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Christmas for pine trees is like Thanksgiving for turkeys. It's like "Hey, congratulations on reaching maturity and looking good! Now lean over."
With trees, it's even weirder. We celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ by killing a tree and watching it slowly die -- while complaining if it doesn't smell fresh and crisp in its death throes. And, oh, those needles get _everywhere_! (Of course they do. The tree is dead, people.)
Sometimes we travel far and wide to find the grandest, tallest, most magnificent tree in the forest. We chop off it's life-giving roots, bring it to the center of our decaying, mass-media, mass-consumerist culture at Rockefeller Center, and ceremoniously burn it with "lights" of simulated fire. People gather from all over the world to catch a glimpse of this tree, our very pagan sacrifice to nature and retail culture.
Don't even get me started on artificial trees. Artificial trees are the mock duck of Christmas trees.
Anyway, we should drink. Tomorrow we return to an old haunt for the NYUer in you, the Telephone Bar and Grill. It is a bar with old-fashioned British-looking phone booths that allow you to travel through space and time, especially if you're a hot girl with a thing for eccentric British loner-types that won't ever have sex with you. Ever. There's a band in the back room but we can grab the "dry bar" area for ourselves.
NEXT WEEK IS HOLIDAY PUBNIGHT.
It's a holly jolly pubnight.
The best one of the year! (besides Anniversary Pubnight.)
Vineel, Rebecca, and Jocelyn, et aliae