Piers Brosnan in the tragi-comic role of a burnt out assassin who meets up with Mr Normal in order that we can be amused by what happens when their very different lives overlap. It made me laugh several times and I was intrigued all the way. I am sure he would not have been allowed to make this whilst still under contract to the Brocolli dynasty. "I shit you not Danny, Monte Christo?"
At first Julian was reluctant to get close to someone he didn't know.
But soon he was warming to her, perhaps Naked Cowgirl was different from other girls.
It didn't take long however, before the inevitable, difficult conversations started.
So the three stooges clamber out of the taxi at the hotel. We are a little, only a little disappointed in the hotel. Guy changes room though, so he has a view along the Queensboro Bridge, quite dramatic. It is interesting how important a view is to people, (even to people who don't actually appreciate the view for what it is). A large element of the price of a house can be what you can see when you peer out of it. I like city views, we decant from the hotel and head to Columbus Circus where we enter a tall building to emerge in the lobby of the Mandarin Continental Hotel on the twenty somethingth floor. There is a bar here and a spectacular vista from my seat looking along the seem between the south edges of Central Park and the concrete encrustation. 
A view makes you dream and I was dreaming of how it would be to live over the other side of the park in one of those handsome apartment buildings on Fifth Avenue, looking back here.
By the time we left Jane, our energetic waitress at the Hudson Hotel, our next venue, the view was a little wobblier. On her advice we were going for a burger somewhere in Greenwich Village. The taxi ride was a little surreal, the neon of Times Square was starting to take advantage of the sun's decline, my window was down and the nice breeze was necessary to maintain my focus. 
I can hear my TV trying to sell me the idea of staying in my room and ordering a film instead of venturing out into the city, over and over. After what seems like a long time, I decide I can cope with it no more, I jolt myself into consciousness and notice that I am face down on my bed still fully clothed. The alarm clock tells me it is three am. Although I have tunred off the tv, I struggle to sleep much more as my own clock tells me it is eight.
Eventually I go down to the lobby. Julian is there but no Guy. I go to his room but cannot rouse him. I persuade the hotel staff to open his door only after I suggest that he could be dead in there. He is niether dead nor alive. He eventually catches up with us in a diner, I don't quite believe his story about where he has been. Most of today is about different, smaller but still powerful views; mainly the Metropolitan Museum. There is much too much to see in one go in there. For me those two Rothko's were very conspicuous; biding there time is what they seem to do, hanging out with that other contemporary and much less scary work waiting for the day when who knows what. Julian is very much on duty and spends the longest there, I come in second but get tired eventually. Guy was soon off; to meet someone.
Dinner that evening was at a fairly posh steakhouse (Guy needed it after the previous night's down and dirty burger experience. He immediately hits it off with our waiter; "Who's in tonight?" "That guy over there with the much younger guy is Neil Sedaka".
After I got back from Baltimore the next day I had a quick look at the Momo which was bonkers busy and therefore no use to me. Dinner and a couple of bars and I withdrew leaving the other two to get on with it. At five the next day I would be heading for JFK and a flight to Vancouver.
Spot the man with political aspirations
Speeding through the early morning auburn landscape on a train from New York to Baltimore, headphones on, Boards of Canada 1969 tapping out the rhythm. The painted timber houses along the edge of the track all peachy hues in the low sun, cars and windows firing shots of bright white light into the carriage. I got up at 5.30 and by 6.00 I was out on the sidewalk cosmically ordering a cab. One lurched out from a nearby petrol station and rolled up next to me, I slid in and asked to go to Penn Station. The driver was sitting up straight at his wheel, oddly keen looking. "Am I your first fare of the day?" I inquired. "Yes", very African sounding, he turned and flashed a big smile at me. By the time I clambered out of that cab twenty minutes later, I knew quite a bit about him; Phillis, he said his name was. Twelve years ago he won a Green Card lottery, came to New York, got himself the required $470 000 loan for a cab driver's medallion and set about working 18 hours a day (except Sundays when he goes to church). Four months ago he paid it off; now he can rent out the cab for $800 a week and will use the money to go to school so he can get a better job. He is from Ghana and can't believe what good fortune he has had "anyone with a job and their health is very fortunate" he kept repeating. He should be on tv.
Tomorrow morning I will visit my local shoe repair shop where I will have a set of keys cut.
At some point in the day, I will board a train to Victoria accompanied by a small suitcase and my folding, folded A-Bike. En route I will flick through the Times and attempt to beat the recommended time for the Killer Sudoku puzzle.
On arrival at Victoria I will cross the station concourse and deposit my suitcase at left luggage.
Having unfolded my bike I will pedal across St James park in a Piccaddilly kind of a direction. There, possible uses of the next two or three hours include a Waterstone's visit, a meeting with Tim for a cup of coffee and a visit to a mole clinic. (You can aparently visit such a place and for £45 have a particular mole investigated; this is what I feel needs to be done as I am left unconvinced by my GP's appraisal of the itchy red mole at the top of my right arm).
At some point I will swing my leg over the saddle of my light weight transport and head to Chelsea where I will take in the ambiance before meeting Mig for dinner at 7pm (venue yet to be agreed). After dinner, (although he does not know the first bit yet) Mig will drive me to Victoria where I will collect my suitcase and from there to Langley near Slough, where my new keys will hopefully facilitate entry to Gemma's parents' house. The following morning at about 7.30 I will be magicked to Heathrow's 4th terminal by a local taxi driver (probably originating from the Indian Sub-Continent) where I will meet Guy and Julian.
After the minimum of hassle we will board a large aeroplane whose destination is New York. Whilst skimming through the air high above the Altantic we will be hatching a mini plan which will include bars, shops and museums for the nearly three days we will be in the place that is so good they named it twice. A taxi will take us from JFK to the Bentley Hotel on East 62nd Street (whose Expedia room rate halved after the recent 'increased security at airports' unpleasantness).
(The next bit of the plan will be filled in in due course)
On Saturday morning I will rise early and get myself to Penn Station where I will climb aboard Baltimore bound train. Once in Baltimore, I will have brunch with Neil and Holly and their two children Elizabeth and Ian before jumping on the a return train for the two and a half hour trip back to Manhattan.
After an anticipated saturnalian Saturday night I will part company with Julian and Guy, head back to the airport and sit down in a plane bound for Vancouver.
Several hours after reaching Canada, I will be joined by Gemma, my brother, his girlfriend Claire, and my Mum.
Two weeks in Vancouver, Jasper, Banff and surrounding areas including a train from Vancouver to Banff through the Rockies and an intimate experience with a glacier.
September 24th, fly from Vancouver to Heathrow.
There are horrendous things happening all over the world but I wish to report what has fallen short of expectations in my immediate area today. Had a meeting this morning that went ok but got irritated in the car on the way there because of the number of things in my pocket. I removed my wallet and placed it by the handbrake reckoning that would help. Half way there I was breathing like a grampus in the belief that my mobile phone was languishing at home, busily and blatently ignoring important calls. Found my mobile under my wallet but my gratitude was short lived as I quickly returned to my "number of things in pockets" fixation. After the meeting went for lunch at the Royal Oak in Poynings which is a favourite. Today (being bank holiday) there was a definite feeling eminating from the building of "brace yourselves, all we've got to do is make it through the day and we'll have record takings". This was at odds with the actual number of customers present, perhaps they were staying away in anticipation of it being too busy. My fish was a bit small and my chips not properly cooked. When our waitress asked if everything was ok, I explained my problem but she had not been programmed with a response, I might as well have piped up with "that's my brother-in-law, Billy-Bob; he's got the fastest boat on the river", when asked if I had enjoyed my meal. I was also aware of being a little distracted by an enormous man at a nearby table. He had been waiting with his (also very big) partner before the doors openned to the pub. As we sat down he was aleady installed at his table with four bottles of Coke and was wolfing crisps in a determined fashion. His entire meal seemed to be a kind of systematic assault on the dishes placed in front of him. It was chillingly impressive, the relentless dissection, the continuous movement, no talking, just chewing whilst preparing the next forkful, absolutely no rest. I tried to ignore this display but couldn't help myself. At one point I witnessed what I thought was the begining of a pause, but it turned out to be the moment it took to carefully scrutinise his knife before licking it end to end at a steady speed, a speed cleverly designed to maximise matter removal as well as time available to arrange what food remained on his plate, with croupier-like efficiency, with his fork. I am very slightly afraid, just recalling what I saw.
After driving home and doing nothing in particular for a while, we went into town and in due course Carluccio's. My macchiato was definitely not the Milano blend I had ordered and Gemma's cappuccino was effectively a cup of hot slightly soiled milk.
The top news story is that I had an email from Parcel Force yesterday afternoon. At first I thought that it was some kind of spam but on closer inspection I realised that it carried news of my new A-Bike (the latest brain child of that modern day hero Sir Clive Sinclair - I once saw him quite late one evening on Jermyn Street with a very beautiful woman) which I ordered a little over a month ago. Further probing took me to a website where I can track its movements. It left the "West London Hub" last evening and is currently awaiting collection from the "National Hub", wherever that is.
......there is an article about the funniest jokes in the world. One I had heard before was the one where someone rings 999 and says that he thinks that his friend might be dead, what should he do? "First let's make sure he really is dead" says the operator. There is a pause and then the sound of a gun shot. "He's definitely dead, now what"? That one was attributed to Spike Milligan.
The other joke made me laugh out loud in La Fourchette and the waiter gave me a disapproving look. A woman gets on the bus with her baby. As she is paying, the driver mentions that he thinks that she has the ugliest baby he's ever seen. Fuming, the woman sits down and announces to the person in the next seat that the driver has just insulted her. "That's terrible", says the other passenger "I'll hold your monkey whilst you go and give him a piece of your mind". Those were voted best in the world and best in Britain respectively. There was a best in England one but no best in Scotland one quoted; the England one didn't really do it for me.
I also noticed over the weekend that some advert or other suggested that if you called them to place an order "you could do it all over the phone". In my experience, once those buttons start to jam, no amount of fiddling with them will allow you to dial from that particular aparatus in confidence ever again.
A real achievement; this is a unique experience, not so much a film as a visit. Witness the fragility of these characters and recognise how delicate this whole banana of a life of ours is. We are in a bit of a Grand Canyon, Ice Storm, American Beauty and even Donnie Darko kind of a zone here but with the "should I be laughing or crying?" knob turned right up.
Unlike Mission Impossible, this film is an example of how to capitalise on more than just a name in the memory of your potential audience. But whilst the Miami Vice brand is evident, I think that it is quite daring of Mr Mann to push things along like this, it feels quite different, more contemporary, than Heat or even Collateral. The pace is modest (comparatively) and the viewer is invited to enjoy the slightly grainy cinematography. The beautiful and unusual shots (the traditional Miami Vice meat and veg) are still ubiquitous; nice cars and boats travelling fast or the city in crepuscular light, but it seems that more effort has gone into the feel of it. The acting is good; I liked the female baddy Isabella played by someone called Li Gong. Even the inevitable shooty gunny bit has been upgraded; sounding more John Simpson than Steven Segal.
I have read some uncomplimentary reviews, even one complaining about Colin Farrell's moustache (this viewer thought it was quite cool if a little too tidy) but I enjoyed this film. I had a slight problem with Crockett and Tubbs' boss; imagine the love child of Homer Simpson and Captain Doby (from Starsky and Hutch), but not so much as to spoil things.
I had promised to see it this week with Julian and so was feeling mildly guilty about going on Friday without him, but I felt better about myself afterwards as I enjoyed it sufficiently to see it again.
At 6am on the Sunday before last, once Gemma had sorted herself out after falling down the front steps (fortunately and amazingly no debilitating damage done), she and my dad and I set off for Paris. First stop Newhaven, to catch the Ferry to Dieppe. I have made this crossing a number of times, always on the now discontinued 2 hour Hoverspeed boat. The only service now is a 4.5 hour Transmanche Ferry. I had assumed that as it was so slow it would be big and posh. Instead we endured uncomfortable seats in a restaurant which we shared with people who made equal facility of both fork and knife to deliver food to their mouths. The fare itself is of the swimming around in greese type that went out of fashion a couple of decades ago. Don't get excited when the boat seems to arrive a little early, there is a half hour of manoeuverings before you can clank out of the hold on to the French tarmac.
Lunch was light but pleasant and took place in a little restaurant in Forge les Eaux, this time we were accompanied by people demonstrating reassuringly French wackiness; curly moustaches, loud checked jackets and the like.
Then a further hour and a half of driving through beautiful countryside; the weather was moody which gave the landscape a dreaminess. Eventually we migrated on to more serious roads for the last few tens of kilometers arriving in the banlieux below ground via those fantastic subterranean motorways before popping up somewhere between La Defense and the Arch de Triumph, turning right on to the Periferique for the last spurt to Port de Sevres, location of my brother's temporary home.
Our hotel had an arrangement with a car park beneath the Parc Andre Citroen , site of a former Citroen factory. This is a carpark where they play classical music. I reckon if one were to draw a Venn diagram of the clients of that facility and of Transmanche ferries, the area of the intersection between to two circles would be very small. In the course of sorting things out with the manager there, my French ran our of steam and I sought the assistance of a nearby couple. Fortunately, although from Torquay, he had lived in Paris for 20 years and everything became clear. His wife was Venezualan. If you have ever heard me banging on about my (not fully developed) shared soul theory, he is an "archetype", someone you feel you know even though you don't, charismatic and enigmatic. We bumped into them a further twice on our way to the Eiffel Tower. Did you know that it was the tallest construction on the planet when it was completed before eventually being overtaken by the Chrysler Building in New York?
The next day we ambled the streets of Le Marais enjoying the many cool shops before hooking up with my dad at L'Hotel de Ville and heading for the Centre George Pompidou. Adjacent to that visceral development is to be found the Atelier Brancusi. I recognised the name of an artist whose work was being promoted there: James Turrell. I was introduced to him (not personally) when I first took an interest in things Arizonan, he works with the land and builds craters and things. We visited his installation at the atelier and as we filed out, there was a video running about some of the works he has done in the South West of the United States. I might attempt a post on this subject later but for the time being I can share with you that it featured the area of "mesas" occupied by those Hopi Indians. Indeed, for one of his most famous works at Roden Crater, he collaborated with a hopi chieftan. Mr Turrell describes the Hopis as "sky people" because they live on these extremely dramatic plateaux. I found this so fascinating that I watched the whole thing through, attempting to take notes. I imagined how stimulting it would be to own a a dvd of the film. We decanted from there into Richard Rogers' vast atrium and eventually to one of the shops where a copy of the "Passageways" DVD found its way into my hand without my having even looked for it.
Painted-on clouds
Dinner would take place at Brasserie Flo where I have been many times. Located down a tiny street in a not particularly salubrious part of town, it is almost a charicature of itself. The waiters look like horror film extras. My brother and I both had the steak tartare (medium spiciness); you don't need breakfast the next morning when you've had that.
It's a burger Jim......
On the way there, as we approached the Balard Metro station, a young tyke snatched the twenty euros I was clutching in my left hand (and had intended to use to buy our tickets) and sprinted off. I have to say that I was quite pleased with myself about this; in my younger days this would have generated a knee jerk reaction in me which would have resulted in a ruined evening, even if I had retrieved those notes. However, it was not a big deal, after all, he could have taken the 200 euros I had had in my hand a moment before or worse attempted to relieve my 82 year old dad of his cash or hurt someone; I could go on.
Le Pont de Bir-Hakeim
Before running the gauntlet of the Champs Elysees the following morning on our way out of town, we took a walk across the Bir-Hakeim Bridge ending up at Trocadero before boarding the Metro for the last time and enjoying the view from that elevated section of line number 6 that goes from Charles De Gaule Etoile to Nation (recrossing the viaduct). The Croque Monsieur I had in Rouen combined with the ferry home gave me a nasty tummy.
It all worked out nicely considering Gemma might have hurt herself badly when she fell, the 20 euro incident could have escalated badly and I might have started to have diahorrea in the car instead of on my front steps.
