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The Epicure's Thanksgiving
A Lizard Diary, Part XI
by A S H Smyth
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Monday, November 26th, 2007
The eleventh day. And a nota bene.
I awake to my attorney cautiously trying to say farewell. Rightly cautious,
too: I am not what one might call a Morning Person – unless by ‘morning’ you
mean the hours between midnight and four.
Touched – albeit not for the very first time – I assure him I’ll drop by his
offices on my way out of town, when I’m washed and presentable.
The futon in his place being nicely positioned by the window, it’s actually
quite a pleasant place to be in the mornings. (Unlike my house, where the
winter sun doesn’t trouble my bedroom until about three in the afternoon.)
So, I get up relatively willingly, take a shower, pack my stuff. This takes a bit
of negotiating.
Every trip I go on culminates in my trying to cram books into a bag that
already had a fair few in it before I left. I know some foreign lands do have
books, and sometimes they’re even in English (Scotland and Australia, excl.).
But my morbid fear of being stranded in extremis without something to read –
in the queue at Caffé Nero, for example, or waiting for someone in a pub –
means that I dare not leave home without four or five paperbacks. The
reality, of course, is that I read slightly more slowly than a remedial
chimpanzee, and so, of the books I take abroad, at least three come back
unread. None of which, of course, stops me feverishly buying more books
wherever I may find myself to be.
If you’re a book-lover, you will understand this already. If you’re not, and you
think I’m a mental, then I couldn’t care less: you’re a barbarian. In fact, what
the hell are you doing reading this? Get out of here!
I do the usual travel thing of standing around, patting my pockets, 100%
convinced that I must’ve forgotten something. Am I the only one who thinks
travel seems disconcertingly easy, these days? When I was 9 I couldn’t get
from Maidstone to my home without cocking it up and finding myself at
London Bridge (on Christmas Eve, as all the trains began to shut down. I did
not cry…). But, now, going from San Francisco to London is merely a matter of
a few hours and couple of hundred quid. It’s almost boring. You can’t even
get off at the wrong stop.
This, I am certain, is why people love to get trains round Asia, or minivans in
Africa: ‘the ride for your life’, as twere.
But, no, it appears I’m all set, so I walk on down the ro-oad to the dreaded
Embarcadero (though, today of all days, the ‘Embarcadero’ aspect seems
appropriate enough).
After flirting with the receptionist at Teykthe Munnion Runn (she has lovely
knee-high boots which she wisely keeps hidden behind the desk), I say my
goodbyes to my attorney. He takes me on a victory lap of the office,
specifically to meet a chap called Peter who once worked in Durban. Peter is
very polite, then looks a little confused, and suddenly remembers he has a
meeting and runs for the door. I wonder why he didn’t stay in SA…
I mosey down to the Ground floor, and decide I have just enough time for
one last foray in Crown Books. I’m only having a look, I tell myself: what harm
can come of it?
A Lizard Diary, Part XI
by A S H Smyth
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Monday, November 26th, 2007
The eleventh day. And a nota bene.
I awake to my attorney cautiously trying to say farewell. Rightly cautious,
too: I am not what one might call a Morning Person – unless by ‘morning’ you
mean the hours between midnight and four.
Touched – albeit not for the very first time – I assure him I’ll drop by his
offices on my way out of town, when I’m washed and presentable.
The futon in his place being nicely positioned by the window, it’s actually
quite a pleasant place to be in the mornings. (Unlike my house, where the
winter sun doesn’t trouble my bedroom until about three in the afternoon.)
So, I get up relatively willingly, take a shower, pack my stuff. This takes a bit
of negotiating.
Every trip I go on culminates in my trying to cram books into a bag that
already had a fair few in it before I left. I know some foreign lands do have
books, and sometimes they’re even in English (Scotland and Australia, excl.).
But my morbid fear of being stranded in extremis without something to read –
in the queue at Caffé Nero, for example, or waiting for someone in a pub –
means that I dare not leave home without four or five paperbacks. The
reality, of course, is that I read slightly more slowly than a remedial
chimpanzee, and so, of the books I take abroad, at least three come back
unread. None of which, of course, stops me feverishly buying more books
wherever I may find myself to be.
If you’re a book-lover, you will understand this already. If you’re not, and you
think I’m a mental, then I couldn’t care less: you’re a barbarian. In fact, what
the hell are you doing reading this? Get out of here!
I do the usual travel thing of standing around, patting my pockets, 100%
convinced that I must’ve forgotten something. Am I the only one who thinks
travel seems disconcertingly easy, these days? When I was 9 I couldn’t get
from Maidstone to my home without cocking it up and finding myself at
London Bridge (on Christmas Eve, as all the trains began to shut down. I did
not cry…). But, now, going from San Francisco to London is merely a matter of
a few hours and couple of hundred quid. It’s almost boring. You can’t even
get off at the wrong stop.
This, I am certain, is why people love to get trains round Asia, or minivans in
Africa: ‘the ride for your life’, as twere.
But, no, it appears I’m all set, so I walk on down the ro-oad to the dreaded
Embarcadero (though, today of all days, the ‘Embarcadero’ aspect seems
appropriate enough).
After flirting with the receptionist at Teykthe Munnion Runn (she has lovely
knee-high boots which she wisely keeps hidden behind the desk), I say my
goodbyes to my attorney. He takes me on a victory lap of the office,
specifically to meet a chap called Peter who once worked in Durban. Peter is
very polite, then looks a little confused, and suddenly remembers he has a
meeting and runs for the door. I wonder why he didn’t stay in SA…
I mosey down to the Ground floor, and decide I have just enough time for
one last foray in Crown Books. I’m only having a look, I tell myself: what harm
can come of it?
© lizardmagazine.com, 2007
- Part X of the California Diary
- Part IX of the California Diary
- Part VIII of the California Diary
- Part VII of the California Diary
- Part VI of the California Diary
- Part V of the California Diary
- Part IV of the California Diary
- Part III of the California Diary
- Part II of the California Diary
- Part I of the California Diary
Answer(s):
Autumn of the Gods: my misadventures with the titans, poseurs, and
money guys who mastered and messed up big media – Michael Wolff
Bamboozled at the Revolution: how big media lost billions in the battle for
the internet – John Motavalli
How the Pro-Choice Movement Saved America: freedom, politics and the
war on sex – Christina Page
The Browser’s Ecstasy: a meditation on reading – Geoffrey O’Brien*
Total damage: $20
Autumn of the Gods: my misadventures with the titans, poseurs, and
money guys who mastered and messed up big media – Michael Wolff
Bamboozled at the Revolution: how big media lost billions in the battle for
the internet – John Motavalli
How the Pro-Choice Movement Saved America: freedom, politics and the
war on sex – Christina Page
The Browser’s Ecstasy: a meditation on reading – Geoffrey O’Brien*
Total damage: $20
It is somehow fitting that the last person in San Francisco with whom I have
any meaningful interaction is a bookseller. My bag’s a bit heavy, though.
I take the BART train to SFO, noting with pleasure that commuters are not
only banned from smoking on board, but also from eating and drinking. I’m
all too aware that when you’re drunk Burger King seems like the food of the
gods; but when you’re sitting on the train, and the pissed fool next to you
is snarfing through it, it’s disgusting.
A sticker on the wall points out that, by federal law, old folks and the
disabled get priority seating. I’d be more in favour of this if I were not
sitting in one of the seats in question. Still, no-one chronologically-
challenged or variously-enabled boards the train, so push doesn’t come to
shove.
Airports is airports. The only difference is that here, since I am cutting
things a little fine, a nice lady pulls me out of the snake and sticks me in a
queue of one. I am trying to be serenely oblivious to the filthy looks the
other passengers are sending my way, when the check-in lass calls me
forward, and then promptly congratulates me on being British. Naturally, I
assume I’m just being cheered up by an excessively-dutiful member of
United Airlines staff; but when she says that the two reasons the UK
trumps the US are Radiohead and Gomez, I figure she’s gotta be sincere.**
The plane. Nomatter where you fly, on whichever airline, there is always an
audio channel exclusively given over to playing Eric Clapton’s 'Layla'.
Movies. I watch No Reservations, in equal measures because Catherine Zeta-
Jones is stunning; because Aaron Eckhart was inspiringly Machiavellian in
Thank You for Smoking (presumably not the message I was supposed to
take away from that movie); and because I assume a rom-com about
cooking has to stink. It doesn’t, quite, but it’s pretty close, and of course
has one of those endings that makes you wish a raven would pluck out
your eyes.
Then Evening. Not quite sure why. It stars Clare Danes, Vanessa Redgrave,
Natasha Richardson (real mother and daughter playing fictional mother and
daughter: you see what they did there…), Meryl Streep and Glenn Close…
and Toni Collette. It’s kind of schmaltzy, and annoyingly ‘inter-war’, a bit like
The Notebook.
On the boys’ team, it features Patrick Wilson, who is to Kevin Costner what
Brad Pitt is to Robert Redford, and (in)famous for the excellent (but
appalling) Hard Candy, one of those great films no-one ever wants to see
twice: like Deliverance, or Irreversible. Also Hugh Dancy, who – in his role as
Buddy Wittenbom – gets the great line:
‘I fully intend to amount to something, despite my advantages.’
An admirable sentiment, and one to which any member of the Facebook
group The Nouveau Poor should aspire, however grudgingly. I can’t help
but feel I’ve heard it before, though, and given that Buddy’s character is a
wastrel who thinks he’s going to be the next F Scott Fitzgerald, I’ll assume
it’s (consciously) borrowed until I can prove otherwise.
A final note on airline movies. Men should be grateful for them. They provide
a cast iron excuse to watch stuff that you could never be caught watching
under normal circumstances (remember being secretly intrigued by the
rumours about The Full Monty, but being terrified of ostracism by your
schoolmates if anyone discovered you’d seen it?). The excuse ‘I was on a
plane: there was nothing else to watch’ must hold the record for Most
Frequent 2nd Sentence In Any Contentious Debate About Movies.
The rest is an over-tired, itchy-eyed blur.
And then the Piccadilly line, and Victoria. Why, oh why, must it always smell
of sodding Cornish pasties?
Issue of the Day
Q What’s with Durban?
A Well, it’s the only place I know where girls go into bars wearing nothing
but bikinis. I recommend it.
Or
Seriously, though. About the pasties…?
---
* which I first saw in a bookshop in Durban, two summers back, but didn’t
buy at the time.
** I mean, I wouldn’t express an interest in Shania Twain… not to
ingratiate myself to anybody!
Nota Bene
By now, many of you may be wondering who this attorney of mine is. Well,
the answer is perfectly simple: I can’t tell you. And the reason for that is
equally simple: I don’t know.
He introduced himself to me one day, in South Africa (in Durban, as luck
would have it), while I was working in a café. I wasn’t waiting tables, you
understand; no, I was putting the finishing touches to my long-since
unfinished potential Booker-winner.
‘I’m your attorney,’ he said.
‘But of course you are,’ I responded.
We exchanged cards. He gave me one that someone had sent him for his
8th birthday. I gave him a Joker from a free deck I got on British Airways
once.
I’ve always felt he did better out of the deal, but we’ve been friends ever
since. More to the point, he lives in the USA, and this represents an
excellent excuse for some travels.
If anyone does know who he is, though, I’d be very keen to find out. Here’s
his picture:
any meaningful interaction is a bookseller. My bag’s a bit heavy, though.
I take the BART train to SFO, noting with pleasure that commuters are not
only banned from smoking on board, but also from eating and drinking. I’m
all too aware that when you’re drunk Burger King seems like the food of the
gods; but when you’re sitting on the train, and the pissed fool next to you
is snarfing through it, it’s disgusting.
A sticker on the wall points out that, by federal law, old folks and the
disabled get priority seating. I’d be more in favour of this if I were not
sitting in one of the seats in question. Still, no-one chronologically-
challenged or variously-enabled boards the train, so push doesn’t come to
shove.
Airports is airports. The only difference is that here, since I am cutting
things a little fine, a nice lady pulls me out of the snake and sticks me in a
queue of one. I am trying to be serenely oblivious to the filthy looks the
other passengers are sending my way, when the check-in lass calls me
forward, and then promptly congratulates me on being British. Naturally, I
assume I’m just being cheered up by an excessively-dutiful member of
United Airlines staff; but when she says that the two reasons the UK
trumps the US are Radiohead and Gomez, I figure she’s gotta be sincere.**
The plane. Nomatter where you fly, on whichever airline, there is always an
audio channel exclusively given over to playing Eric Clapton’s 'Layla'.
Movies. I watch No Reservations, in equal measures because Catherine Zeta-
Jones is stunning; because Aaron Eckhart was inspiringly Machiavellian in
Thank You for Smoking (presumably not the message I was supposed to
take away from that movie); and because I assume a rom-com about
cooking has to stink. It doesn’t, quite, but it’s pretty close, and of course
has one of those endings that makes you wish a raven would pluck out
your eyes.
Then Evening. Not quite sure why. It stars Clare Danes, Vanessa Redgrave,
Natasha Richardson (real mother and daughter playing fictional mother and
daughter: you see what they did there…), Meryl Streep and Glenn Close…
and Toni Collette. It’s kind of schmaltzy, and annoyingly ‘inter-war’, a bit like
The Notebook.
On the boys’ team, it features Patrick Wilson, who is to Kevin Costner what
Brad Pitt is to Robert Redford, and (in)famous for the excellent (but
appalling) Hard Candy, one of those great films no-one ever wants to see
twice: like Deliverance, or Irreversible. Also Hugh Dancy, who – in his role as
Buddy Wittenbom – gets the great line:
‘I fully intend to amount to something, despite my advantages.’
An admirable sentiment, and one to which any member of the Facebook
group The Nouveau Poor should aspire, however grudgingly. I can’t help
but feel I’ve heard it before, though, and given that Buddy’s character is a
wastrel who thinks he’s going to be the next F Scott Fitzgerald, I’ll assume
it’s (consciously) borrowed until I can prove otherwise.
A final note on airline movies. Men should be grateful for them. They provide
a cast iron excuse to watch stuff that you could never be caught watching
under normal circumstances (remember being secretly intrigued by the
rumours about The Full Monty, but being terrified of ostracism by your
schoolmates if anyone discovered you’d seen it?). The excuse ‘I was on a
plane: there was nothing else to watch’ must hold the record for Most
Frequent 2nd Sentence In Any Contentious Debate About Movies.
The rest is an over-tired, itchy-eyed blur.
And then the Piccadilly line, and Victoria. Why, oh why, must it always smell
of sodding Cornish pasties?
Issue of the Day
Q What’s with Durban?
A Well, it’s the only place I know where girls go into bars wearing nothing
but bikinis. I recommend it.
Or
Seriously, though. About the pasties…?
---
* which I first saw in a bookshop in Durban, two summers back, but didn’t
buy at the time.
** I mean, I wouldn’t express an interest in Shania Twain… not to
ingratiate myself to anybody!
Nota Bene
By now, many of you may be wondering who this attorney of mine is. Well,
the answer is perfectly simple: I can’t tell you. And the reason for that is
equally simple: I don’t know.
He introduced himself to me one day, in South Africa (in Durban, as luck
would have it), while I was working in a café. I wasn’t waiting tables, you
understand; no, I was putting the finishing touches to my long-since
unfinished potential Booker-winner.
‘I’m your attorney,’ he said.
‘But of course you are,’ I responded.
We exchanged cards. He gave me one that someone had sent him for his
8th birthday. I gave him a Joker from a free deck I got on British Airways
once.
I’ve always felt he did better out of the deal, but we’ve been friends ever
since. More to the point, he lives in the USA, and this represents an
excellent excuse for some travels.
If anyone does know who he is, though, I’d be very keen to find out. Here’s
his picture:
All suggestions gratefully received: ash@lizardmagazine.com
