Wednesday, June 28, 2006

NEW AGE CHIC

I just gave my final UK guest lecture before I move back to New York. Moments before I began my highly motivating, life-altering performance (what?) to a packed room, a prancy girl in a plaid skirt marched to the front row, bent down towards a mousy girl who had been sitting there for at least 20 minutes, and told her, "Sorry, could you get up for a sec?"

The mousy girl rose. Then the prancy girl slid into the seat and stared at the front of the room, completely ignoring her surroundings. The mousy girl was so mortified that she just stood there, staring at the prancy girl. Finally, the prancy girl acknowledged her, and said, "Oh, sorry to leave you standing," and flipped her hair back to face the front of the room.

Again, the mousy girl was so taken aback that she simply collected her things and moved to the back of the room, defeated. I was unable to keep from laughing during the first 10 minutes of my lecture. This prancy girl is my hero. She don't fuck around, man. She sees what she wants and takes it.

In other news, just when I complained about having nothing to do, I made two mega To Do lists, one Pre-Move, the other Post-Move. I now have just enough to keep me busy. Plus, I looked at the due dates for the book chapters I must write during the upcoming months, and two of them are in August - and I've not started researching either of them yet. Woops. This still won't keep me from wandering aimlessly with friends all over London, scouring sewers for miscellaneous change for drinking money.

In even more news, it is absolutely impossible to find an apartment in New York without a broker, especially if you're not physically there. And even if you are there, it helps. During my early 20s I threw away thousands upon thousands of dollars on broker's fees for apartments in Manhattan and Brooklyn. It sucks, but that's just how it works if you want a nice place.

Awesome and I have secured a broker. But, um, her name is Yanni. Yanni. As in the man with the long crimped blond hair who played Live at the Acropolis some years back in front of a crowd of fried Greeks and, presumably, chunky Midwestern middle-aged American tourists. Yanni, as in the man who looks like a deflated, prissy Lord of the Rings character dressed in 1980s lesbian vests, with too much Rave hairspray plastering the yellow mane down his back. I said Yanni. Did you get that? Yanni?

This has, of course, become a regular joke during Awesome's and my multiple phone calls daily, as we now phone each other every two minutes to report everything regarding apartments, employment, insurance, shipping procedures, plane tickets, and everything else that goes with moving.

I'll say, "So have you talked to Enya yet today?" (uncontrollable, cheesy laughter behind two attempted serious voices)
"You know her name is Yanni," he'll scold me, "And yes, I have. She just had lunch with Kenny G." (more uncontrollable, cheesy laughter)
"Well," I'll quip, "If she doesn't find us a place fast, I'm firing that synthesizing bitch and hiring John Tesh instead."

QUOTE OF THE DAY:
I'm an optimist by choice not by stupidity. - Yanni (forever!)