I was happy to wake up this morning feeling better; I’ve had a fevery cold for three days, and two of those were sick-in-bed days. Luckily just outside my window is a bustling square, and I could keep my terrace doors open, hear the people, or get up and walk a couple of blocks to the market for fresh juices (yesterday, coconut and mango) to a cafe, or to see what hacks have been done in the nights to this or that art wall. The Romans in the next square are frequently enhanced. Last night, they were smoking.
Yesterday’s homemade veggie soup was broccoli and zucchini, at Bliss. The glass of cava was as good for me as the food.
By the way, I should mention that Neil Gaiman just did a feature for The Quietus, listing 13 of his all-time favorite albums, and I really like it. Have a look. He’s as serious about his music as I am, and I appreciate that. Plus, now that he’s hooked up with Amanda Palmer, he’s remembered how fun it is to say “fuck” all of the time, and he’s not shy about it. I love it when literate people with extensive vocabularies choose to use rough words; it helps remind people that words are tasty and we shouldn’t let the Puritan mentality, which has ruined so much already, ruin the fucking language as well. Go Neil, Go.
I must admit that I want to kiss my cute little Fishstick; I am longing for a cuddle. I wish I could rent cats when I travel, just like people rent dogs to walk or play with (whom one presumes are the right sort of dogs who love the deal) but cats are not going to participate in schemes like that. Nor does the Fish want to travel with me, to my chagrin.
I’m not really sure when I’ll get home to her; it depends on a suite of things. Luckily Jay is all moved in at the Ranch, and I like that. It’s good to have someone around, for the plants, the cats, the feel of the place.
I’d love to stay in London long enough to catch the last Ferry show of the tour (and I have a ticket, and I’ll be working on the Oliver Thompson feature, and the show will be a giant party before during and after…) but the flights are so mysteriously full on the first few days of December that if I don’t leave the day before the concert I don’t get out for five days. There are worse fates! But it would mean that instead of flying home to Tucson, I’d go directly from civilization to St. Louis. Kind of a rough transition, that one.
Luckily I have a freakload of work to catch up on; no matter what I do I’ll be landing in Philly to pick up my MacBook from repair and say hey to Kyle Cassidy and Trillian Stars. And once I have the MacBook, it’s all layout all the time until Volume II of Contemporary Geometric Beadwork is in the hands of the Mighty Edit Team. So perhaps it hardly matters where I am. I’m not sure what Miss Fish’s grasp of time is; what a week means to her. I know she doesn’t understand why I leave her; I wish I could take her everywhere on Earth I went.
Flying on the crew pass is definitely not for people who need to know what’s going to happen next. I’ve been stuck all kinds of places, some awesome, some not. But I couldn’t do the kind of travel I do any other way, I’m insanely grateful. I can change my plans, change cities, dates, anything at all, any time, and they just get me where I need to go, but only if there is an open seat that literally no one else on Earth is going to fill. I am at the bottom of the list after everyone; paying customers, people bumped from other airlines, actual crew, crew families, paying standby passengers. Probably if there was a mail sack that wouldn’t fit in the hold, it would bump me. And I don’t mind, that’s just the deal.
One must be philosophical, and embrace the moment.
I’m so looking forward to seeing all of my boys, whichever port I sail in from.
I love the Monopoly man on the wall of this “archeological intervention”.