[Note: this entry has been typed on a laptop and may contain spelling mistakes.]
*sounds of hysterical laughter*
Well, here I am on the 29th floor of the Times Square Hilton in a room big enough to hold a cat swinging convention in. But that would be cruel. And I just spent 20 minutes on the phone to tech support in an attempt to get my stupid work laptop to play ball with the hotel’s internet connection, which would be a good point for you to ask why the hell I just spent 20 minutes on the phone to tech support when I could be out there Doing Stuff. And to that I would say two things: firstly, it’s fucking freezing out there and secondly… meh. New York City has never been my favourite US city and if I were here under my own dime I’d have picked the Pacific North West, or those Southern states on the Eastern seaboard – the Carolinas, Georgia. And I’m just not really in the mood. It’s a case of very bad timing. I knew when I was in the ridiculously good mood last week there’d be a good chance of a comedown and here it is… I’d rather be at home wrapped up on the sofa with ice cream and the cat and the telly than Doing Stuff. I can’t be arsed to get myself to a museum or an art gallery. I wandered round Greenwich Village yesterday and today I will go up the Rockefeller Center and do some shopping, and possibly go see Notes on a Scandal since I’m in TImes Square and cinema is stupidly cheap out here. And then I have to go in and work tomorrow. Oh well.
This does mean that I’ve done the major hurdle of business class flying. And it was fab. Completely shut off from fellow passengers, it was the kind of antisocial cocoon I’ve always craved when flying. Even waiting on the tarmac for an hour for the first officer (someone in HR forgot to tell him he was flying our plane, doh) was fine, buoyed as it was by drinks and newspapers. I also now firmly believe that nothing can kill that final hour on a long-haul flight – that final hour of thinking "I’m bored. I’m fucking bored. I need a beer." And sets off on random trains of thought like, do Virgin realise that having "perchance to dream" on their duvets is perhaps not very apt? That wrapping yourself up in something that’s linked to the idea of having nightmares for eternity after death is perhaps not the best way to nod off? People shouldn’t be allowed to use quotes from literature if they don’t know the context.
I also finally got to see An Inconvenient Truth (yes, I am aware of the irony of watching it on a plane) and even though the film ends on an upbeat note saying "hey, there are things we can do!" I still have a sense of terrified doom. I don’t trust politicians to fix this. I’ve taken to wearing my ‘Losing Faith in Humanity One Person at a Time’ badge lately… a few weeks ago Jamie gawped at me saying I don’t want kids, and asked if I didn’t want to hand my genes on. When I stopped laughing at the idea of my genetic makeup being worth passing on (dude; I’m the living embodiment of Murphy’s Law, I’m doing the world a favour by stopping my genetic heritage right here!), I don’t think I’d want to bring a child into the world and then say ‘here you go; everything’ll be fucked up by the time you hit middle age. Enjoy the Apocalypse kiddo, I’ll be senile by then’.
US news programmes are obsessed by Anna Nicole Smith. More so than coverage of who’s running for President in the Democratic Party (in OVER A YEAR’S TIME; no wonder Americans are so turned off by politics, by the time election day comes round they’d be forgiven for thinking it’d already taken place about six months previously with all the coverage). Again, I am not encouraged to think positively about our future.
I went to see John Oliver at a comedy store last night. You may recall me talking about him last year and I’ve been meaning to mention the number of times I’ve accidentally snorted my dinner now he’s on The Daily Show (god bless The Daily Show!). Anyway, I saw an ad for this gig online a few weeks ago and immediately snapped up a ticket. It was this unbelievably swanky comedy store, rather intimidatingly cool – they had European lager on tap; OK, this is good for me as they had three of my favourite beers (Peroni, Stella and Hoegaarden) but did make me think ‘shit, this is a fairly poncy place’ – though it was lovely to be somewhere for entertainment and drinking and not come out reeking of smoke. Just a taster for this summer in Britain, hooray! They also sat the people who’d come on their own together. Ho hum. I had a book with me and was quite happy to drink my Peroni and read my book but no, apparently I had to talk to this guy who’d just moved in from Arkansas. Could have been a lot worse, he wasn’t completely tedious, but you know when you’ve got yourself psyched for some quiet time? Anyway, John Oliver was as hilarious as I knew he would be, and now I have another man to add to my list of ‘looks a bit odd, but I totally would’. Mmm, Steve McManaman…
It is very odd for Bagelmouse to see so many shops called Bagelcafe, Bagelshack, Bagelhouse.
I had pancakes and butter and syrup for breakfast this morning. This is one of my all-time favourite things. Never forget the butter – I understand why that scene in America’s Sweethearts has Julia Roberts calling desperately for more butter. It’s the butter that makes the pancakes fluffy and creamy. Just maple syrup alone won’t cut it. Oh god, it makes me want to do a Meg Ryan in the deli… (a very New York thing to say).
Oh yes; text messages cost about a quid to send from here, so expect telephonic silence until I return. And I seem to be able to bypass work’s protective systems and check my Yahoo email but I don’t know how long I’ll be able to do that for. Ha, I just totally gave the lie to the idea that blogging is for the whole internet and not just one’s friends, didn’t I?!
I am off now to Do Stuff. I may return with frostbitten fingers. (I shouldn’t complain, Cleveland’s going to be about -15 degrees when I’m there.)