Paris Blogpost One:
I am not going to write about Paris. I will put up pictures and short captions later tonight. But I liked it too much to write about it in my thematic sardonic manner.
I am so Po-mo right now.
“ BOY GEORGE WINKED AT ME. ”
Me to everyone I know after Boy George winked at me and waved goodbye to me at a party
“ This is Moby. ”
MOBY. ON THE PHONE. WITH (LITTLE OLD) ME.
Amendment: Moby is not as big of a tool over the phone (for ten minutes) as his media persona would suggest.
“ Oh yeah. That happens from time to time. You’ll see them pulling them out of the Thames in big fishnets. ”
Jan, who explained to me why the police finding a WWII bomb that hasn’t detonated is not as cool as I thought it was
Tomorrow. 5.45pm. I hope he doesn’t stand me up.
Bring your teacher to work day
In high school, I never thought I would be as embarrassed to be seen with a middle-aged white guy than my dad at junior orientation because I was younger than everyone else and couldn’t drive myself there.
Little did I know, more horrifying than parent-teacher conferences and more embarrassing than holding an adult’s hand when crossing the street is your teacher coming to visit your boss.
Unlike kindergarten, when the thrill of letting your parent (Lindsey’s biggest fan!!) meet your teacher (she teaches me songs!!) was almost like meeting Aladdin at a Disney theme park, letting your teacher meet your boss and having to sit in on the occasion is… unfortunate to say the least.
And awkward.
The worst of it was the picture taking ordeal. Just like with my first grade macaroni art, I held my front-page story up in front up me with a picture. Unlike elementary school, however, my smile was out of the humiliated laughter of defeat instead of the proud toothless grin of masterpiece.
Things I have learned:
-My dad really wasn’t that embarrassing afterall.
Answers I still seek:
-Why?
Withstanding coworkers giggles,
Lindsey
SATC Revamped
Much to my surprise and general amazement, my editor informed me today that the four of us (girls) should dress up like different characters from Sex and the City and recreate a chick-flick night affair, complete with shoe shopping in posh Chelsea (which the company will not pick up the tab for) and a night of clubbing Cosmopolitans in hand (which the company will pick up the tab for).
They had already assigned parts. And though I never thought I’d be grateful for my huge blonde hair, it earned me the part of Carrie. That, and the fact that I’m American so they think it’s funny. Whatevz. LIVING THE DREAM.
We will be recreating posters released for the movie, and my boss wants me to dress as “Carrie” (read: ridiculously) as possible. And maybe photographs of me sitting in front of my computer screen looking lost in love. So basically, my life.
Things I have learned:
-Big is beautiful.
Answers I still seek:
-Am I in heaven!?!?!
Bring on the book deals,
Lindsey Bradshaw… Alexander?
Waiting for Moby; No brothel; GBDB (Or, Bald men, unpopular men and the women who sleep with them)
Moby cancelled yesterday’s interview for ‘personal reasons’. The fact that it is noon there when it is 5pm here makes me think that reason was typical intellectualite wannabe DJ (i.e. ‘I am hungover.’)
Supposedly, the bald vegan will make contact with me on Thursday. If this were not a vaguely famous person, I would be all, ‘Oh hell to the naw.’
But since it is a vaguely famous person, and I am a shallow name-dropper, I will sit in anticipation by the phone and pretend to ask him serious questions about his current album, which is not as good as “Play,” which he will never live up to again.
I want to ask him if he just wanted to do a ‘fun’ album because he knows he will never live up to “Play” again, but I feel like that would not be appreciated, or at least not very cordial.
Also, last night, no brothel. But the reporter and even the creepy photog, who has a special place in his heart for the women of the night, said I missed nothing. Prostitution is legal in England, so since they were all there willingly, nothin’ doin’ on the news front. Or the exciting front. And no mention of transvestite Amy Winehouse lookalikes. So Spamalot was a good decision.
This morning I woke up at the crack of dawn and got lost in torrential rain London nowhere close to the scenic canal in Paddington where I needed to be, all to see Gordon Brown answer one question he had prepared a statement for. Because of my worthless efforts and the blisters on my feet from Prime Minister-appropriate heels, I have dubbed Brown GBDB. The first two letters are initials. The second two are an acronym.
My study abroad experience is bringing me to new heights in maturity.
Things I have learned:
-There is one nice person in London who gives excellent directions and will walk you to your destination without being creepy.
-Normally all of these qualities are mutually exclusive.
-Cobblestone + rain + miles + heels - youth = Still sucks.
Answers I still seek:
-Why is the author of Paddington Bear trying to make him political?
-Will I seem creepy at home when I stroll up to lost-looking people and drop my Louisvillian knowledge?
-When will I learn about heels?
Hobbling off,
Lindsey
