This whole mess with Sandy is really making me hate granola bars.
Which sucks, because come June 2nd through the 27th, I’ll be eating one a day for an entire meal as I hike across an entire country.
It’s just the whole idea of what it tastes like; mashed up sawdust with fragments of almonds glazed in over-saturated corn syrup. it’s all smushed into a tight, crumbling bar and then packed in a foil wrapper stamped with an image of some old englishman smiling like he’s just had the greatest fucking blowjob EVER, and then some oversized, husky-sized lettering, spelling out the word, ‘CHEWY’. Chewy describes how I feel whenever I consume three of them all at once. I always figure that one just isn’t enough, and as a result try and drink it all down with water. Or Whiskey. Then the bloating begins and I feel as though one could cut a slice out of me and masticate on my love handles until the jaw got numb and needed a Nuprin to take the pain away.
I hate them, and I can’t get enough of them.
So we’re cooped up in the Kimmel Center for Student Life. It’s one of the only buildings in NYU that has power- thanks to a swanky, underground co-generation plant that powers Kimmel, the library, and two of the residence halls nearby.
Last night, I was on duty for the Kimmel Center; which meant taking on rounds of supervising the construction of some 1200 cots, then walking around the building to patrol and take a headcount of all 1,200 of us. You know, approximately.
It was pretty astounding though to see so many NYU students willing to help one another. Of course, there were those select few, generally the same few who were unimpressed by NYU’s constant effort to be on top of sudden, natural disaster, who decided they were better off watching reruns of Parks and Recreation or reanalyzing excel sheets for that upcoming lecture Friday morning…
The little shits.
I was a little shit too. I started preparing the cots right next to them, plopping the metal and the canvas on the ground right next to them, creating strenuous sounds, looking over as if I was curious to see what they were up to. I managed to get one to look at me. He didn’t seem too pleased.
Our President, John Sexton, visited us and brought Alec Baldwin along with him. He told us of a soiree that’s happening tonight in the Bobst Library. The Sandy Soiree. It’s set to include magicians, caricature painters, music, and free soda. Okay. Sure. Done. I’m down with that.
Before that happens though, I’m gonna head on over to the Kosher Cafe. While the rest of Kimmel is set up with half hour lines to receive plates of rice and chicken scraps, the Kosher Cafe remains quiet and open. It’s dairy day, and apparently, they’re sporting ridiculous amounts of fish and pizza. Made on Pita.
They also have pumpkin pie in a nice, plastic container.
So naturally, I’m telling everybody.
After that, a dance.
It’s easy for people to talk shit. They can’t handle the idea that people are trying their best and that unfortunately the best isn’t to the standards of what they were used to before all Hell broke loose. I do that too, sometimes. I guess it’s natural. I guess it makes me feel at bay. Complaining’s a way of communicating- you whine and whimper and bitch in hopes of finding somebody else wanting to whine and piss about the same thing. That’s why it feels good. It makes company, I suppose. And it does last. Complaining’s got nowhere to go but around and around.
But I’m impressed with what’s happening here at NYU. I can’t fathom what’s happening outside of Manhattan, on the coasts- and I’m planning to break free from campus tomorrow in order to see it all first hand and figure out a way in any capacity to help out… but for now, a shitty cot’s a blessing. And the lack of signal is refreshing, if anything.