(She moved in circles, and those circles moved).

The ginormous demand^* for more content following my London adventure compelled me to choose darkness and start a weblog.

Not to fear, though: this won't be some daily journal with banal observations about life. My current affairs are rather private, and I must continue to keep secrets from different factions within my social circle. Otherwise, I might end up deliciously vicious, like these guys. Give it time.

WIIFY?
I've rejoined Netflix after a 4-year hiatus, because I can't stand to look at that snooty Kim's clerk one more time. I'll update my weekly film queue here. If anything piques your interest, let me know and we'll arrange a proper showtime. Our screening room features an LCD projector, a large movie screen, and a surround-sound system. Plus, I provide good snacks (just ask anyone who survived tonight's Chef's Scary Adventure).

^* Okay okay, five lukewarm requests.

Mind the Gap: return to NYC

Last night in Waterloo I met a Scottish painter at the OXO tower (swank bar/restaurant along the Thames). Mari and Richard brought me there, and I looked like utter rubbish after walking around all day walking through Portobello market, having tea at Harrod's, and eating DELICIOUS Thai food at busaba on Wardour St. (I am going back there again—I had the aromatic butternut curry!). The Frenchman Richard later commented, "I turn away for two minutes and she's talking to people already. It's amazing!" as if I do this all the time.

The Scottish painter was really annoying, but he introduced me to his "patrons," an Italian attorney named Mario and an Israeli-born anti-trust attorney named Eran who has been living in the UK for 13 years. Eran's also a photographer—and not just a dabbler—he has had exhibits in the Tate Modern. We talked for quite a while and he's a totally cool guy. He knows tons of people involved with the Armory Show and wants to put me in touch with art people in NYC. He had just spent the day in the East End going to various galleries. I gave him a copy of the magazine that I happened to be carrying around for Wilson, the theater director I had met earlier. When can I move?

Wine and fags in Hyde Park

I last left you with the news that I had told Sophia to show up at 2 PM the next day at the photographer's flat. It was already 7 PM and I had no makeup artist, no stylist, no hair person. Just the photographer and me. Understand that her LA agent had been told everything was taken care of: studio, photographer, style team, etc. I made phone calls to everyone. EVERYONE. I rang the previous photographer in Italy—3 times. I called her friend Henrich from Denmark. I rang several modeling agencies. I rang contacts from folks in NYC. I put an ad up on craigslist. I even rang the BBC photographer I had met the night before. Nothing. Everyone was booked. It was 9 PM.

I felt ill.

Stressed and lethargic—and such a tragic downfall from the previous night's festivities—I realized all the sandwich shops were closed, meaning I had to dine at a real restaurant. I decided to go to Wagamama's to dine alone and drown my sorrows in a bowl of hot ramen. I took out my notebook and scribbled questions for the disastrous interview. I hung my head in my hands for a while, and carried on with my research.

Another lone diner walked into the place; they seated him across from me, because of course lone diners must feel ashamed of their status and need to flock together. He apologized for the intrusion. I carried on with my notes. He read Time Out London. We finished our meals at the same time, and I thought, "Oh hell, I'm in a new city. Tomorrow's going to end the career that never began. I might as well have fun and meet new people." So I pulled out my A to Z and pretended to look confused and asked him for directions to the nearest stop. Much to my surprise, I discovered I had just introduced myself to a veritable West End theater director who has also put on several plays in New York. I told him about what I was doing, and he asked for my card. He said he could set me up with some really good actors for any upcoming issues. I got his info and took the tube home. Of course—I guess I've damaged some brain cells while out here—I didn't think of asking him for recommendations for stylists.

As soon as I got off the bus, I dialed his number. Normally in New York, I would never do this. He picked up and I blurted out, "Hello! This is the person you just met 20 minutes ago—I know this is strange, but..." He told me he was just about to meet with the production team for "The Producers." I gave him the 15-second rundown on what I needed. He said he would ask around. 15 minutes later, he rang back. He had found someone, and gave me her number. I rang her immediately. She had just finished working on a fashion show that evening and said she'd be delighted to do it for free. She added, "Well, if you don't mind, I work with a hair stylist named Christian, and if he could come along and do the shoot, you can get an added bonus."

You know that scene from the movie Love Actually where that British guy goes to the States to meet girls and the girls tell him there's only one bed to share and would that be a problem? Well, that was like my reaction. I almost wept for joy. Turns out they had another gig lined up, but she said this one sounded like more fun. So I now had my team. We agreed to meet an hour earlier to look at the clothes and decide on hair, makeup, and shots.

This morning I woke up very early and went shopping for stylist supplies. When I arrived at Andrew's flat, he introduced me to his friend Jaine, who is a stylist. She would be assisting us. I had been dreading the prospect of styling Sophia. She took charge of all the clothing, steaming everything and arranging different outfit possibilities. Andrew had also pulled some strings with his connections: he got us a permit to shoot at Hyde Park. These permits normally cost 500 quid. I pinched myself.

Sophia arrived on time, was a delight to work with, and looked absolutely stunning for the pictures. We shot a couple of photos inside the massive apartment (3-bedroom flat near Paddington) and then took it outside. Andrew's inspiration for that shot was the album cover for Power, Corruption & Lies. Then we all trekked over to Hyde Park—all 6 of us. I had a pair of Jimmy Choos tucked under my arm along with the Björk dress. Sophia requested we bring a bottle of wine to the shoot. I thought she was joking, but THIS IS LONDON! So in between breaks, she smoked fags and took swigs directly from the wine bottle. We all took turns. Andrew handed it to me but then said, "Oh, but Americans don't drink." I think I drank most of that bottle.

After four hours, we were done shooting. I interviewed Sophia back at the flat. She answered the questions easily, as someone very used to publicity and interviews would, but she still seemed refreshingly genuine and enthusiastic. She said she had a blast during the shoot, I took down her contact information, and we all said good-bye.

And after 3 interviews and 3 photo shoots in 5 days in a city I didn't know well at all, I feel like I've gained about 5 years of experience.

"This is real London, love!"

Last night I barely made it in time for the Conchords' show at the Albany, a comedy bar/club near the Great Portland tube stop. I had been dilly-dallying near Tottenham, munching on an "authentic" Belgian waffle (it wasn't). The Conchords put on a phenomenal show. At one point, Bret forgot his line and people in the audience shouted it out for him.

The radio programme recorded most of the show for part of the Conchords' mockumentary that will air in September/October. Much of this involved Dan, the panda (which is why they were shopping for a panda earlier in the day), who is another British comedian on the scene.

Dan, with his panda (for the BBC 2 recording).

After the show, I stuck around and Bret eventually came over and we chatted about the show. He was thoroughly embarrassed for having forgotten his lines, but took it all in stride. Then some rude groupie girl interrupted and I started playing "Battleship" (it's called "Naval Fleet" or something like that out there) on my mobile. Will, the spastic BBC producer, then approached me and exclaimed, "Nobody leaves this place without recording something for the Vox Box!"

The Vox Box are sound clips they play on BBC radio of regular folks about anything, really. For this recording, Will wanted me to say something very disparaging about the performance. I protested and told him my American accent wouldn't work well, and he said, "That's why we want you on!" So I ended up giving them two lines: "I had tickets to see 'Queen: the Musical' but that didn't work out, so I ended up here and couldn't get out." and "I'm from New York, and this performance was all right, I suppose, for here. It would never fly back at home, though" (spoken with utter disdain, which comes so naturally). Bret was nearby at that point and loved it. I was just going to say goodbye when he said they were going to get a bite to eat and did I want to come?

So Bret, Jemaine, Dan (the panda) and I all piled into a black cab—instruments and all—to Dean Street. Dan, a crazed, bearded, black-nerd-glasses wearing man yelled, "I'm going to show you REAL LONDON!" after we argued about the merits of London v. NYC. When we got out, I grabbed Bret's guitar (he carried his Casio guitar), and we all looked like a proper band walking down the street, except Dan was stuck holding the baby Fisherprice-like glockenspiel. We stopped by another comedy club and picked up John, another comedian who has a political comedy show on the BBC; he had been performing that night as well. People stepped aside for "the band" and I even had a groupie follow me for a bit—he grabbed my arm and I told him to sodd off (okay, I didn't say that exactly). We had a late night in Chinatown, chatting about a charity auction on the London Eye (people who win will spend their 30-min ride on the Eye with big music acts. And others will end up with the Flight of the Conchords, as Bret explained to me).

After some fantastic conversation (I haven't laughed so much in one day) and witnessing "real London!" John and Dan escorted me home. Bret & Jemaine told me they hoped to see me in New York. I promised to show all four of them "REAL New York" (I'll arrange for them to witness a stabbing or something).

Curry with the Conchords

1:57 AM this morning, London time: I am rudely awakened by the annoying ringer on my mobile as a result of a call informing me that the Sophia shoot is a GO! That just about ruined the rest of my sleep. All I had been looking forward to was a casual lunch with the Conchords followed by some book-reading in Hyde Park and a stroll through Notting Hill. I admit I had hoped the shoot wouldn't work, so I wouldn't have to interview this actress whilst playing stylist (I barely know how to dress myself—how am I supposed to dress her?). But now here I sit in a Tottenham Internet cafe waiting to hear back from agents out in bloody Los Angeles.

Last night I finally found my chip shop in Covent Garden and washed it all down with a beer. Part of the tube wasn't running properly, so I had to do some creative thinking to get back home. I haven't seen my hosts in days now, because I wake up after they leave, and I get home after they've gone to bed.

Today is another gorgeous day: breezy and cool in the 70s, but bright and sunny. Bret declared it to be "the most gorgeous London day of the year" and I believe it. I met up with him on the corner of Bethnal Green Rd and Brick Lane at 1:15. Jemaine arrived a half an hour late as promised. We found a curry house and they proceeded to order enough food for five people. Jemaine's all-meat diet proved challenging for my own, but we worked it out. They ended up taking back boxes of pakoras to the BBC building. After the very long lunch, during which I heard about a "split roast" (nasty details, and hilarious), what "roommates" means in Britain, and life in New Zealand, we strolled out to the street. We walked past a record store, and I told the guys I wanted to check it out and would catch them later on at the media/BBC recording show tonight.

After browing through the store for about ten minutes, I headed back out and took some back alleys through the East End. Suddenly, I heard my name shouted from the back. It was like reacting to my mobile ringer: "Who on earth is that? Surely that's some other Robin. I don't know anyone in London." It was them. They had been shopping for a panda for one of their upcoming skits. So we joined up again and decided to hop on the bus. We snapped photos on the second story of the bus and talked about Wellington until we reached Oxford Circus. So I'm heading over to the show tonight and the guys said we could possibly hang out afterwards. I told them I want to introduce them to the Boy Least Likely To in Brixton. I think they would all get along great!

All right, now I must get on with this research business in order to have some semblance of professionalism.

A private tour of the BBC building

Today I went grocery shopping at ASDA, since it's important to visit the supermarket wherever you travel. I picked up several packets of Hob Nobs, bottles of water, and chocolate. There I was accosted by a boorish fellow trying to speak Japanese to me (this is a global menace, really). When I didn't respond, he then switched to Chinese. I finally just held up my hand and said, "STOP." He did, and I walked away.

It has been a gorgeous day—70s, bright and sunny but with a cool breeze—a prelude to the English summer. Confident in my newly-acquired bus skills (I got off at the wrong stop last night and found myself in a dodgy neighborhood), I headed back to central London and rummaged through some records at Rough Trade (a hassle to find—it's in a basement of a skater shop off some sidestreet). Then I wandered north of Oxford Circus to meet up with the photographer.

Jemaine had pushed back our shoot to 5 PM. I was concerned he would be rather uptight, given his phone presence thus far. I wasn't exactly looking forward to the interview. Louise spotted them first—she says you can spot Kiwis from a mile away. They looked like veritable rock stars strolling down the street with their entourage and instruments. Jemaine introduced himself first. Then I introduced myself to Bret, who has gotten shaggier than ever (this is a guy who played one of the elves in LoTR). We exchanged pleasantries, and then asked if we could shoot on top of the Broadcasting Building's roof. It seems it's a very famous building, and everyone in the city knew about it except us. The building was used during WWII for radio broadcasts.

Anyway, enough of that. The BBC fellow signed us in and we got a tour of the place. First through the tea room. Then through more nooks and crannies. Up a spiral staircase. Through a strange doorway, and finally to the roof, where we set up. I chatted with Bret about Los Angeles, London, and New York. He told me about the show they're writing and the meetings they'll have in LA. Then the guys hammed it up for the camera. They needed no prodding. We're meeting for curry on Brick Lane tomorrow for lunch (curry! with two of the funniest people on the planet!), and I'll probably go to their show before heading to Brixton for TBLLT's gig.

Still no word on So-FY-ah. Just as well, the make-up artist I wanted to use had all $5,000 worth of her makeup stolen on Sunday. I'm bummed that the Jack the Ripper evening walking tour is booked up. Oh well, I am going to go eat something good for dinner now. I just haven't decided what, yet.

London Calling

I have just spent the better part of the day with Pete and Jof. We shot them in Clapham Common, south London on a grey and dreary English day. The photographer was keen about the weather and made the boys lie in the grass, even though all three of them have hay fever. They were good sports, though, and even brought props (vintage music mags).

The shoot was very short, for which they were thankful. After that, we wandered over to a pub. Pete and I had a pint of Guinness each, whilst Jof opted for white wine. We chatted about the record label, a fake wine-tasting club they've started (it's an excuse to drink), Urban Outfitters (it's strictly off the record, though), Pete playing 7 different instruments all at once, Jof falling asleep during recordings, hand-clapping, and pete's sister's sammich-making shop. They are clever, unpretentious, and fun. I plan on catching their show this Wednesday in Brixton.

Okay, I have the most annoying ringer on my mobile phone, and several times today when people have rung me, I've looked around in utter disgust thinking, "Gosh, what an annoying ringer. What a rude person. Turn off your damn phone." And then I realize it's me. It just went off twice in the computer lab.

Tomorrow is the shoot with the Conchords. I've decided that pints and interviews go very well. Now I must go find a chippy. All I've had today is a banana, an egg, and Guinness.