Sunday, February 04, 2007

Fake tales of New York city

I really have been terrible at blogging lately. Here are the things I have meant to write about and haven't:

1. Cuba, but mainly how I think Fidel is really dead, and has been since the end of October. Seriously. Those pics of him and Hugo aren't fooling anyone.
2. Cuban cheese
3. Buenos Aires and how I might work there this summer
4. Other important, non-Cuba and non-Latin America related topics that aren't springing to mind at the moment

None of these things got written about, obviously, but since I'm in New York visiting Hoolia, I might as well write about that, right? I was here last weekend too, for the twins' birthday, which was really fun, obviously. So much fun, in fact, that I decided to come back this weekend since our semester is still at the point where I can get away with doing absolutely no schoolwork for an entire weekend. Well, actually, the semester has never been like that, but I do it anyway.

I drove up here on Friday with my law school friend Karen, and given that I had abused myself on Thursday night by going to a boozy firm reception and then dancing my butt off at bar review, I was not prepared to go out on the town in New York on Friday night. So Julia and I had her friend from CNN over, and we watched Season 3 of Arrested Development, which sent Julia and I into hysterics and left her friend rather unimpressed. (Best part of the entire season? "Mock Trial with J. Reinhold," featuring William Hung and his Hung Jury. If you're not an Arrested Development fan, please become one immediately.)

On Saturday, I went running along the river. It was chilly but rewarding because there were so many cute guys out running on that river. It was like a running-shoe modeling casting call or something -- very inspiring. I came back and showered and Hoolia and I decided to do something cultural for a change and go to the MOMA. On the way there we stopped at a deli for sandwiches and drinks, and somehow I managed to lose all circulation in my hands while drinking my bottle of diet coke (it was icy!!!) and thus spent the entire subway ride to the MOMA with my fingers stuck under my armpit, trying to regain color and feeling. People stared.

The MOMA was great because Julia (plus four guests) get in for free with her corporate pass, so I saved $$$ and got to see great art. Well, some great art, and some large canvases painted black, and of course, some neon tube lights. That's right, neon tube lights. There was one "piece" that was a pink tube of neon light in the corner of a room. People were standing in front of it listening to audio commentary on the artist's inspiration and technique, and I was barely resisting the urge to snatch those audio things out of their hands and yell, "IT'S JUST A PINK LIGHT, YOU PINHEADS!" But I didn't, because clearly I am just an ignorant f*** who does not appreciate great art. And, as Julia pointed out, I am just jealous that I didn't think of it first.

Neon lights aside, there were some great pieces of art there: Van Gogh's "Starry Night," for example, and tons of Picasso, Monet, Seurrat (love that pointillism), Warhol (love those soup cans), Rousseau, O'Keefe, and on and on. I guess the least inspiring part of the whole museum was the "Architecture and Furniture" section, which was mainly beat up couches and desk lamps sitting around. People seemed very impressed. I wasn't.

After all of our art-viewing, we were tired -- it's hard being so culturally engaged -- so we came back to the apartment and watched "The White Rapper Show" for a while. I pretended to do research for school for like 10 minutes but ended up researching restaurants for us to go to that night. We went to a Venezuelan place called El Cocotero, which had delicious food, including yuca frita, one of my favorite things in the world. Yum. Afterwards we went to a Stanford party, where I somehow ran into a friend who I met at camp in Kentucky when I was 17. So THAT was weird. Smalllll world.

Now I'm about to go back to Cambridge, which is not exciting. Back to reality.

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