MTV before heading off to our respective mall job or appointed hang-out date at a friend's house followed by a late night trip to the Wawa.

Yep. It's summertime in suburbia.

Now you know why the updates haven't been quite as often in coming. Unless you're curious about how different diners' mozzarella sticks stack up against each other. Or Wawa's new computerized ordering system. 'Cuz I can talk about these subjects at length.

But I won't.

Gotta go. Conan's on.

Robyn

The Brit Goes On

It hasn't taken too very long for nostalgia for London to set in. Between the Queen's Jubilee celebrations this weekend and the World Cup in full swing, it's hard not to wish I was back there to enjoy the inebriated, er, celebratory atmosphere in London. I'm content with donning my child's-size England jersey, watching the footie on ABC and broadcasts of the Jubilee celebrations on PBS.

Really I am.

Look, it's not like I'm not getting out or anything. Cuz I do. I have friends. And a job at the mall. And Virgin Radio on the computer. I'm fine. What's your deal?

I not lame.

Viva Britannia

Robyn

By the way, did you know that there are no English words to rhyme with "purple" and "month?" I learned that from Headline News. Because I'm an informed individual who is interested in intellectually stimulating, worldly subjects -- as well as the Party at the Palace and David Beckham's foot. So there.

How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love My Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome (A work in progress)

I didn't cry on September 11.

At least, I don't remember doing so. I don't remember crying the day after. Nor the week after. I'm sure that I cried at least twice since it happened, but despite being constantly exposed to the aftermath of that day (the Missing posters, the flowers, the foul air, etc.), I don't think I was overtly emotional much of the time.

I have now become somewhat unglued twice this week. But I'm not so sure that's a bad thing.

As you probably know by now, HBO ran a fairly gritty documentary on 9/11 in New York this week. This first day that it aired I resolved not to watch it. I told myself that it was exploitative, disgusting, and all in all unhealthy to watch so soon after it happened.

Naturally, I watched it tonight. About two minutes into it I had serious thoughts about turning it off -- and all they had showed at that point is the well-known footage of the initial impact. And there were some points where I clicked it over to VH1 for a minute or two until I felt sure that the troublesome part in question had passed. It was very difficult to watch, because it basically forced me to see everything I saw that day all over again. Surprisingly, I found I was glad that I did.

I remember very clearly the things that I saw when it happened. It's not like it was a blur or that I blocked it out. But I remember regarding it all with a sense of detachment, even bemusement. Well, this is certainly odd. Which sounds terrible. I knew I was supposed to be sad, but I couldn't force myself. When I went to Ground Zero two months later, I felt sick, but not sad. But seeing those images on TV tonight-- seeing the park outside my dorm covered with memorials, the viewpoints from my neighborhood of the Towers -- let me feel what I think I wanted to feel that day, just eight months later.

Like I said, the documentary is extremely difficult to watch no matter where you were on September 11. I wouldn't blame anybody for refusing to watch it, or turning it off in the middle. There's a couple moments that are, in my opinion, pretty gratuitous. But you may try looking at it, even if it's five years down the road. I was sure that if I watched it, I would be blubbering, spouting obscenities, screaming at the wall, or engaging in some other similar anti-social behavior by the end of it. But I'm not. I'm typing this instead, and reading the Onion. Dare I say it, I actually feel a little better. I'm sure I'm not "over it." I don't really think I will be, but I think that's okay. It's part of who I am now, and I can live with that.

Thanks for listening. I promise next time I'll write about puffins or cheesy poofs or Care Bears or sumpin' like that.

Robyn

Smells Like a Beautiful Day

Really lovely weather here today. It actually inspired me to hunt out the sweatsuit and go for a quasi-fitness walk. I don't usually take the opportunity to walk around the neighborhood at 9:30 in the morning. It's rather nice. The sun is bright, but not too harsh. It smells nice this time of year. It smells like trees and flowers and cut grass. If it weren't for the mutilated squirrel corpse in the street and the neighbor informing me that London is "full of A-rabs, y'know," it would be quite idyllic.

My favorite news story du jour is Bono and Treasury Secretary Paul O'Neill's Excellent Adventure. The two of them are running around Africa on fact-finding mission to see how debt aid is being distributed. Which means there are a lot of very amusing photo ops with the very nicely dressed dignitaries and the very scruffy rock star looking at each other sideways. I wish all diplomatic missions could be so entertaining.

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