The Week Ahead

Tonight I stay home, to finish my new film treatment for a romantic comedy I'm writing, and to get some rest to tackle the week ahead. I felt feverish at the office today, and if I'm to enjoy myself at all and be productive in the coming days, a night of relaxation is in order.

I that model I met over the weekend. I thought that knowing she snogged another guy might take some of the edge off, but i was nervous as hell, chest beating fast and sweat forming on the brow (though those could all be symptoms of my feverish state), I was almost relieved when it went to the sweet, safety of her voicemail. I did my best to leave a message that didn't make me out to be a tool. We'll see.

Then upon leaving the office, the strangest thing happened. While walking through Soho, I nearly walked right into a tall, reddish blond model who I was almost sure was the girl I'd left a message for less than two hours ago! Maybe I just had her on the brain, but a flicker of eye contact and I didn't slow down, because:

a) I had just left the message a couple of hours before. It was an uncanny coincidence (okay, a model in Soho isn't that bizarre, but still), and might be construed as weird.

b) I wasn't absolutely positive it was her. Last time I'd seen her, I was quite out of it. I was too chicken, for want of a more dignified term, to stop this woman in the street, risking embarrassment if it wasn't her.

So I made it home and wrote while I caught up on Tivo'd episodes of Subterranean, the best music video show in the US. As I finished the treatment to my new RomCom, I ponder what it will take to turn these eleven pages into a full-length feature: how many more scenes, how many more jokes... can I step up and be that funny?

A few hours later, and no call back. Hm. As I said above, we'll see.

A Note on the Guy Code and a Question

An update on last night's craziness. Apparently while I disappeared for half an hour in the bathroom line, the interesting model-looking Canadian girl was seen snogging another guy, possibly Mark, my friend's friend who I might have thought was my mate too. Which raises two questions:

1) If he was the snogger in question, is Mark guilty of breaking the Guy Code? I was definitely talking to her first, though I got the inkling that they might have met before. He was at the very least trying to get with her...

2) If it was her (and three of my friends believe it was), should I write this girl off as a slag/slut and not call her?

Answers Below...

1) No. If he was a close friend of mine and/or I had a real history with this girl, he should have stayed away. But neither of these was the case, so it's every man for himself.

2) Yes. The girl only met me that night, she doesn't owe me anything. If we were out on a date and she kissed someone else, that would be a different story. And she stayed with me way after Mark (or whoever it was) left, and we shared a cab home. Ultimately it's so difficult to meet anyone with even a hint of potential. Not that it's an excuse, but we were all a little drunk.

What do you think? Am I deluding myself more than usual?

In a way, it might be a good thing. I really liked this girl, and was getting a little caught up in the idea of her, making me a little nervous, which could potentially mess up Next Steps. But this little reality check put a spanner in the works which might allow me to Calm The fuck Down and move forward with a little more caution, patience, and, dare I say it... cool.

But either way, Mark is going down. I've already competed with him over another girl. I came out ahead on that one, but quickly lost interest in her. The chase, as they say, is on.

Sabado Gigante

Yesterday was quite mad.

Spent the afternoon trolling thrift stores and Ricky's in search of Halloween costume necessities with friends. Got the key burgundy blazer that will be part of my Ron Burgundy costume. I already bought the mustache earlier in the week. Four of my friends and I will be the Action News Team from Anchorman, one of the most unashamedly funny films of the year.

The late afternoon, early evening was spent with my friend Mack going from art opening to art opening in Chelsea, enjoying free-flowing white wine at each. By the time we got dinner at eight thirty, I'd had five glasses. A great way to start the evening.

Then off to my friend's flat that overlooks the Dakota (see pictures in past posts) for their dog's birthday party. Seriously. I guess I'll take any excuse to drink in mixed company.

A fortuitous invitation later and three of us pile into a car and head to an apartment party downtown, just north of TriBeCa on Canal and Greenwich. My friend's Australian friend was having quite the soiree.

Vast quantities of alcohol later, and it got way too late to meet up with two other girls I was supposed to see. One of them was spending her last night in the city before going back South, and I was really sorry to not meet up with her, not least of which because her name was Kitty. Really.

The definite upside to the night wasn't just the alcohol and illegal substances (for someone who hasn't dabbled in while, I've had a dash each of the last three weekends. Hm. Should I be worried yet?), but the model-like charming girl I spent the better part of three hours chatting with. She was quite interesting, despite being Canadian, and had a great manner about her. quite interesting, but it's way too early to give her an alias here.

I wasn't very happy with Mark, the friend of my friend, who tried to insinuate himself into my conversation with the girl constantly. I was too drunk to get if they knew each other from before, but he was definitely trying to pick her up, and he was surely attempting to cock-block me. I wasn't sure which one of us (if either) she was going to go for, but I got her number and shared a cab home with her... so we'll see.

The only downside to the evening were my tan corduroys. They were dealt a little punishment from red wine, both mine and others'. Despite my dropping them off at the cleaners today, they might not live to see another party.

Back in Action

Now I haven't been updating the blog as much as I'd like, and there are two reasons for this: I've been mad crazy busy, and actually kind of pensive. I've been thinking way too much about a smattering of "important" things such as life, love, work, moving... all the bollocks that was keeping me away from my superficial web entries. I have to do something about that.

But mostly it's jsut that I've been busy. Really. I promise. Seriously.

So anyways, apologies.

Last Night (Sat)

Planned to go see the band TV on The Radio, who were opening up for the Faint at Webster Hall as part of the CMJ Music Festival. Through some moronic time-wasting, we manage to miss the opening band altogether, but at least the Faint offer an original performance. I like going to shows of bands I've never heard, only to be pleasantly surprised. But truth be told, unless I'm a massive fan of a band, I find it difficult to stay gripped for an hour plus of indie music, and before long I'm staring around the venue... i notice two things:

1) Indie rock women are, for the most part, not attractive, except for the odd sexy riot grrrrl.
2) Everybody here is about 19, and I feel eternally old.

After the show, I give into my masculine instincts and watch the Yankees pummel the Red Sox in Boston at an old college dive bar of mine, Shades of Green, on 15th off Irving.

Off to a place I'd sworn off three years ago, Lotus. There are exceptions to every ban, and this night a group of Aussie friends have booked a table. That means free flowing liquor and immediate, smug admittance.

After some illegal/inappropriate debauchery, I need to way my options for an optimum evening. I look around at my friends and their friends... the fittest girls are either married to or dating my friends or their larger countrymen. The only single one is cute, up for the party, and early thirties. As she grinds in front of me (in front, not against, I feel obliged to point out), I consider playing catch up and going for it... but decide to head uptown for my booty call (we need to find a better term than that).

Back in Town

Land in JFK, and immediately have to field calls for film and advertising work. The day feels like hte image below. More to follow in a few days once I get a grip.

Hypocrite

Ina and I have dinner at my cousin Olivia's, two massive plates of Lebanese food (your usual Middle Eastern fare) over a bottle of white wine.

On the way home, the two of us have a drink at a local pub and share our regrets, confusions over our respective love lives. I, for a change, hog the conversation in venting my puzzlement/conflicted emotions over my ex Halie... but Ina takes it all in stride.

A little too much in stride, actually, for before bed, a goodnight kiss leads to another, and... well, so much for my "Scorched Earth" policy.

Scorched Earth

Yesterday morning I pick up Ina, an ex-girlfriend from Iceland at Liverpool Street Station... woke up at 7am and am definitely feeling a little rough. As soon as I see her, I expereince a mix of mild warmth and indifference... not a good sign. She's staying with me for the next three days...

Friday I got a voicemail on my NYC mobile from my more immediate ex, Halie. She was in town and wanted to get together. We hadn't spoken one word since our break-up almost eight months ago. And we're not going to be able to for a while longer, due to the 3,000 miles between London and New York. Nonetheless, hearing her voice made my stomach turn in a knot of vicious uncertainty.

i'm through with ex-girlfriends. Going home is not the solution. I'm adopting a strict "Scorched Earth" policy with exes.

In the meantime, I have to entertain Ina for the next few days... we go to see Wimbledon, a film whose biggest pleasure derives from an Englishman actually winning the great tournament... after that we hit a dinner party in Knightsbridge. An interesting mix of people: actors, journalists, even an ever-so-welcoming host, a history professor that seems from a different era than his 27 years indicate.

We drink wine an try to be merry, while nagging thoughts of the past weave through my brain like snakes slithering through an Indiana Jones trap. People visit the bathrooms regularly for their Columbian pick-me-ups, and all dance like only English people can.

Reaching the Summit

Friday night I go to meet my cousins, Olivia and Charlie, and Charlie’s wife Samantha, who is eight months pregnant. They are all at a bar in South Kensington, the Admiral Cod, celebrating one of their friend’s departure to Australia. The crowd was a complete 180 from the previous night at Gazza’s, comprised of public school graduates (for all you Americans, “public school” is actually, confusingly, used to label expensive, exclusive, private, and usually boarding schools), most now in finance and wearing gold signet rings and clothes their grandparents would have been comfortable in. They all come with the usual smattering of interesting names and nicknames, including an appropriately tiny young woman who introduces herself as “Mouse.”

Now, Samantha is 24 and the first of my friends of our generation to be pregnant. I can’t overstate the effect that seeing her, chatting to Charlie, and taking it all in, had on me. After recently dealing with some ex-girlfriend issues/questions (the girl I might have had a child with, had things gone a little differently), seeing Samantha in all her glowing, girthy glory was quite a “thing.” And seeing her voluminous belly didn’t compare to when I actually touched it (the “Summit”, indeed). Though the boy (for they already know its gender) wasn’t kicking or moving in any perceivable way, the heat, the feeling, the very life I felt beneath my fingertips was quite awesome. So I handled the rest of the night the only way I know, by consuming a dozen pints and hitting on all of Samantha’s attractive friends.

Chasing the Night

Tonight begins as all good ones should, with a couple of bottles of wine over dinner with friends and family. Sufficiently primed, my cousin Ken and my friend Caitlin head over to a local pub. The Feeney Arms is another victim of the trendy-ization of pubs into lounges or, god forbid, wine bars. I say “vistim,” though I’m usually quite happy to see the death knell of the dour, dark, dank (how’s that for alliteration?) British pubs, one of the most depressing locales on this earth.
At the Feeney, we meet a few of Caitlin’s old work friends who are visiting from New York, yet although quite pleasant, carry little of the sophistication living in that city demands. Throughout our chats, I seem to find myself staring at the not-unimpressive spare tire (a tire off a monster big wheel, perhaps?) on Caitlin’s friend’s husband.
I head, alone, to the center of London to meet up with David at an after hours bar/club. “After-hours” here means anything after 11pm, which is quite sad. I have a beer at “Gazza’s Underground Rock Party” while I wait for David to show up. I note two things: waiting alone in a bar is no fun at all, and “underground” seems to be code for “dirty, smelly, raggedly-dressed trustafarians.”

Obsessed

When my behavior takes a turn for the extreme, I'm the first to admit it. My usual level of hedonistic indulgence is a an expected norm by now, but once in a while...

I'm visiting my parents here in Antibe, near Cannes, for a couple of days. Just Monday morning through Wednesday evening. I don't know anybody in my age range here and my French is minimal. When I go for more than 48 hours without flirting with someone or having a night out with friends, I tend to not function properly.

At the beaches in France, many of the women sunbathe topless. This is a fact I have witnessed since I was seventeen, at least. It was important then, in an adolescent way, to look, if not stare. But now I am a man of twenty-six, and I still can't help but take a gander and smile slyly to myself.

My libido is momentarily back under control after I receive a text from a prospective Girl in London. And this after we met Saturday, before I had a chance to contact her...

Down To the South of France

Wake up at 345am, splash my face with water, pull on clothes and out the door. Take cab to Victoria Station. Take Gatwick Express to (you guessed it) Gatwick Airport. Take Easyjet (hm) to Nice. Wait for fifteen minutes for parents to pick me up. Drive twenty minutes to Antibe. Get royal tour of new house. Walk to beach a block away. Jump in water with shorts and underwear...

...and finally. As my body adjusts to the chilly, but defnitely pleasant October Cote d'Azur water, all my tension and stress dissolves like the cheap suntan lotion coming off the locals.

Aaaaah... Antibe.

Result

Icelandic Ex-girl just bought her ticket to come visit me here in London next Saturday for a couple days. Last time I saw her, she had a boyfriend, but we still... had fun. So that's a little relief then, the weekend sorted.

Together with the interesting people I met last night, should make London quite interesting indeed.

Bugger...

...I have to wake up at 345 a.m. tomorrow morning, in order to get to Gatwick to fly to Antibe on time. Who was the idiot who booked a 610 a.m. flight? Oh, right, me. This is why I need a personal assistant.

Night On the Town

It's approaching ten and I'm getting antsy. There are a lot of plans, but they're all hovering, flittering around like fireflies, fairies refusing to be locked down.

But then comes the text, and I'm off, taking a bus up through London, north towards Picadilly, Soho, and beyond. By the time I arrive at Charing Cross Road a half hour later, I push my way through the sea of inebriated detritus. It's quite a shock for a New Yorker (I'm from London, but living in Gotham makes me a New Yorker) to see so many drunks at the early hour of ten-thirty, save for special days such as St. Patty's or July Fourth.

I make my way to meet my friend Caitlin, who just recently moved here from New York. Her American/Irish name is intially invariably misheard/mispronounced by all in the UK ("Please to meet you, Catherine" being the most usual butchering).

We saunter off together to wonderful bunch of gay friends of hers, and they ply us with good chat and good drinks as I unwind from the travelling and bustling of the week. But after an hour and a half or so, an interesting conversation about fisting later (I maintained that it wasn't strictly a gay thing, obviously) we must leave our gracious hosts, and head to...

...a wrap party for my friend's play, that he'd helped produce near St. Martin's school of Fashion in Holborn. I honestly couldn't tell you the name of the production, but I had known David since we were both born in the same hospital two weeks apart, and he's always been one for an interesting, if not exciting, night.

Now sometimes (i.e. most of the time) my favorite parties are not those filled with glam (really) celebrities (really), or models (okay, maybe that one is essential), but house parties of a few close friends. All right, so this house party was in a flat in Clerkenwell, and apart from David, I knew no one save for Caitlin, but all the girls there (and there were quite a few, though many taken) were cute to gorgeous and there was a variety of alcoholic beverages floating around.

I was introduced to people with names like Fergus and Georgina (You think her father expected a boy, and then just decided to add a couple of letters at the end?) and quickly went from red wine to straight vodka, with an unwise backstep to beer (but it was Becks, which I love, and there was no other booze).

I eyed the gorgeous girl I was chatting to, and over to my new friends making group trips to the bathroom, coming out rubbing their noses, and wondered if I had a stab at either. I decided on stimulating chat with the girl over stimulants of other varieties.

Before I knew it, I looked at my mobile and realized it was almost four a.m. Not bad for someone who had just flown in that morning. Still, after exchanging numbers with the girl and tentative plans for later in the week, I decided not to push my luck.

An opportune night bus later, a raiding of the fridge at my World's End home, and I'm cosily ensconced in my bed.

Aaaaaaah... London.

Maybe it's Because I'm a Londoner...

...that I'm so glad to be back, I set out willy-nilly out of my house in Chelsea's World's End, just for a jaunt around the neighborhood, with little care for the predictable drizzle that quickly turns to rain. Of course, I have no umbrella, and istead look up into the grey skies and embrace the inevitable. Home.

JFK Twice in three days

Scramble to get everything ready for the London/Antibe trip today, calling manager in LA, emailing agent in London, nearly insulting a very fetching actress in the process… Find/create/force a break long enough to head down to Soho’s Adidas Originals shop to buy three pairs of these. Three pairs too many, you ask? Well, they come in two colors, and the extra white with burgundy trim are a birthday present for my father in Antibe. Besides, they came out today, one shipment only, and then they’re gone, the most limited of limited editions.

I rush home and thrown everything in my bags, realize some things are just too big to take (traveling light is a point of pride for me), pack too many gadgets and cables, way too many toiletries (do I really need the blue algae face scrub?)… and still make the town car wait fifteen minutes.

On the way to JFK, I sit in the back, antsy over my LA agent (we’re not on the same page – might be time to make new alliances) and a few points on my advertising project I’m working on. Plus I’m convinced that we’ll be stuck in traffic and I’ll have to haul arse to the plane.

I arrive at the terminal with time to spare, and am ushered through check-in and security in record time. Now I have enough time to waste writing this entry. Hm, still feeling a little antsy (when have I not felt antsy? Oh, right, when I had her in my arms), but a few mobile chats with some film executive friends in LA suggesting some very interesting possible new agents kneads a little tension away.

As I look out over the tarmac, at the planes coming and going, I am filled with that sense of excitement and adventure that I feel every time I’m about to embark on a journey. Even though I’ve lived in London and been back and forth dozens of times, my native city always offers up a few surprises here and there… plus there’s Antibe, jewel of the South of France and home of the late, great author Graham Greene.

It’s about time to live up to the name and motto above. Manhattan gets a nine day break, but stay tuned for Wanderlust’s (really mini) Tour of Europe!