Tuesday, July 11, 2006


I am convinced that my brain is going to be sporadic and frantic until I land in New York - which is two weeks from tomorrow - and will then continue franticness for some significant time thereafter.

Awesome and I found an apartment. It's in the East Village, but not way over in Alphabet City, and right above Houston - perfect location. It's big. It's clean. I've seen many (hopefully truthful) photographs. It's only for 3 to 6 months because we're doing the 'furnished thing' when we first get back, since the furniture I still possess is in Awesome's dad's house in Dirty Jersey, and also because we don't want to worry about furnishing an apartment the second we return to Manhattan. It's also on the exact same block as one of the bars I frequent that has 2-for-1 Happy Hour until 10pm! Oh. I have priorities.

My flatmate Peter just returned to London after a long absence, and has major plans to be attached at the hip with me until I leave. (Not in that way, you pervert.) So instead of working or packing, I have elaborate plans for the two of us to venture all over London to neighborhoods I've not been to, or have only been for limited amounts of time. Me thinks this week we'll cover the rest of North London because it's the prettiest part. Where else do I need to go before I leave?

Yesterday I went to uni to complete some PhD paperwork. Me thinks this is the last time I will ever have to go there...until January. I was unshowered, wearing shorts, a children's t-shirt, flip-flops, an Abercrombie baseball cap, and aviator sunglasses, when I accidentally ran into one of my students. I talked to her for a good two or three minutes before she even realized it was me. She said, "Oh, I thought you were one of the students! Or, like, somebody's little brother."

My weekend was strangely sporty. But I love how my native London friends play sports: During our boozy Saturday afternoon picnic in Hyde Park, one of my friends retrieved a baseball and bat from his car, and demanded that we all play. Except, all my friends referred to baseball as 'Rounders'. And none of them knew the rules. And the rules that they did know were all wrong. There is a serious problem when I of all people am the only person who knows the rules of a sport. My favorite part of Rounders was that we all carried a glass of champagne while batting, running bases, and fetching the ball. It was like The Alcoholic's Guide to Baseball, and often in slow motion.

Saturday night after watching the Germany vs. Portugal 3rd place game, we frequented some more of my regular Islington yuppie bars. (Speaking of football - how boring was Sunday night's World Cup final?! So boring until penalties...) Around 2am when it started sprinkling on our outdoor table, we decided to call it a night, particularly since we had been sipping wine and champagne in the sun all day. After everyone else got a bus or taxi, I decided to walk home. This was when the sprinkling became a violent downpour. It was hysterical, and one of those Londony moments I will miss. I just kept walking. I passed large clusters of people hiding desperately under bus stops and shop awnings, all staring at the little blond freak casually strolling home in the thunderstorm. I was beyond soaked when I got home but just stood in front of the mirror laughing at myself.

Ryan, my straight boyfriend in New York, was just fabulously hired by Rupert Murdoch to be the new Features Editor of the New York Post. I most certainly plan to be naughty and end up on Page 6 every morning. Thank you. Yesterday, on Ryan's first day, he had to do a random tabloid-y story about Johnny Depp, and interview a straight guy, a straight girl, and a gay guy about Depp's career and sexual prowess. Guess who the gay guy was? I can't wait to read the fluff article in today's paper, at least the online version (um, including the fact that in the article I am outed to all of New York City). Look at me go: I've still got two weeks left in London and my name is already back in a New York newspaper. Heee.

Life seems but a quick succession of busy nothings. - Jane Austen