Second Postcard

[A brief pause before I head back to the British Museum to pick up a Rosetta Stone T-shirt for my brother-in-law. I'm back at the Subway (sandwiches) Internet Mall in Tottenham Court Road. Except for the hotel room, I've spent more time in this room than in any other this trip, which is odd and a little disturbing. I really don't think of myself as addicted to the web, exactly, but a day without email gives me an itch somewhere. So, I scratch.]

[Two West End plays since the last entry: This Is Our Youth with Chris Klein and Freddie Prinze, Jr., and Dance of Death with Ian McKellen and Frances de la Tour. If that doesn't cover some sort of gay gamut, tell me what does. Youth was fine; however, we were in the Upper Circle, and didn't figure out how to work the opera glasses dispenser until after the interval, so actual ogling of Those Hunks was minimal. I didn't mention to John that it seemed that Kenneth Lonergan made the drug use, a major theme of the play, seem much more remote by setting the thing twenty years ago. Ah, people only did that kind of coke in the '80s, right? Right.]

[Death, last night's offer, I'm still processing. I don't know much about Strindberg, but the Anglo-Swedish-accented-Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?-ishness of it certainly was effective. I could barely keep awake during the first half (maybe a wee bit too much lovely Tempranillo at dinner beforehand), and then couldn't get to sleep last night, Temazepam notwithstanding. I've drunk more coffee on this trip than I drink in three weeks at home.]

[Strolled around Bloomsbury by myself yesterday, looking for the Tavistock Square flat Virginia and Leonard Woolf lived in after moving back to London, as portrayed in The Hours. Near as I can tell, there's a big, late-20th century hotel on the spot, with not even a plaque, in this city lousy with plaques. Hmph. Had a tranquil sit in Tavistock Square proper though, with the Gandhi statue and the various monuments to peace. I can't say I actually prayed, but if good energy to avert what BushBlair seem bent on doing can be sent, it was.]

[We move hotels this afternoon for our last two nights, as the package we got only included six at our Covent Garden discotheque. We're moving, up I think, to the Park Lane Marriott, good rate thanks to Maria Gomez, who lost her wallet the other night as we danced 'til late at the Astoria's G-A-Y night. (Oh, that name.) After a certain number of two-for-one cans of Carling, John and I decided that what San Francisco needs is to transplant G-A-Y. Badlands in the Castro comes closest, but there's that unavoidable S.F. attitude, which would be banned if our idea (which still seems good in the sober light of day) could be brought about. Were we shy about dancing to everything cheesy from Michael Jackson to the Spice Girls? No, we were not, and neither was anyone else.]

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