It’s kind of weird, but it’s easier to picture myself living in London than New York. London seems to have that cheerfully indifferent personality, or a slightly befuddled magnanimy; New York is all “Out of my way!” and “You snooze you lose!”

I was standing on the sidewalk late last night having a beer with my friend Dule. We were at Compton’s of Soho, one of the oldest gay pubs in London. I remember how shocking it was, when I came here ten years ago, to see people drinking outside, or see them with a can of Foster’s on the train. I also remember how shocking it was that most pubs closed at 11. Anyhow it was cool to hang out with Dule a little, odd to see him in London. He’s staying with his friend Tony and his partner James. Tony is an American who was over here for work/study a few years ago, met James; last year they got married (actually a civil partnership) and he moved to London. 

Saw another museum yesterday, Surreal Objects exhibit at the V & A, very cool. Wandered around a lot with my iPod and, yes, rode on the upper half of a double-decker bus. Not sure yet what’s up today. Happy Easter. 
  

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Way too much going on to keep up. Here’s a few details.

Yesterday had a delightful lunch at a little Russian tea room near Chalk Farm station and then walked up Primrose Hill, could see all of London. Abbey Road crosswalk was nothing but tourists disrupting traffic by trying to get the perfect photo. Still great to have seen it though. Everyone loved South London Pacific. Damn good drinks. It was everything I wanted it to be. We had Thai for dinner. As many Thai restaurants here as in Chicago.

Suffice it to say that I found the actual store of Soul Jazz Records today in Soho and it was supremely cool (but none of the Esther Phillips that Andy’s looking for). Went to other music stores and picked up great stuff for cheap, cheap, cheap.

Bedtime now. The weather has been gorgeous here; all the clothes I packed are too warm.

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Hey everyone! Be sure to add

[info]robaji to your friends lists! He’s just joined the high-speed net revolution.

Way too much to write about here. Suffice to say that I visited the actual store or Soul Jazz Records here in Soho 
and it was wonderful. Went to some others too and found some great stuff.

Had delightful lunch yesterday at a little Russian tea room near the Chalk Farm station and then walked up Primrose Hill,
could see all of London. Everyone loved South London Pacific. It was everything I had hoped it would be. Damn good drinks.

Bedtime now. Weather has been gorgeous by the way; all the clothes I packed are too warm.

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Just waking up. Slept like a log. Sven’s flat is very cozy; its best feature is the small gas-burning burning fireplace (which is very close to the bed), ensuring that you don’t freeze, and its worst feature is the shower, the two temperature settings being either scalding or freezing. When it comes to shaving, I’ll have to be creative (.e. no shaving in the shower). His flat is incredibly convenient to everything and less than a ten-minute walk from Kentish Town station. 

Might as well get the bad news out of the way. My flight to Manchester was late in arriving and I only just BARELY made the connecting flight to London. My suitcase was not so lucky. It didn’t make it. When I got to the baggage claim and it failed to turn up, I had to fill out a claim, was told the bag would be coming in on a later flight, and that they’d give me a ring on my cell phone when they found it and then deliver it to my flat. Jut peachy, except that my cell phone was completely out of juice despite having charged it just before I got to the airport. Long story short, I am borrowing an “old” cell phone of my friend Joe’s girlfriend, which works perfectly, and last night at 10 o’clock (I kid you not) the airline dropped off my suitcase at Joe’s flat. THIS is EXACTLY why it’s good to have friends when you visit here. Because these foul-ups are always likely to happen.

The good news. My jet lag was almost nonexistent. I did start getting a little sleepy in the afternoon but then I got a second wind. I stayed up till 10.30 and this morning feel great. Joe and his girlfriend Mary-Ann are absudly hospitable. I’d been at their flat for less than two hours when Mary-Ann popped into the kitchen “to make a spot of lunch.” It turned out to be roast lamb with herbs, sauteed mushrooms and celery, roasted potatoes, and carrots. They were both very enthusiastic about the Intellientsia coffee. They asked me to make it so they could watch (they have a French press) and Joe said, “Oh my, looks lke I’ve been aking weak coffee all this time.”

After hanging out all afternoon with Joe I met up with Colin, who’s a Scottish pen pal of mine who happened to be in London visiting friends. We met for a drink at Trader Vic’s in the Park Lane Hilton. Very elegant, wonderfully comfortable, A Mai Tai each, and I cannot convey how soothing it was. It was kind of embarassing me having to ask him to keep repeating himself; his Scottish burr is very thick. We took the tube to Covent Garden and wandered around. It was absolutely packed. We settled on having dinner at  nice-looking random Thai restaurant in Leicester Square called the Thai Pot. It was pricey (naturally) but pretty decent I have to say. Nice portion sizes too. Colin’s Diet Coke was woefully flat and cost $3.50 however.

I persuaded Joe to go to South London Pacific tonight and he’s asked a bunch of his friends to come too. None of them, including Joe, has any idea of what “tiki” is, so yesterday I put Martin Denny on my iPod and gave him a Tiki 101. They don’t go to south London much either so that will be just as exotic.

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Five hours until I leave for the airport. Got my fingers crossed. Had I the time and patience to enumerate the many, many ways in which my workplace is so thoroughly screwed up …

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David Byrne’s Malaysian Childhood.

MY MALAYSIAN CHILDHOOD
by David Byrne, from his book Strange Ritual

When far from home, the New Yorker or Los Angelino, feeling a pang of homesickness, may desire Thai food rather than his or her indigenous corn on the cob and Jello. With so many of our cultures being made up of bits and pieces of other cultures, our sense of self becomes confused with our sense of the “others” who have joined us. The Parisian may long for an evening out at an African nightclub when visiting America. The Japanese visiting Burma may long for McDonald’s or fresh spaghetti. Are our changing palettes a taste of what is to come? Will we eventually imagine ourselves as someone else and appropriate their history, their tragedies, their manners and foibles? Will our identities become so thoroughly confused that what was once our original “base” culture recedes to a dwindling remnant? We are they and they are we. Will we dream of imagined childhood in Dakar? Of lost loves and departed friends in Malaysia? Will our consciousness be a complete pastiche? A patchwork of sounds, smells, and tastes–colonized by whatever attracts us? By delicious foods, sensuous textures, and beautiful men and women? Will we be consumed by our favorite things? Will we miss the smells and dust we never experienced? Will the “exotic” eventually become so commonplace, so much a part of our culture, that the word will become meaningless? Will the old Europe, the old America, be the new exoticism? It is already, isn’t it?

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Things are shaping up nicely. If I can just get through 2 more days of inane work at my job everything will be peachy.

Last night

 came over and we finished watching the first season of “Twin Peaks.” The Season 2 boxed set shipped yesterday so it’ll be waiting for me when I get back from London. I was a bit stoned last night (OK, really really stoned) but wow, what a brilliant show. Still feel that way even after these years. Every actor, every part. I found that I knew entire sequences by heart, every line of dialog. And an aspect I was really fixated on last night: the production design. All sorts of interesting, quirky touches. Knickknacks, colors, fabrics. I still disagree with Andy: Bobby was hotter than James.

I’ve loaded up the new iPod wonderfully and will have a ton of great music to take with me. Within a few days of getting there I’ll be scouring the record shops of Soho for Really Interesting Music I Probably Don’t Need But Will Buy Anyway. On a sad note, I came across the website of the original Reckless Records of Soho and saw that they’ve announced that they’re closing forever. In fact, a liquidation sale is already underway. Probably by the time I’m able to stop by their stocks will be gutted, but I’ll still go. At least Soul Jazz is still there. I will miss the physical act of browsing for music in a store. Doesn’t mean I won’t get music from online, but I don’t like it.

Earlier this week I bought a matinee ticket in the nose-bleed seats for the Maggie Smith play. Excited. I can blather on and on about the trip but it’s time to finally have a shower and get dressed.

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I saw that Morrissey and Bjork are both doing shows at the Auditorium in May within three days of each other. 

*Insert witty observation here*

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O no. I’m getting sleepy. Desperately crave a nap. Office environment unstimulating. 

Please, Jackie McLean, help me stay awake. I need to go to the gym after work. Must. Resist. Nap.

Reading these days? Currently it’s Holly Woodlawn’s autobiography A Low Life in High Heels. Trashy/fabulous. I checked out two books from the library to take with me on the trip: a Patricia Highsmith novel and a David Toop book on “exotica” music.

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What do you think? Should I book a Saturday matinee ticket for $30?

Dame Maggie Smith in Edward Albee’s The Lady from Dubuque

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