Portrait of the Artist as a Snob: A Day in the Life of MobyS

Richard Melville Hall—also known as Moby—is the subject of today's New York Times' "Sunday Routine" column, in which he guzzles açaí juice-almond milk-spirulina smoothies, evangelizes for organic Silver Needle white tea, and fakes Asperger's.

Moby's day begins with a 7 A.M. wakeup.

I have the circadian rhythm of a farmer. I jump around in my apartment to an African disco record from 1976, a compilation. It's bad white guy dancing, and some stretching.

He putters to the kitchen and makes himself an "ugly, dark, purple smoothie":

It's açaí juice, almond milk, frozen bananas, blackberries, spirulina powder and cacao powder. I put it in my crummy blender and make one smoothie.

He also enjoys high-end organic tea, and faking misunderstood genius disease Asperger's.

My favorite tea is organic Silver Needle white tea. I'm a tea purist. I never understood adding sugar or milk to tea. And back when I drank alcohol, I drank straight vodka or tequila. I never liked anything added to them. It might be a function of Asperger's.

You have Asperger's? No. I just like to pretend I do. It makes me sound more interesting.

For all his incessant annoyingness, Moby is at least aware of his flaws.

When I was growing up, I was the most pretentious person I have ever met. I only read obscure books and watched obscure movies and only listened to obscure music. I was into Kant and Wittgenstein in college. Then 10 or 15 years ago, I discovered the joys of trash pulp culture. Anything that's fiction is inherently trashy for me. Mass market fiction. I was reading The First Rule by Robert Crais. It's really fun, plot driven, sort of forgettable. I like thrillers. I still consider it a guilty pleasure.

Then again, is there anything worse than a snob who enjoys regular person stuff under the guise of "trash"? On the other hand, any novelist with a hand in creating our current pop cultural echochamber of procedural justice dramas is, by default, somewhat trashy. And talented. And guiltily pleasurable. Dammit, I just agreed with Moby. [NYT, Pic via Getty]