I’m in New York for work right now, and so far every meeting we’ve had has begun with someone saying, “You just missed the great weather!”
It’s rainy and windy, and the weekend is supposed to be worse. I’m spending my days working and my evenings working some more (teaching my online class). So I’m not exactly living the Sex and the City life, or, more lamentably, the Cheryl and AK Fall 2009 life.
(Although I have eaten some delicious and fascinating food at some of our meetings—I have new-found respect for snow fungus, ginko nuts, quinoa and winter squash. Not that it ever occurred to me to disrespect ginko nuts previously.)
But if I’m going to be trapped inside, I’m trapped inside the right place: Our Chelsea “guest house” is the cutest, queeniest place ever. (So much so that they have a completely different pricing and cancellation policy during Pride season.) The theme is classic movies, and every room has a different star’s name. I’m in the Sheree North room.
You know, Sheree North? Star of The Way to the Gold and No Down Payment and How to Be Very, Very Popular?
Yeah, I didn’t know either. But the posters around my room are educating me quickly. There’s a resident black-and-white cat named Charlie Chaplin (don’t call it a Hitler mustache), and the password for the wireless is Judy Garland’s real name. When the super hospitable guy at the front desk gave it to me, I was like, “Hey, that’s Judy Garland’s real name!” Which I knew from Geoff Ryman’s incredible work of speculative fiction, Was. But I momentarily flashed back to my undergrad years, when I prided myself on being a sixty-year-old gay man.
There are thick towels in the room, LOGO on TV and free chocolate at the front desk 24 hours a day. I’m not going anywhere on Saturday.