When a Broadway Baby says "Goodnight," It's early in the mornin'

So I'm back from New York City. I can't really explain my experiences to you appropriately because there aren't words in my vocabulary to express my attachment to this city, its history, and its people. To say that I am enamoured is a gross understatement. I worship New York. Forgive me, because I'm truly about to get (oh, what is the character's name from NYC? the girl from Allentown?) Peggy Sawyer! I'm about to go Peggy Sawyer on you. I had a rotten week in Memphis, was generally bogged down on life, and numbly got onto our Northwest flight. It didn't hit me that we were actually going to the city until our taxi picked us up from LaGuardia. The sentiments I first felt as a starry eyed broadway-centric 10 year old flooded back. "The rumble of the subway trains, the rattle of taxis" resounded in my ears. A naive, childish grin immediately split across my face and my troubles literally evaporated.

I wish I could tell you that this was my usual hyperbolic, cinematic narrative, drama queen speech, but it's not. I really felt this way. In that single taxi ride to our hotel, all my woes and frustrations obliterated into the wonderful gritty air and I had a clean slate on which to paint. And so I did.

After staying at the hotel for about five minutes, we scurried off to Grand Central Station (a block away) and met one of John Weeden's Bard friends, Rob Blackson. He was the most wonderfully hysterical character I'd ever met. Sporting a goofy, genuine grin and a home-made contrasting color (aqua blue and bright orange) asymmetrical zip up jacket, he told us very earnestly of his experiences in the professional art world. Lauren (Kennedy) and I completely fell in love with him.

We then took a brief visit to the New Museum. I surprisingly loved it. Now when I say I was "surprised" that I enjoyed it, I don't mean that it is that difficult for me to enjoy visual art. It's just that I didn't expect to like it quite so much. Granted, I know I didn't fully appreciate or understand much of it, but I really did enjoy browsing around. (I'm still completely perplexed how Lauren could deem "Oh, this is not very good" or "Oh, this is fantastic" when it seems a great deal of thought and time were put into both and it seems entirely subjective. When I asked her if it was, indeed, subjective, she said "of course! It's how it moves you and makes you feel!" So I responded "So this isn't good?" "No." Oh, okay. Essentially, it confirmed that I am visual-art-retarded but I have a great appreciation and admiration for those who are visually inclined.

After another brief (can you tell this trip was jam packed?) visit with Rhodes alum Amanda Sisk (who was absolutely awesome and rather amiable) I booked it back to the hotel to grab my phone charger (now may be an appropriate time to inform you all that Razor phones are terrible and lose charge halfway through the day) and then dash off to the Ethel Barrymore to see Nathan Lane in November. Nathan Lane was hysterical. The play was not. After I finished the play (and by that, I mean I possibly did not stay for the whole thing, but enough to appreciate the faces that Mr. Lane makes like that on the left) I ran down to Greenwich Village to visit with Kavitha Surana (Columbia), Jay Kling (NYU), and Vincent Tenorio (Pomona), all high school buddies who either lived in NYC or happened to be there for the weekend. I magnificently navigated the subways to the Village, but finding their location proved more challenging.




My friends were at Cafe Wha?, a pretty famous oh-my-god-I've-just-popped-out-of-another-era-mixed-with-RENT-minus-AIDA hole int he wall place in the Village. Bob Dylan and Jimi Hendrix have both played there. It's no big deal or anything. So despite the fact that they had the best live band I had ever seen and I was with twelve of the most fun college kids I think I've ever been around, it wreaked of New York. I seriously felt like I was in an alternate universe. It was bliss.


PAUSE! TO BE CONTINUED!