Last Weekend, Part 1: Tiny's, Sugar Sweet Sunshine, and Some Form of Exercise
Fish and cheese. They go together like...seafood in coagulated milk-based product.
Oh, I love coagulated milk-based product. It's just that while I was eating my tuna melt from Tiny's Giant Sandwich Shop and savoring the magical blend of melted Swiss cheese blanketing mayonnaise-infused Dolphin-safe tuna mashings I thought about how most of my combination fish-and-cheese eating experiences have taken place in the form of sandwiches. And not tuna melts or lox and cream cheese bagels, but the Catholic-friendly Filet-O-Fish. Which means that most of my combination fish-and-cheese eating barely consisted of what nature would label as fish and cheese. More like "deep fried square slab of compressed white fish bits" and "day-glo orange sliver of processed cheese and emulsifiers." And thus the dark period of gorging myself at McDonald's comes back to haunt me.
I used to eat at McDonald's with embarrassingly high frequency during the first 3/4ths of my life. When I was little it was all about the Happy Meals and the 4-piece "it might be" chicken nuggets dripped in barbecue sauce (hell man, those were tasty). After I grew out of the "If It Comes With A Toy, It Must Be Good" phase, it was all about the fat and the salt and the various chemicals used to enhance the flavors of fat and the salt. Even though I stopped eating at McDonald's in high school, the idea of eating a Filet-O-Fish today (for nostalgic purposes) doesn't completely disgust me. I might even enjoy it.
But I won't do it. I think. I mean, unless you want me to. For nostalgic purposes.
I ate at Tiny's last Friday night (as in, December 7th, many moons ago) with Diana, John, Tristan and Lihan for our "WELCOME TRISTAN AND LIHAN TO NYC FOR THE WEEKEND" celebration, as they had spent the day driving up from Charlottesville. Tiny's is a great place to have a group dinner because it's 1) vegetarian friendly! 2) cheapies! 3) sandwich laden! 4) never too crowded! (at least when I'm there) 5) quick! But if you go somewhat late in the day like we did (7:30 PM, aka "when French people eat lunch") they may be out of a few things.
No more for you
Like soup. Not that any of us really wanted soup, but sometimes you only realize you want something when you can't have it. These desires increase ten-fold when punctuated by a frowny face. :( Next time I visit Tiny's I hope to get a taste of this soup that is so good that they run out of it by 7:30 PM.
Here's Tristan's vegetarian friendly sandwich, the Big Mack Daddy. That stuff looks like meat, but I'm going to assume it's some kind of soy protein compound, crumbled and reformed in such a way to make you feel like you're almost eating the flesh of a dead, tasty animal.
John's Cobb sandwich really did have meat. Mmm.
Take the table by the door and, gee whiz, you'll get cold
After dinner John, Diana and I went across the street to grab dessert from Sugar Sweet Sunshine while Tristan and Lihan fetched Lihan's car in Chelsea to drive it to the Financial District where Lihan would be staying that night. They got a bit lost. Oops. Remember to bring a map with you when you go to a new city, folks! (I didn't do this when I visited Brussels and it was mildly horrible. I'm just glad I lived.)
Diana recommended the black and white cupcake for its not too sweet, but perfectly chocolate-y cake. And she was right! The cake was just right in terms of sweetness and...um, chocolate-ness. I could taste the cocoa. At least, I think that's what I was tasting. I thought the sweet frosting went well with the mild cake, but Diana and her lack of a sweet tooth chose to eat around the frosting, leaving behind a frosting-smeared wax paper carcass. So much violence. So much.
And that's why Diana is much healthier than I'll ever be.
John and I parted ways with Diana to meet up with Tristan and attempt to see Juno. On opening night. In limited release. Obviously, we failed.
So we saw Lars and the Real Girl instead! It was awesome. In a happy and depressing way. Seriously, you should see it if it's playing anywhere near you.
Brooklyn is creepy. Don't you forget it.
After the movie we headed to Studio B under the creepy post-midnight Brooklyn moon where we'd meet up with Nathan and his friend Rachel.
Damn, it's kinda of crowded.
What was I doing at Studio B? They don't serve food (but they have plenty of Red Bull and alcohol). Oh, it's a dance club. Yeah. This is generally the last place you would ever find me (even after a gym), but I had been convinced/coerced into going and I figured i may as well get the "dance at a hip night club full of writhing young people" experience out of the way just so I could say that I've done it. Kind of like that time I saw the Rocky Horror Picture Show at Vassar College and wanted to flee the theater about 50 or 60 times during the performance, but stuck it out to say that I had lived through the experience. And I did. Barely. The best part was knowing that I'd never have to go through that again.
Not that Studio B was that horrifying—compared to the RHPS, it was much more bearable. I'm not sure that Studio B is this crowded every Friday night; the draw of this night was a Daft Punk cover DJ duo. Nathan somehow got us past this line (smooth talker, he is) so that we could go inside the darkened club and smash our bodies in the mob of people trying to check in their coats for half an hour or more, or less. It's all a blur.
Sooo...uh, how was it? Well, if you like dancing then you'd love it. Duh. I don't dislike dancing, but the situation really needs to be optimal for me to enjoy it. I need to like the music, number one. Preferably I'd be accompanied by at least one friend like me, a female dance noob, none of which was present that night (not that I have anything against the friends that were with me that night; they're great). On the other end of the spectrum, I am quite happy just dancing by myself in my room to my own playlist because I know I'll like the music and no one will see what a flailing dork I am. The problem with the Daft Punk cover DJs is that they didn't play enough Daft Punk (or maybe we missed most of that part) and I spent a lot of the night thinking about how bored I was (which had a lot to do with the boring music) and how much more fun and cheaper it would've been to just dance in my own room. I was really only comfortable when I closed my eyes. I'm what some would refer to as "socially retarded." It doesn't bother me that much.
I can see why people would enjoy this kind of thing, of course. (Maybe the alcohol helps.) And that's cool with me. But I make a very unconvincing member of any dance posse. It wasn't a bad first experience, really. I'm glad I was around people I liked.
I got to Kathy's apartment at around 4:30 AM. After showering myself of sweat, dead skin cells and germs accumulated across Manhattan and Brooklyn, I pressed the INFLATE button on my Aerobed's controller dohickey (those things are advanced!), slid myself into my sleeping bag/blanket, and passed out.