I’m sitting in a cool air conditioned hotel room in the Manchester Hyatt wondering if I should daub pro-gay graffiti on the walls to salve my conscience, but it’ll only get cleaned off by overworked hotel staff…
Landed in LAX earlier (with Antony Johnston, Antony Daniels and Gillian Anderson), got driven in by Pinguino (left) in return for British candy (“rhubarb is a candy now? OMFG jelly babies!!!”) by way of some excellent ramen, and an meting with an acidental intrider in her San Diego condo (Hi Rob, good luck gettin Futurama swag) and am currently thinking of dropping by Ben Templesmith’s bash with my roommate William Christensen.
I’m told he snores. Not after I’ve suffocated him with a gross of Bleeding Cool T-shirts, he won’t. Oh and thanks for the LA street furniture for the sign that made me laugh the most… does that mean what I think it means?
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