Salome

Just got home from a showing of Alla Nazimova's Salome at BFI Southbank as part of the Birds Eye View Festival. Well, that's not something you see every day. A 1920s silent film based on an Oscar Wilde play with costumes inspired by Aubrey Beardsley and a beautiful, feared young woman (played by a 40-something 'lesbian Hollywood icon') dancing about in a crazed way asking for a head on a plate. PLUS Bishi and band live, playing a specially composed score with singing and all kinds of instruments, from a keyboard that sounded like a cinema organ to sitars. Or something like sitars. What do i know? (Although the wonders of YouTube mean that, like half a million others, i can watch Ravi Shankar showing George Harrison how to play sitar.)
The whole experience was extraordinary. The film is a camp, stylised, fantastical spectacle while the music was stirring, at times hectic, at times haunting. Bishi herself has an amazing presence and her final sashay across the stage was a jollier ending to the evening than Salome's ritualised spearing by soldiers. A good time was had by all - except for an older gent who was in a fury because Bishi was blocking his view of the screen. 'We didn't come to see you!' he shouted at her at the end, which wasn't all that gentlemanly.

The coming of sound

I'm researching the end of the silent era in British cinema. Last week I went on a tour of the archive at the National Media Museum in Bradford, where they run a free tour most lunchtimes.

The curator showed us a lot of fascinating materials but everyone seemed to get more excited when we went in this room full of large equipment. He kindly pointed out, for my benefit, this camera from the early years of sound. Because the cameras were noisy, the moving parts were enclosed in 'blimps' as you can see here. The blimp would have been pulled down during use.

I reckon this is stage two of development. In stage one, the cameraman and the camera were in a sweaty booth and couldn't move. It made for some pretty static films for a while. Don't ask me how long... haven't got the timeline down pat yet.

Writers' Rooms

I live in a lovely, picturesque part of north London called Finsbury Park, and my study is at the back of the house. From here I can hear the crowd a-roaring when Arsenal play at home, which would certainly make me think of my famous uncle, if I had one. I like to gaze out of the windows at the wildlife, which is why there is a bird book on the desk. What a distraction from the work of writing my next novel! But I like to think the old subconscious is still ticking away while I check out the tits. The desk itself I picked up years ago in a junkshop on the Holloway Road. It's supposed to have belonged to Kierkegaard and it does make me rebel against Hegelianism when I sit at it. Oh no, wait a minute, this one came from Ikea. Well it's all the same part of the world.

I am always cold in here, hence the throw, which came from a little shop in Kilburn in my student days when we were all bisexual and never had more than a guinea to rub together. The boiler broke down and forced me to buy this blanket - prior to that we all slept under our coats in one big bed. It reminds me of hard times, which is important, I think. Oh gosh, silly me, there's a British Home Stores label on this. I must be thinking of the one in my other study, in that charming little house over on the Heath where the landlady has been letting that room to me for two and six since 1927. If only I could remember where it was.

The postcard on the top drawer of the filing cabinet is an invitation to a book launch from the wonderful graphic memoirist Alison Bechdel. I couldn't go but I like everyone to know I was invited. Unfortunately in this picture you can't quite see the bust of Karl Marx which is on loan from Highgate Cemetery while I write his biography.

Oh wait, my partner's just come in to tell me that we live in a rather common neighbourhood, my room is a tip and no one wants to read what I write, not even in the Guardian. I'd get quite cross with him if he wasn't a Nobel Peace Prize–winning conflict resolution expert.

What's wrong with movies

I am returning to my blog. i have many many things to say to the world and prefer not to leave my house. these conditions are perfect for blogging.

First up, let us examine what is WRONG AND BAD at the movies just now, and in particular what is wrong with relatively good films.

1. Corny endings are alive and well.

[Wrestler/ Slumdog SPOILER ALERT]

Tonight i saw The Wrestler. It had some cliches but that didn't stop me loving it because Mickey Rourke as Randy was believable and sympathetic and the whole film was so watchable.

Then we get to the end and the lapdancer wants the ageing wrestler to stop fighting, she wants to take him to her heart, but he just can't do it because the rules of the ring and the adoration of the fans are the only thing he can do well. AND IT'S ALL SPELT OUT.

I wouldn't mind if she came running through the door just as he was going onstage, called out his name and he went on anyway, i could live with that. But they stand there having the fricking conversation, making sure that even the most stupid person in the audience has definitely got the point.

Then, and perhaps less pertinently, Slumdog Millionaire. I will set aside the fact that this film is being sold as 'feelgood' and it made me feel so bad that i had to drink brandy when i got home, which last happened to me after Pulp Fiction. No, what concerns me here is that the girl and boy meet at the station at the end and have to say 'It is our destiny to be together' as if we couldn't work that crappy message out for ourselves. Then they all do a dance.

I do realise this is a Bollywood thing but it's not a Bollywood movie, it already had a lot wrong with it, and then it just got worse. Next time i want to see someone getting his eyes poked out, i'll go to King Lear. At least i know i'm allowed to feel bad at the end.

2. Women characters are excised from the story.

Well this is hardly news either, but it just keeps happening and so i'm going to keep mentioning it.

Milk is one of the best films i've ever seen in my life. But i'm sure the San Francisco gay rights movement wasn't started, run and supported by hundreds of gay men plus THREE dykes of three hues, one of whom got to work with the guys and the other two of whom stood behind them at demonstrations.

As for Slumdog, it's a while since i read the novel ('Q&A' by an Indian diplomat called Vikas Swarup who is rarely mentioned in discussion of the film - you'd think Simon Beaufoy had made it all up as soon as he finished thinking up Full Monty). But what i do remember is that there were at least two more female characters of significance: a lawyer to whom the boy told his true story when she gained his trust, and an ageing actress.

In the film, we have only the girl, victim of terrible circumstances, who has to be rescued by her prince again and again.

Are audiences really so dim that they can't follow or enjoy a film if there are any strong women to distract them from the most important point, ie that the hero has to rescue a disempowered woman (or get off with a lapdancer) by the end?

How many pairs?

How many pairs of grey trousers does a person need? I am considering this question, as you may guess, not for purely philosophical reasons but because i have a bag by the door of trousers to return to H&M. Because on Friday I had a fabulous field day in the Covent Garden branch of this store, where I tried on about 24 items of clothing and bought about half of them.

But the delight wore off when I got home and tried them all on again. The shirts, the straw hat, the neckerchief, the flip-flops (yes yes I am going on a Mediterranean holiday)... these all seemed useful and delightful. But then when I tried on the three-quarter length grey trousers, the full-legged grey linen trousers and the multi-pocketed khaki shorts, I started to see a pattern. Yes, every time I go shopping (which is not often), I come home with cotton trousers in the latest neutral shades.

I checked thro' my wardrobe and was horrified to see that I have four dead pairs of grey or khaki trousers (stained or faded to the point where they are only for decorating or gardening, which I never do). Plus two nice pairs of active grey trousers in use and two of khaki (one full, one three-quarter).

WHEN WILL IT END? I am very happy with one of the new pairs and am wearing it right now. But the other two pairs are by the door with a beach towel and are going back to the shop. I did ask my girlf Jane how many pairs of grey trouser I need. She said, 'About the same as me with dance shoes.' She was on the phone in the ballroom at Blackpool Tower at the time. Possibly not the most reliable source of advice.

Traffic lights

I was driving everyone home in the dark tonight after a fundraising meeting for Transfabulous when we approached these traffic lights at a roundabout in the concrete jungle that is Docklands.

I stopped the car and asked my passengers, Serge, Jason and Jamie: 'What the f*ck is that?' Two of them knew it was a sculpture. Apparently it's famous. As a new driver, I can only say it is the most frightening thing I have come across for some time, which is saying something in London. I had no idea which was my light.

Watching Newsnight Review

I'm watching Newsnight Review and eating Jarlsberg. Living in London has its compensations. The first is that the heavy metropolitan bias in arts reviewing makes it highly relevant to me. In the past week I have walked past the cinema that has been turned into a theatre to show the play of Brief Encounter ('Not the film - the play' as it says on the film posters outside) and set out to go to the new show at Tate Modern but failed to get there, distracted as I was by trying on clothes - in every store on Oxford Street - that I might have worn in 1982 and rejecting them because... I already wore them in 1982.

Both these shows have just been critiqued on Newsnight Review and it appears that I should have gone to them instead of thinking about them. And will do so at earliest opp. Don't you wish you were on that programme? Getting paid to watch TV (in this case, the new series Mad Men about ad execs in 1960s New York) and tell the whole country (or a few hundred thousand of them) what you think? Having said that, I do get paid to tell people what I think of 5 books a month and it pretty much wrings all delight out of reading.

Fluuuuu

So, i've had flu since Boxing Day. No one wants to blame their friends for the bad things that happen in their lives but basically, as soon as Mich got here on Xmas Eve, she noticed she was going down with something. And 48 hours later, Jane and i started to compare symptoms.

Like:
'Do you feel weird?'
'Yes, I feel a bit weird.'
'Do you feel weak?'
'Yeah, and dizzy.'
'Do you ache all over?'
'Oh god, this can only mean one thing.'

And since then we've been sleeping as much as the cat, watching crap on telly and competing for who is less sick and therefore required to put out the bins or stumble to the end of the road to buy bread. Normal rules do not apply. We keep calling each other rude names and while watching Antiques Roadshow, started throwing grapes at each other. I just managed to stop Jane from throwing a grape at the cat. That's how far this has gone.

But on the bright side, if i can prop myself up for long enough tonight to have this whinge, maybe tomorrow i can DO SOME WORK. Isn't that what the Christmas break is supposed to be all about? Working without interruption?

Xmas Eve

Miu-Miu decided that it was better to stay upstairs when people were carousing. I thought she might decide that, so I kept her corner of the bed free from coats. And that's where she sat, until she couldn't wait any longer and came down for kibble. That's what it's called in America. But what is it called here? Dry food. DRY FOOD. How unimaginative is that? Or cat biscuits, which is not very precise. It sounds like dog biscuits, but a dog biscuit is surely a big thing shaped like a bone, similar in some ways to a biscuit that a person might eat with a cup of tea. In what ways? Well: it's a treat, it has a biscuity texture... that's all.

Anyway, we asked a few people round whom we knew were in London for Xmas and we fed them with chilli, pilaf, sherry trifle and chocolate cake, most of which was made by Jane. I'm scared to even write about this in case someone who wasn't invited gets offended. I feel really hemmed in by this blog. I can't write stupid things in case a potential client thinks i'm too daft to work for them; i can't write serious things in case it gets boring and as soon as i write about food i feel like it's turning into something else entirely. May as well go to bed.

Hope you enjoyed this seasonal festive cheer.
h x

Bouncy castle

Some might think that a bouncy castle at a children's party in December would be a foolish venture. But i would say to them: You clearly weren't at my nephews' joint birthday party today where just such a castle was erected on the shared green in front of the house and where 22 children bounced in temperatures at least 4 degrees above freezing until the air was let out and they were told to hunt for gold chocolate coins instead.

This proved an easy way to direct their activities: castle on, they bounce; castle off, they run or eat.

After their birthday tea, during which they sat on the kitchen floor on cushions like as many well-behaved elves, the children set up an eerie chant of 'Bouncy Castle' and the attraction was re-inflated with the flick of a switch.

One of the mothers suggested it might be even more useful if the children themselves could be inflated and deflated in a similar fashion. But not being a parent myself, it would be inappropriate for me to comment.

Fawlty Towers lives

Last night Jane and I stayed in one of the worst hotels in England but sadly i have forgotten what it was called and she's asleep so I can't name and shame them. I say hotel but this is 'just' some rooms above a pub. So many rooms, however, that we felt it could be categorised as a hotel if it only had, say, at least one bedside light per room.

The room looked as if it had been used for a nightclub in which people stubbed out their fags on the floor, poured their drinks over the furniture and occasionally punched a hole in the wall. When the bar shut at midnight, the staff held their own disco in the room beneath ours, although they did have the heart to turn the music down a tad when I stamped on the floor. If only I had been wearing shoes at the time, I might not still be suffering a sharp pain in my heel.

Have we become too demanding in our sophisticated travels? I wouldn't mind if we'd been in the arse-end of nowhere but we were in Brighton. Hove actually.

At breakfast, Jane asked the elderly gent in charge of a morning if he might consider heating the dining room. The room, unlike the bedrooms, had been recently decorated and was 'dressed' with sheets draped from the ceiling and an array of paper lampshades attached to the ceiling by way of threads and drawing pins. But it being a cold winter's day and the room being unheated, we were sadly unable to rise to any appreciation of the decor.

The man brought in an electric heater of the sort that should stand upright or be fixed to a wall. As it had suffered the loss of one of its two legs, he laid it on the floor. He unplugged the one string of xmas lights, plugged in the heater and appeared satisfied that he had met the requirements of the guests.

We were then distracted by a beautiful young Spanish man offering us breakfast. Jane asked what was for breakfast, to which he replied, 'Eenglish breakfast.' She said she didn't want that so he said, 'Vezjtarian breakfast,' at which she gave in, although she had been holding out hope for some muesli, yoghurt and a croissant. Ha ha.

It was only later when the people at the next table (possibly the only other guests in the hotel) upon remarking to us that it was like Fawlty Towers and testing the heater to check it wasn't likely to set the carpet alight, realised it was not actually switched on.

Performing community

Hellooooo and sorry for the long blogging absence. I missed it and i'm back.

So let's plunge right in to Today in London. This morning my gf Jane and I got on our bikes and trundled down to Regents Park in Camden to the Innocent Village Fete. Most other queer folk went to Brighton Pride but we decided to 'shop local'.

BACKGROUND

Innocent makes bottled fruit drinks that rich Londoners buy in their lunch breaks. They're delicious, expensive and unnecessary, like so much that has taken off in London and is not seen much in, say, Ulverston. Don't get me wrong, I like these drinks. But I am not quite as convinced as the self-congratulatory manufacturer that they are doing good on this earth.

Anyway, Innocent didn't just sponsor this festival. It seemed very much like they organised it. As a past director of the York Lesbian Arts Festival, this makes me nervous. Shouldn't a festival organiser work from the content outwards, rather than from the branding outwards? Or maybe not.

FUN DAY OUT

First of all they gave us each a wee printed programme on what used to be called a ribbon but is now called a lanyard, to hang around our necks. We were delighted. Now our programmes were easily accessible and we looked a bit like we had those 'ACCESS ALL AREAS' passes round our necks. It didn't escape our notice, however, that we had been branded.

Ohhh, as you can imagine, I didn't leave it there. Jane reckons i just can't have a good time. It's not true. The way I have a good time is not by joining in fun activities. It's by looking at all the people and analysing what they, or the people herding them, are doing wrong. Also by working out how I will cope better if I am ever in this exact situation again.

For instance, I would not wear above-knee shorts on a hot summer day again (although I can be excused for this error because it was the first hot summer day of the year to have come to my notice, or to the notice of my knees and calves, and i had plain forgot what it would feel like).

CORE MESSAGE

I could go on and on but let's get to the core message before we all lose interest. The core message as devised for your delectation and comment today by Helen and Jane is this: we now need corporate event organisers to create community for us. We then take part in this with delight. For instance, in this picture two young people in the Rowan knitting tent have asked Jane to teach them to knit. They have been inspired by an annual Innocent promotion in which people:

1. Buy a Rowan Innocent woolly hat knitting kit for £3
2. Knit a woolly hat for an Innocent drinks bottle (you can just see one at the right of this picture)
3. See their hat put on a drink which is put on sale
4. Revel in the fact that part of the purchase price of their knitting kit AND of the behatted drink will go to a charity for the elderly.

What the f*ck?? I'm sorry but i can't see the point of that. At all. Why don't they knit hats for old folk who don't have hats?

Anyway, the good side of what we saw today included:
young people knitting - indeed all generations knitting in the tent, mostly women and children;
strangers doing a hoedown together;
kiddies dancing round a Maypole (or was that a bad thing?);
and yes, a sense of community.

Jane said that companies like Innocent have seen that people are yearning for a sense of community so they have created it.

I said that it was a false sense of community because we didn't live alongside these people and would never see them again, not even the ones she taught to knit.

Jane said we were all PERFORMING COMMUNITY. Oh yes. It is true. It is postmodern. And we may well write a book about it.

Since then we have riffed on this theme. The village fete relied on a sense of irony as well as a nostalgia for the English village that is in danger of negating all that is great about living in London. And so on.

It's good that I'm blogging again. Instead of only thinking about what could be done better, I can post about it and set the world to rights.

Smashing.
H x

Food pix

After requesting your food photos please find a table and wait for your server. We photograph all our food fresh in our kitchens, which may take time. We hope you enjoy the wait.

Or in other words: I'm sorry it's been weeks since nice folk like Frances asked to see the tofu stir-fry. Here it is, made by Alison B:


It was delicious. Here's a brisket sandwich we enjoyed on our snow day in... er... somewhere near burlington:

To think we criticised it because the 'sandwich' was actually an uninspiring bun! As you will have seen in my last post, that bun would have had a special place in my heart at lunchtime yesterday.

In contrast with such workaday sustenance, here is the sophisticated NYC smoked-duck salad I snaffled when Paige, Alex and I were obliged to find refreshment in a rather pretentious neighbourhood after the hangman play, when we would have quite liked a plate of fries and a nice cold beer:


And finally, before your connection gives out on you, i hope it can cope with a crafty close-up on that pancake brunch David & Mindy treated me to in New Jersey:


Yummy yummy yum.
Night night!
H x

Burger bun made from sliced bread cut in circles

This is what my parents and I had for our lunch in a pub in Clun, Shropshire, today. But we didn't take it lying down. After a quick confab, we challenged the barman on whether they had run out of burger buns.

He lost his composure for only a second before replying: 'We make them ourselves. Like this. It means we never run out. See?'

Catch-up time

Thank you for all the comments and for the requests for food photos. I do have some tasty food photos but my internet connection right now is so slow and intermittent that I can’t upload them. I hope one day to share them with you. Meanwhile, let’s start with a roundup of what you missed in the last two weeks while I was unable to get my act together to post:

First up, I finally got out of America! Two days after my scheduled departure, the snow cleared enough for planes to leave Vermont and for me to leave the country. I had a fabulous month with some fabulous folk and I was really sorry to leave but on the other hand I was starting to think I’d be there forever without ever seeing another chocolate hobnob so it was kind of a relief. In fact when i saw my plane waiting for me at JFK, i took its picture.



As there were no cheap seats available, Virgin upgraded me to ‘Premium Economy’ – which my sister Rosie has already pointed out is an oxymoron. She asked me to spot the difference and I can now reveal that you basically pay a Premium to fly Economy. There was a bit more leg-room, a free glass of champagne on take-off (which I didn’t want) plus free Baileys after dinner (which I most certainly did). I think this experience costs about twice as much as Economy (can’t be bothered to engage in the booking process online for long enough to check that factoid) but it was worth about twenty quid. Don’t ever pay for it, folks, but if they offer it to you for free, smile and nod.

I went home, slept, put the same suitcase in the car and came to Shropshire. Janie drove me here. She tried not to let me drive at all, but gave in near the end. And I can see her point: having just passed my test, I drive badly in conditions in which I am inexperienced – basically, anywhere other than the mean, crazy, slow-moving streets of north London. Give me a coked-up gun-packin’ lunatic pulling out in front of me in busy traffic any day, over a queue of ten cars trying to overtake me on a winding, hilly, country lane in the rain at dusk with pheasants running in front of the car.

So, here I am, on my writing retreat at Jane T’s cottage, next to her house, in the middle of nowhere. Well, it’s in a village, but as it doesn’t have a shop, pub, post office, or more than six houses, and as all the residents are related to each other (except Jane and a Danish vet), it’s not quite a village in my book. But it has a church and that’s what matters.

Haven’t so much been writing as feeding cats, tending the log fire, scattering my possessions around the cottage and going online to compare prices for spare batteries for my digital camera. Just in case the battery runs out when I’m away from the charger. Which could happen. Maybe. One day.

As I have already told four of my six readers, I destroyed my clutch trying to get up a very steep narrow road the other day. (I was lost on my way to the nearest shop.) Had to get the car rescued and taken to a garage where they have since made it well for a mere £300-ish. Good. I like spending money on the car. It makes me feel grown-up. This is the first time in my life I’ve been able to announce, ‘Clutch is knackered. Gonna cost me.’ Doesn’t that sound grown-up?

So the next day I decided to go to Shrewsbury on the bus. There is one bus a day in each direction. It goes a circuitous route taking nearly an hour and allows the traveller two hours’ shopping in the town before returning. You may think this is the least one could expect in a rural village. You may think that, but not everyone would agree.
As I was waiting at the bus stop, a farmer approached me. I knew he was a farmer because he was wearing wellies, a jacket tied with a piece of rope, a flat cap (rather similar to my flat cap) and a ruddy complexion.

‘You’re not waiting for a bus, are you?’ he asked in the Welsh-borders accent that only some people have here in the borders. Others have that Brummish accent heard on The Archers. (Not that The Archers is my only reference for rural life. That would be really bad. I’ve read Cold Comfort Farm and once I woke up early and listened to Farming Today.)

‘Yes,’ I admit. ‘I’m waiting for the bus. Why? Isn’t it running?’

‘Oh, it’s running all right. I just never saw anyone waiting for it before! Wait till I tell my brother! We always say, no one uses that bus. In our day we walked to the main road if we wanted to catch a bus. Now it comes through the village twice a day with no one on it. And we’re paying for that! With our taxes!’

‘Ah,’ I said. ‘Well, I suppose it’s useful for people who haven’t got a car.’ I tried to think if anyone would really live here without a car. Yes! I would! I can’t drive! Oh, no, wait a minute, I can drive, but my car is in the garage. That’s much more grown-up. ‘I haven’t got the car just now,’ I said. ‘I broke down yesterday and it’s in the garage.’

‘Which garage?’

I could see this was a trick question but I ploughed on. ‘A garage in Shrewsbury. The recovery truck took it there.’

‘Shrewsbury! Should’ve taken it to Bill Llewellyn. He would’ve fixed it for you. Good man. He would’ve come over to you and picked up the car. Now you’re paying town prices – twice as much. See,’ he continued grimly, ‘living in the country all our lives, we like to use local businesses.’

That’s me crushed.

Well, even as I write this, I am aware that I am conforming to the stereotype of clever-clever Londoner visiting those curious yokels in the romantic countryside – as criticised by my old mate Mike Parker in his sharp new book about English attitudes to the Welsh, ‘Neighbours from Hell?’

I must try to be a better person.

Laters,
Aitch x

blogswap

This is Helen's friend Alison posting in her stead. Don't worry, she's alive and well. Uhhh....at least she was last time I checked. Really, I haven't done away with her. We're guestblogging for one another.

Today I picked H. up in Burlington and drove her out to my house in the mountains. On the way, we stopped at a giant alienating shopping center to fully round out her American experience. I had to do some research there for my comic strip. Here's Helen posing for a reference shot in the pen aisle at Staples.



Eventually we got to my house, where the temperature was hovering at about zero degrees fahrenheit. Don't worry, I'm going to convert that for you soon. I wanted to take Helen for a snowshoe hike in the woods. But by the time she had her snack (cheese, which she had warned me to buy in case she got hungry, and toast) and got her long johns and boots and socks and sweater and coat and hat on, dusk was falling fast. I wondered if perhaps she didn't really want to go outside. But eventually I got her out the door. Okay, here's how cold zero degrees fahrenheit is:



We didn't stay out very long. What with all the photo documentation we kept stopping to engage in, our hands and feet were soon disturbingly numb. Now, instead of talking to one another, we're sitting side by side at dueling computers, making these posts on one anothers' blogs. Helen informs me that she just Went Live.

In summation, here's a short movie of Helen on snowshoes for the first time ever.

Vermont

On Sunday, Kim and Janet came home and were relieved that i had not destroyed their house (apart from one doorhandle, a cat's saucer, a triple-time-zone clock that now has two zones, a spot on the floor where I dripped Tide washing liquid and it took the varnish off... i think that's all). One last brunch at the Waverley and i was off to Burlington, Vermont, where Amy met me at the airport and showed me the place where people can sit on rocking chairs to watch the flights take off and land. As she said, there's not a lot to do in Vermont. We drove out to the frozen lake and stood on it at sunset - in the pic, Amy is wearing my hat to confuse the viewer.

She lives in a new house on the outskirts of Burlington with a tortoiseshell cat called Pym whom she adopted from the shelter recently and who hid under the bed for most of my stay. There's a pair of red cardinals in her garden - i saw the coxcombed female on the windowsill outside when i was in the kitchen and then the stunning all-red male flew past later as Amy was telling me more about them, which was co-operative of him.

Last night we dined out (L to R): Alison, Amy, their fab friends Manny and Amey, and me, at a place that was meant to be like an English pub. I taught them English phrases like busman's holiday and tuppence ha'penny. They promised to mispronounce and misuse these liberally so they spread through the state before my next trip.

This afternoon Alison came and took me out to the house in the woods. She is about to guest-blog here and i will guest-blog on hers. I have 6 readers and she has about 6,000 so i think the pressure is on me. Oh and it's minus two degrees fahrenheit or minus 18 centigrade. IT'S TRUE.

H x

These little things defeat me

Hello! My email isn't working - can't receive mail. Plus it just cost me 40 dollars to send all my accumulated books and magazines back home in the slowest available post which takes 6 weeks and presumably goes via Rekjavik [sp?]. But yesterday i met Joan Nestle so i guess you have to weigh the crap against the fabulous.

I'm writing a feature for Diva so i haven't had much time for blogging. Forgive me, dear reader. Onwards and upwards.

H x

Chocolate custard

On thursday morning Jane and I went skating at the Lasker Rink in Central Park. Not only are we both quite bad at skating but we had to help a cute little boy who adopted us. Luckily there is no photographic record of the three of us attempting to skate along hand in hand. If there were, I'd have to explain that it's not our fault he fell over! He insisted on skating with his feet too far apart!

That night we went to a party at Powerhouse Books' new home in DUMBO. Among other things, they were celebrating a new publication, Fletcher Street: photos by Martha Camarillo of a group of black men and boys in Philadelphia who haven't had it easy but have found an unusual way to keep their spirits up - they keep horses in abandoned buildings and ride them around town. (I'd love to link to the images but i can't find them online so i have done that sick thing of linking to Amazon. Sorry.) Then we went to an overpriced pseudo-Spanish bar around the corner and waited half an hour for a plate of cheese.

Here are Cecelia from Oscar Wilde bookshop and her girlfriend Ileana being tutored by Jane in the art of Argentine tango at a massive free dance in the Brooklyn Museum last night (Saturday). Every first Saturday of the month the museum has free entry and free activities. There was a live band and what looked like a thousand people tango'ing. The four of us prepared for the workout by dining at Cafe Steinhof - an Austrian place in Park Slope and an old favourite of Kim's. We thought of you, Kimmy!

I have been told by A Reader (Louise C as it happens) to write more about food. Well i had pork liver pâté with a berry compote and then shared a veggie thingy with Jane. It was potatoey. Oh and then i made us all late for the tango class by having chocolate custard. So we missed the start. That's why Jane had to give remedial classes to C&I. They picked it up with ease. And then a queue of other people started asking her for lessons.

Also on the food front, on Friday night we sought out Florent, a restaurant recommended by Daneet, the Mslexia editor who used to live here. Great French-inspired food imposed on an unreconstructed diner in the meat-packing district. I had something chickeny with green beans and mash. Is that enough information? And we shared a chocolate pudding that was all melty in the middle.

Today we took the Staten Island Ferry so Jane could see the Statue of Liberty and some tall buildings from the boat. We didn't know which tall building was which. I had a chocolate donut. You know how there is a diabetes epidemic in America? I think i can see why.

The leaflet from the information desk at the port said there was a Tibetan museum on Staten Island, so we had to go there, as we like to choose the most inaccessible, under-visited, untypical tourist destination at every port.

It turned out to be a half-hour bus ride followed by a long trek up Lighthouse Avenue which does indeed have a lighthouse on the top although it seems quite a way inland. The museum was founded by a woman called Jacques Marchais, so you can imagine our gaydar started twitching. Especially as she was on her third marriage by the time she founded the museum in her house.

I wanted to ask the guide if Jacques was bisexual but only managed to ask if she was b... b... b... bohemian. A Vietnam veteran (he had badges on his jacket saying so) with spiritual leanings asked whether she was b... b... b... buddhist. The answer to both was yes. She was an actress. She got her name because her father wanted a boy. She collected Tibetan Buddhist art and books and the museum is a sort of shrine that was purpose built and has been blessed in person by the Dalai Lama. There's a sand mandala there that has been allowed to stand instead of being blown away, so we can see it and learn from it.

OK, i could go off on a spiritual trip at this point, but the L Word starts in 3 minutes. We were meant to be going to Brooklyn to watch it at a bar called Cattyshack with Paige but alas i have done too much for the time of the month and am not goin' nowhere tonight. Littlebit is sitting on Jane's lap in the kitchen and everyone's waiting for someone who knows how to use the remote control. Which would be me.

—H x

I can't keep up

I've done so much that i can't keep up. It is very strange because if i go out in london, i have to stay in for the next three nights to recover my equilibrium, but here i just keep on trucking.

Jane's here! Last night we went out with Howard for dinner and to see alternative variety at the Slipper Room. It was rather strange and thoroughly entertaining. There was an MC who was deliberately rubbish, a white nerd rapper in a neat suit who loves nerdy girls (yay!) and a burlesque laydee who came on in a giant ugly nose mask and ended up revealing three plastic breasts.

We came home in a yellow cab through light snow and this morning Washington Square was looking rather pretty. As you can see, Augie took to Jane immediately, as did Littlebit. They are now very happy and keep purring (the cats, that is).

We have tried to eat as much as possible, including Ukrainian/American brunch at Veselka (thanks for the recommendation Louise - we had eggs, Russian sausage, toasted challah) and, inevitably, dinner at the Waverly.

Other stuff i've failed to blog about: an intense poetry evening at Reading Between A & B with 3 women poets; two sessions of yoga with a lovely teacher; several unnecessary purchases (8-tool penknife, rap/hip-hop CDs by two unsigned artists, trousers the same as a pair i've got at home but SO CHEAP that i was saving money by buying them); Season 4 of the L Word (with Cybill Shepherd!); sugar in all sliced loaves; people who are offended if you won't let them give you directions; the headline FRY BABY in a tabloid newspaper about an execution; a red-headed woodpecker in Central Park this morning. That will do for now.

—H x