Moby was featured in yesterday’s “Sunday Routine” section of the Times, where celebrities talk about the shit they do on Sundays. It’s basically my favorite thing, especially when the person being featured does exactly the type of shit you assume they would do. Like, Moby? Moby wakes up at 7am and makes an acai-based smoothie, then plays Scrabble on Facebook, drinks tea and says lots of funny, self-deprecating things. He also makes pancakes, though, and it seems Moby and I do not at all see eye to eye on what they should be all about.
The pancakes are whole-wheat flour and oat bran and almond milk and a little baking soda. I think I added some peaches — whatever I have lying around. In winter it’s only frozen fruit. People who are used to IHOP pancakes — big and fluffy — they would be disappointed. I had an ex-girlfriend; when we were breaking up — one of the few endings of a relationship that was a bit contentious — one of her parting shots was having her tell me she never liked my pancakes. I thought that was very cruel. Insult my sexual prowess, my intellect, but not my pancakes.
I will concede the whole-wheat flour and the almond milk and even the peaches, because, you know… he’s Moby after all. But for him to then go ahead and imply that fluffiness is a quality only appreciated by IHOP-frequenting commoners? That’s low, Moby. Real low.