Finding space

I think I can officially confirm it. The Hub has taken over my life. Not just some significant portion of it. Not just MOST of it.

No.

The whole lot. No room for anything else. Despite my determination to blog, go to the gym, do all sorts of nice other things that make us interesting, complex people, all I managed to achieve is a 16 hour working day, 7 days a week.

BUT the result is that I think we're almost there. I found the perfect space and with a little bribing and a little arm-twisting, I might have just persuaded the owners to give it to me. Here it is:


You see it like this, clean lines and all, a picture of perfection. Over the last few years, it has been dressed up and down for these kinds of events:



Very Milhan-darrrrling. Very fashion. Very happening. Yah.

And now here WE come, and we have to recreate the spirit of THIS:




And eventually end up with THIS:


I met someone the other day who told me that you really ARE what you wear. Very Foucault, I replied. I stared at me blankly. I think it's time for me to embrace my inner builder...

Awaiting the projector

In anticipation of this weekend's Tuscan shenanigans, I spent a little fortune on this complete boxset of the TV series Rome. I saw a couple of episodes in the past and I can assure you you will all find it highly entertaining. There is of course much nudity, as well as badly-behaved characters, lavish costumes, excellent characterisation, not too many historical abuses, and most importantly INCEST. What is there not to like?

Number 10

We are not the proud owners. Yet...

BUT we did manage to have lashings of champagne in it at midnight nontheless AND plan our next party there: The Seven Deadly Sins. Think Eyes Wide Shut meets Daphne du Maurier. Lady V to make sure there are no inconsistencies by running from room to room and enacting each and every sin with absolute precision.

As for the house, well... it won't look like this by the time we're done with it... including the famous loo, which will be disposed of as should most modern art.

Spotted...

On someone's floor, on a pile of books about Africa.

Don't tell me I didn't warn you. What is he doing in the Balkans again???? Poor people...

The films we see, the music we listen

There are moments in our lives when we rather shy away from the world and lock ourselves up in a dark room, watching tens of movies which will transport us away from it all. It's something that happens to all of us, at different times. To all except Le Duc. For him, this is a permanent state of being.

Well, for me it isn't but when it arrives it's wonderful and I cherish every minute of it. Thus is the case of the last few days, including in NYC, where I saw some extraordinary films.


First: Coraline, the most inspired and somewhat darkest of them all. It has all the elements of a Grimm tale, including Freudian elements of girl-wanting-to-kill-her-parents-and-then-feeling-overwhelming-guilt-over-her-thoughts. But mostly, it's a beautifully-animated story about overcoming fear. I got out very happy and with a newly-developed terror towards buttons.


Second: Watchmen. While it was supposed to be "possibly one of the best comic adaptations" of all times (notice the premonitory doubt in the words chosen by the writer), it was overall pleasant but not quite what I had hoped for. I was hoping to remain glued to the seat for the full 2:20 hours of film. Instead, I found my mind drifting away, towards the sunny landscape of Manhattan, which I had just cycled across in fully view of Tot T's wonderful backside. That dominated my thoughts throughout the movie. Not The Comedian's shenanigans or whatever-his-name-is' attempts at being the gayest scoundrel in the history of cinema. Nope. Didn't beat the T-butt test.


And then, on the plane back to London, in the middle of the night, I saw Control.

I don't know why this film left me so deeply impressed and moved. On the surface, it would seem like just another British Grim Flick about the Grim North. They even gave up colour filming, to add to the monochrome dullness of the English Northern estates, where Joy Division's Ian Curtis was born, and whose life was here turned into cinematic wonder.


And yet, for every minute the film rolled, I was increasingly engrossed in the lives of the characters, utterly mesmerised by their fate. Of course, Anton Corbijn's amazing direction... Of course, Samantha Morton brilliant performance as Ian's wife, Debbie... and so on...


But above all, undoubdetly, Sam Riley's engrossing intepretation. Yes. It beat the T-butt Test. There. I've said it. I've marked it on paper. Don't hate me for this T. Loosing to Sam/Ian is no defeat, just valiant surrender in the face of the supernatural. Now we can both move on.

To Radiohead covering Joy Division's Ceremony. Oh. My. God.

Just like her mummy...

Unnamed sources revealed the extent of yesterday's debauchery in the park. Apparently, someone's turdette was widely admired for having mummy's taste in beaverages...

Who knew???

UCLA is a copy of Sant'Ambreus...!



These Americans. Always a step ahead...

Snapping away

New York is a wonderful place in which to rediscover the photographer lurking inside us.


Some of its landmarks seem built exclusively to be gazed at through a camera lense.


Others peer at us from narrow streets, almost absent-mindedly. This one probably has good reasons to be shy, since it's where most of the mess we're in originates from:


And this other one... well, I took it exclusively to please someone amongst us, since it's the former vault of the infamous bank JP Morgan. The original site of the bank, across from the Stock Exchange above, still holds bullet holes in its facade where Mr Morgan was almost killed by an Irish anarchist (I think). The this image is the entrance of the high-security underground chamber where all the wealth of the bank was kept safe.



But as well all know too well, "All the king's horses and all the king's men, couldn't put this mad financial system together again", so JP Morgan left and now they are asking ME to take it over. Funny, the world, uh?

Oh Chuck...

No comment necessary. The sight of a 15 mt tall Chuck on Broadway made me very, very happy.

NY white sequence

I am beginning to feel like a New Yorker. Hanging out (aka sleeping) with one of them tends to help blend in - I get dragged around, no maps in sight, general confident pace, walk only into super-cool places. I don't speak, so no weird accent is detected. Tick tick tick.


Then I pull out the camera and spoil it all. Tot T looks away, pretending not to know me. I doubt a true New Yorker would ever take pictures of landmarks with his mobile phone, but I cannot help myself.


Naturally the big event of the last few days was the big snowstorm that hit the US. Naturally I was here. To be precise, I was in Princeton, and documented the whoe thing, natch:





Including the local fauna:


Last but not least, a little shot of something that made me laugh. The idea that Tot F might be oozing coffee had never crossed my mind before, but now, somehow, it feels so obvious...

Deadly encounters

I know this is supposed to happen to everyone living in big cities: you long for the anonimity of the metropolis, basking in the illusion you'll never bump into unwanted acquaintances. And then: BAM! The person you LEAST want to see is standing next to you on the underground. On an elevator. In a queue for the latest Jake flick.

I know it, yet when it happened today I was FURIOUS. In a city with 14 million inhabitants, with some 20,000 restaurants, how on earth could the following happen??

We decided to meet our glorious resident S at Jing Fong, a cavernous dim-sum place in Chinatown. S has been waiting for some 20 minutes in front of the entrance, where an escalator is regurgitating tens of people who have been fed and relieved of a few dollars, while another escalator is sucking new cutomers back into the very seats the first lot have vacated.

We have a number: 172. When they call us, we can ascend to dim-sum heaven.

168... 169... almost there...

And then I see this figure, clad in a coat, descending the escalator. I have one of those double-take moments, when you recognise someone, but can't quite place them in your mind. He has the same look in his face, but he recognises me almost instantly, and I can see his eyes look quickly in every direction to see if he can escape.

He can't, nor can I. I am standing at the bottom of the escalator, he's rolling slowly towards me and before I know it, he's standing next to me.

My cousin. The one whose wedding I snubbed in favor of an epic drive with Tot V and Tot T down the peninsula. The one I always found a complete and utter fake, a master of spin, a lazy and spoiled brat who somehow managed to talk his way out of every situation and charm everyone on his way to success. He somehow managed to fool pretty much everyone on his path, but I never fell for his tricks. And he knows this very well, which is why he feels a mixture of envy and resentment towards me. I suddenly remember someone telling me he had moved to NYC after marrying a the rich heiress, but I had logged that notion in the back of my brain, convinced the unspeakble would never happen, despite my frequent visits to the Big Apple. I was, of course, wrong.

He is standing next to me and all we can do is smile insincerely at each other, kiss and hug pretending we're ol'time mates. S and T are glancing at the scene with bemused expressions. I don't think they've ever seen me hide my displeasure so badly. Soon enough, his heavily-pregnant wife rolls out next to us. I am introduced to her as E's brother, a first time for me. I am sure she knows perfectly well who I am. The look of distrust and curiosity in the heiress' eyes are very obvious.

In that very moment the restaurant people call out 172. S is already on top of the escalator, happy to escape the family reunion in favor of some nice dim-sums, while I am forcing T to write down my cousin's number, and already thinking of reasons not to meet in the forthcoming week.

We part waving energetically. The escalator transports me up to the immense banqueting room, where trolleys laden with dim-sums slalom between tables. I sit down, still shaken. S and T's look is worth a million dollars.

I need to find a bigger city. New York is clearly too small. Maybe Cairo?