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Tuesday 9th September

Just back from a longish weekend in Mayfair, seeing my tailor for this year's suits fittings and then over to Jermyn Street for a presentation on new possibilities in gentlemen's shirtings. All very thrilling. I tremble now to remember some of them! Had a shave at the wonderful Trumper's. Visited twenty-five pubs, delightful little snuggeries all, in four days. How the other half lives, to be sure! Americans would be amazed at how Londoners live, if they could but see. For instance: the Atkins Diet menace, which has been destroying our dinner parties for the last six or seven years without fail, is only now beginning to sink its horrible, suety tendrils into the celebrity population here, where it will doubtless worm its way down to the cabbies and chimney sweeps in eighteen months, causing them to sidle up to the bar at their local pub and shame-facedly ask for a Michelob Ultra. It's like riding a time machine back to the inception of Tony Orlando's career and seeing his manager cajole him into growing a mustache all over again. The other ancient pestilence that has taken London is the so-called magician and ghastly bore David Blaine. New Yorkers have been breezing by this young poop as he locks himself into Porta-Potties for years at a time with nary a sideways look and simply chalk it up to a negligible intelligence and a distinct lack of hygienic good sense. So Blaine has dejectedly packed up his kit and moved across the pond, hoping for the attention he used to get here a decade ago. For his first blockbuster, he's imprisoned himself in a clear plastic box by the Tower of London, hung over the river, where he pledges to decamp until his body turns to jelly, like the cat in the adage, if that's what I mean to say. So, the worldly-wise denizens of this city are reduced to watching an American shit and piss into the Thames from a great height as they trudge to work. He sleeps in a sleeping bag. He sits like a drugged bear and stares off into space during the day. Unlike New Yorkers, who wisely ignored Blaine until he left, Londoners have taken a more agressive tack, hurling eggs at him, taunting him with non-honey-colored words, and in some instances schoolgirls have been seen flashing their breasts at him. Am I the only one who sees that this could be the profitable start of exporting and zooifying of some of our country's more useless goofs? Real magic in London involves getting outside a dozen warmer-than-your-own-hand ales. Everyone knows that.

Wednesday 10th September

This evening I returned from a Neil Young show. There were rather lame sets, laughable Senior Class Play actors lip-synching to Neil as he warbled, blurry multimedia twaddle on screens, and a fairly risible hippie storyline, with one character urged to go to Alaska and "be a goddess in the Planet Wars". But the nut can still play guitar and sing like he's leading Satan's house band. That's why it was a hell of a show. Bruce Springsteen can kiss my delicately powdered, silk-insulated, and elaborately gabardined hindquarters.

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