WEDNESDAY, 16 AUGUST, 2000, LONDON

The problem with a self-appointed, pompous, goofy, aristocractic title is that most frequently the rest of the world does not recognise you as a pompous, goofy, self-titled personage. I.E., I have never flown first class before. I haven’t quite finished my research of my geneology, but I’m fairly certain I’m either a direct descendent of Grace Kelly, or pure bumpkin white trash. Hopefully a bit of both. So I’m sitting in first fuckin’ class somewhere over the Atlantic at the moment and I swear to the gods there’s enough godamned legroom for me to do a little Moulin Rouge numbah ovah heeah. Va-Va-Voom! I’m being plyed with wine faster than I can drink it. There’s a little television that pops out of the supa-mighty-morphin arm rest, although I’m still more kickass than that with my PowerBook and DVD’s, thank you. In a moment, they’re going to bring out the dancing girls. And the Sno-Cone cart, I think. Oh! Well, lookie here. “Would you like more wine, your excellency?” “Duh, thanks.” “How about a hot towel? “Give ‘er here, tits. Thanks. You’re beautiful.” Children are awful on planes. But apparently in first fuckin’ class, they have to go through an etiquette class before sitting down. Little Girl Next To Me In A Mixed American/Brit Accent To Stewardess: “May I please have another Diet Coke when you get a moment? Thank you so much.” Tee hee hee. And it’s basically a free flight to London. Okay, y’all can go ahead and hate me now. Hit me with your best shot, Pat Benetar. But know that I can only smirk in reply. I planned ahead when I popped into my uncle’s house in Washington a few hours ago where I’m leaving my car for the next few weeks. I opened about a gazillion Netscape windows and am now catching up on my Brad Pitt Diary reading. Too bad the truck driving thing didn’t work out, Pittster! Guy Across Aisle From Me: “Dude! Are you online!?” “Planned ahead, ‘dude’.” I’m so fucking smirky and happy right now. I hate me. More later. I’ve got to make important decisions like which appetizer will go well with the ginger braised chicken, and of course which wine will compliment both. Then I’m popping into the loo to receive my complimentary blowjob. Friendly frickin’ skies, you betcha… Much later… Oh gawd, I couldn’t be more exhausted. I arrived in London pre-6am to find that the requested guest-gift of Kahlúa for my lovely host had exploded in my luggage, lightly scenting everyting I own in the sticky, sickening sweet smell of, well, Kahlúa. Nummers! But I hereby toast to my amiable London host Rupert by sucking a liqueur stain from some of my packed clothes. [Schlurrp.] [Hiccup.] I tubed to Southeast London from Heathrow around 8 this morning, and have been running around like a mad little thing all day with my most entertaining host who wanted to show me the new Tate Modern museum, a lovely spot for hot chocolate on the Thames overlooking Westminster, some shops of interest in Picadilly and Trafalgar, a close facsimile to a cheesey American 50’s diner, the Millennium Dome, a Japanese Confectionary shop and about a zillion other things that I cannot list just now because I have not slept nor stopped moving around in about 30 hours. As I mentioned the other day about being apprehensive about returning to London, I think the great number of years since I’ve been here coupled with my extreme sleep deprivation has kept everything surreal enough to stave off any weird nostalgia fits, although there was a point today near Fortnum & Mason’s on Picadilly when I thought I was about to freak out and start clawing my face off. I don’t really have to go into all that here, do I? No? Thank you. To wind down a day that almost made my tiny little brain explode, we popped into a pub in Rupert’s neighbourhood where I had my much-coveted and long-awaited-for pint of British Guinness. And like a song you haven’t heard in ages, it all came flooding back from deep recesses of the past. The bitter, almost “meaty” taste of proper Guinness and the creamy consistency that one does not find in the States’ version tossed me into a somewhat melancholy flashback and, for the briefest of moments, I felt like I was 19 again and had an entire new world unfolding before me — not just in the Guinness of course, but in the whole city… Know what? I’m not making a lick o’ sense right now. I’m about to start halluncinating so off for noddy-blinkums for the Marquis. More later, pigeons…