Foul Mood
Last week, for any number of reasons, felt very very long. This week flew by. Lots has happened. The article (which is 10,000 words now, cut down from 15,000) will be really truly submitted Monday or Tuesday. I'm very, very overdrawn from my American bank account because my paycheck got lost in the mail. Yes, lost in the mail. I'm getting charged $23 a day in fees.I had made a plan to call KT's cell phone during my high school reunion, which was yesterday. And I just forgot. I had been thinking about it earlier in the day, and then I just forgot. I'm feeling retarded.
You know what? I'm in a foul mood. I'm kind of not in the mood to write here right now. Oddly, I've been not in the mood to write here all week. Shall we catalog more disappointments? The proms started, with me never having written my preview. Probably won't write that tomorrow either, what with having to laser-print the article at Kinko's, and wait in line at the Apple Store Genius (fucking) Bar since my laptop battery still wont work. Oh and the L'ist people found and read this blog, including the post in which I say "I have no qualifications or justification for writing for the Londonist," which was awkward. (You see why I use pseudonyms? If I'd just called it only the "popular London website" and left it at that, then they never would have found it. As it is, it's like the second thing that comes up if you search "Londonist Greg")
There have been some good things, including a nice night with the cool girl on my fellowship -- we went to this wonderful restaurant, and then a genderfuck cabaret in Hackney, which was okay. I got a wonderful, reassuring, invigorating letter from the Advisoress. I met the Londonist kids, and they're (as expected) very cool. I went to XXL ("the world's largest bear disco") which was fun, but maybe not as fun as I thought it would be. (Yes, that means I went home alone, but may mean more than that.) In any case, I think my tolerance for house music is actually declining.
D— and his friend were here from New York, and then they left, and now they're coming back, but I may have to ignore them, with so many other things to do. While there were here before we had a good time, but they managed to literally run me ragged -- I was destroyed physically.
Today, I'm off to a garden party at the home of the ex of the wonderful American R— (the prematurely-shacking-up one). The gay drama involving R—, his sort-of ex, the ex's new sort-of boyfriend, and the cast of thousands which are also implicated, is both impossibly complicated, and oddly tiresome. Thus, the garden party this afternoon may be some sort of Pimm's-soaked Melrose Place with accents. In which case I may have to run away.
You know what? I'm in a foul mood. I'm kind of not in the mood to write here right now. Oddly, I've been not in the mood to write here all week. Shall we catalog more disappointments? The proms started, with me never having written my preview. Probably won't write that tomorrow either, what with having to laser-print the article at Kinko's, and wait in line at the Apple Store Genius (fucking) Bar since my laptop battery still wont work. Oh and the L'ist people found and read this blog, including the post in which I say "I have no qualifications or justification for writing for the Londonist," which was awkward. (You see why I use pseudonyms? If I'd just called it only the "popular London website" and left it at that, then they never would have found it. As it is, it's like the second thing that comes up if you search "Londonist Greg")
There have been some good things, including a nice night with the cool girl on my fellowship -- we went to this wonderful restaurant, and then a genderfuck cabaret in Hackney, which was okay. I got a wonderful, reassuring, invigorating letter from the Advisoress. I met the Londonist kids, and they're (as expected) very cool. I went to XXL ("the world's largest bear disco") which was fun, but maybe not as fun as I thought it would be. (Yes, that means I went home alone, but may mean more than that.) In any case, I think my tolerance for house music is actually declining.
D— and his friend were here from New York, and then they left, and now they're coming back, but I may have to ignore them, with so many other things to do. While there were here before we had a good time, but they managed to literally run me ragged -- I was destroyed physically.
Today, I'm off to a garden party at the home of the ex of the wonderful American R— (the prematurely-shacking-up one). The gay drama involving R—, his sort-of ex, the ex's new sort-of boyfriend, and the cast of thousands which are also implicated, is both impossibly complicated, and oddly tiresome. Thus, the garden party this afternoon may be some sort of Pimm's-soaked Melrose Place with accents. In which case I may have to run away.
posted by Grrg at 2:23 PM
4 Comments:
Greg - if you weren't good enough for Londonist, I wouldn't have made the effort to recruit you. You bring a touch of class to the Londonist Music Dungeon, so chin up, old chap, we're very happy to have you on board.
Ken
Kinko's in England. This strains the imagination, what with the reputation of the British for being efficient and Kinko's's's primary function in the U.S. as a shrine to incompetence, torpor, and defiance of any reasonable expectation that four people behind a counter should be able to make a photocopy within half an hour.
G
G: Have you not been reading this blog for the past nine months? Efficiency!? The British?! Are you kidding?!
So I went to Kinko's. It was 6:00.
Me: "how late are you open?"
Kinko's Lady: "8:00."
Me: "I need to print something out."
Kinko's Lady: "We could have it done by 9am tomorrow."
Me: "Why can't you do it now?"
Kinko's Lady: "There's no one here to do it."
So you see, Kinko's is the same here. Except they apologize less for the bad service. Did I mention that my paycheck is still lost in the mail?
Ken: I was only afraid that you wouldn't understand actual self-doubt from ironic self-deprecation, as people who know me well would, reflexively.
Greg - self-deprecation we definitely do on this side of the pond, fret not. Just wanted to make sure...
Oh, shall I tell Euan or should you?
Ken
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