Thursday, January 26, 2006


I fucking love London. So much. From the second I groggily push my way through crowds of map-toting confused tourists at Heathrow, I immediately remember how entranced I was with this devilish city the first time I came here so many years ago. It's fantastic to be back, and even more fantastic to know it's the city that's now most Home to me. When I turned on my mobile, a barrage of voicemails from my Brit pals errupted into my ears, each of them welcoming me back.

Confession: I go to an Old Man Barber. It is impossible to fuck-up my hair. No matter how you cut it, it's going to stand up straight, poofed-up, thick, and at-attention. I mean, c'mon - I'm Southern - my follicles compose what looks like a giant blond dandelion, and chances are I will never be bald (here's hoping, anyway). Most men must gel or wax their hair to make it stand up; I smear Paul Mitchell wax through my hair to calm it down. More than once I have asked my mother if she conceived me with a black afro'd milkman. I've been to the foo-foo-shi-shi salons in Soho where you sip champagne while your flamboyant hair artiste sculpts your 'do. I've been to both the Vidal Sassoon and Toni & Guy Acadamies; I left both these places feeling like runway model roadkill, and ran immediately back to my Old Man Barber and had him shave off the Edward Scissorhands-esque calamity that my hair had become. At my Old Man Barber, the three dudes who are there daily know what the hell they're doing, and they don't need to take a break to read Cosmo and have a fag halfway through my haircut.

So anyway, when I walked into my Old Man Barber this afternoon, horribly jetlagged from the eight (8) hour time difference (I cannot sleep on airplanes and can rarely take afternoon naps), one of the Old Man Barbers asked, "You want the usual, mate?" I smiled, shook my head Yes, and collapsed in the chair. And now I have an adorable new haircut that allows me to look 15 again instead of an exhausted, floppy-headed old twentysomething.

Last summer when I returned to London after a 2.5 month absence, everything was different. My gym had quite literally burned down to the ground. All the city libraries in which I research were under construction. Even my own flat was undergoing many DIY changes. And I hadn't given anything or anyone permission to change! This time, though, after being gone a little over a month, everything seems to have magically remained the same. My flatmate Peter greeted me with open arms and then presented me with chocolates and gossip. I have the best flatmate ever, for so many many reasons.

Naturally, after changing climates from London-NYC-Dallas-San Fran-(back to)London during the past month, not to mention dramatically changing water supplies, I have been waiting for my body to crash. So now I've got a bit of a cold. I was actually waiting for illness to overtake me, but with any luck, this won't last long. Peter, who does not drink, also has a bit of a cold. So, tonight before I crawled into bed, we toasted each other with a shot of Night Nurse, which is quite ceremonious as I'm sure this will be the only time we share shooters. Which is only fitting since the disgusting licorice flavour of Night Nurse is reminiscent of Jagermeister. Now the Night Nurse is really combining with my jetlag and I'm totally drifting...

I already miss Awesome terribly. But I am veddy veddy glad to be back. I cannot fucking wait to go play all over Londonia all weekend.

Why, Sir, you find no man, at all intellectual, who is willing to leave London. No, Sir, when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford. - Samuel Johnson