One-point-twenty-one whateverwatts.

Did anyone happen to catch the premiere of "New Amsterdam" last night? Was it worth it? I think I could dig that crazy time flux storyline. Plus, I'm a big pushover when it comes to following the (mis)adventures of Hugh Jackman look-a-likes.

We got dumped on by the weather last night and I find it funny that an event like that -- six-to-eight inches of snowfall -- can unify an office in common dissatisfaction. Anyone who has ever lived in the Midwest (or in a place predisposed to this kind of event) knows that the weather sucks this time of year. Snowfall up to your shins overnight. Sleet that covers your car in a matter of minutes. Highways coated with a layer of ice thicker than the frosting on Ruben Studdard's birthday cake. It's all normal. All expected. But every time it happens, we all put on the "shock and horror" routine -- like Rip Van Meteorological Event waking up from the long, drowsy sleep of climate ignorance -- and delight in the chance to bitch about the drive, the ice, the absurdity of living where we live. And everybody loves it. It's camaraderie via complaint. You could give birth to the messiah in the middle of the production department and you couldn't draw a bigger crowd with it than you would by asking a roomful of people to tell you how long it took them to snowblow their driveways that morning. Instant, solidified, shared interest. Of course, it's all relative. In the Spring we'll bitch about the rainfall; in the Summer we'll moan about the heat. I love it. People are so deliciously backwards.

I am looking forward to Spring. Spring, because Summer follows and before the long lick of Indian heat summoning the end of Summer, I'll be in Europe with Todd. I think I've had Britain on the brain lately: 'been dreaming about London and Jagger and all things provincially and stereotypically English. Not only there, but everywhere: Britain, Ireland, Scotland and France. I'm finally going to see Paris. I mean, my god -- Paris. People talk about Paris -- people live in Paris -- and I'm certain I could pick Paris out on a map if you give me a couple of chances; but Paris, Paris, Paris. The whole thing about travel, you see, is that when you're planted deeply in one place for your entire life, you come to see the places existing outside of it as supernatural. Products of a collective mythos that are on another plane entirely, the way movies are sort of a reflection of real life, but not really. People who live in places like Paris -- Paris, London, Prague, Budapest, Rio -- are somehow disconnected from you; 'walking on the ether that keeps them suspended three feet above the ground, a level unobtainable by "normal people." When you travel, you are temporarily assimilated onto this level and offered a chance to walk around on it -- walk around, drink, capitalize, flirt, and abuse verb tenses. At this rate, I don't think travel will ever become stale for me.

Unrelated:

Next dream job: designing the cover art for Arcade Fire's next album. ( Their other albums are absolutely brill )

'Phones and internet are intermittent today. We're completely cut off from the outside world, save for our personal cell phones. Because so much of what we do on a daily basis is tied to both, I'm not sure what I should be doing. I can crunch through some billing, I suppose, but that's only going to take me up until lunch. Some of the Webbies are even talking about taking their laptops over to Taco Bell so they can access the free WiFi in order to get some stuff done.

I could "do" some of those cinnamon tostada curls right about now.

Affirmative: we have shenanigans at Checkpoint Charlie

Cross-posted from a private post at ppthlegends_ooc:

( Spy vs. Spy )