The flight home from London was a breeze although the movie selections were predictably lame. It was seven dead hours with nothing to watch. Mrs. Wife watched Notting Hill for the 137th time and also Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day, which she liked. Our other boffo selections included Forrest Gump, Indiana Jones and the Death of a Franchise, Sense and Sensibility, The Cell, The Cell 2 (wha ?!), and The Cable Guy. Urp.

I finally broke down and watched Speed Racer. Christ. I’m glad I didn’t slap down $12 to see it. Would you like me to summarize the experience for you? Blink your eyes as fast as you can while violently whipping your head from side to side until you have a massive headache and a sore neck. There. It’s too late for me, but I just saved you 135 valuable minutes of your life.

I must have been oxygen deprived from the altitude because I actually became involved in the story. Here’s the O. Henry twist: I started watching it so late in the flight that I missed the ending. They shut down the in-flight entertainment system just as the “big race” was about to begin because we were about to land. I was crushed. Does anyone know if Speed won? And what of Racer X? Does Speed find out that he is actually his older brother, Rex Racer, whose identity was hidden from Speed by a full-head mask and cosmetic surgery? (Oops. Sorry about that.) Did Pops Racer sell Racer Motors to Royalton Industries? And, most importantly, did Christina Ricci, John Goodman and Susan Sarandon laugh uproariously while cashing their checks, or did they actually feel some pangs of remorse? If you know the answers to any of these questions, but are too ashamed to admit it, you can always post them anonymously.

Here’s an appreciation for contemporary author and recent suicide David Foster Wallace from the New York Times. Would it be in poor taste for me to tell you the story about how that guy treated me like a piece of dirt at a book signing a few years ago?

Yes, it would be.

Mrs. Wife and I boarded our plane at London’s Gatwick yesterday morning after a very satisfying holiday. When we deplaned in New York later in the afternoon, we walked into a 504 point Dow Jones meltdown and 85 degree heat. 85 degrees in the middle of September is just so wrong. (Come to think of it, a 504 point drop in the Dow seems pretty wrong, as well.) I can hardly wait to see how everyone at Benevolent Dictators, Inc. is taking the news. We announce our earnings tomorrow, so that should be a lot of fun.

I tend to suffer from post-vacation sadness. I know that everyone does, but I think I take it a bit harder than everyone else. While there are aspects of my job that I enjoy, a successful vacation always reminds me that if I had the freedom to do anything I wanted, it wouldn’t be commuting into the city to sit at a desk. Unfortunately, I have too many responsibilities to just chuck it all and try something different. Some are lucky enough to live their fantasies. It seems that most of us have to make do with occasional bliss.

Mrs. Wife turned me loose on Cecil Court, which is the epicenter for rare book dealers here in London. It’s a hornet’s nest of trouble for someone with my proclivity. I was just going to “look” because the exchange rate is so abysmal that it doesn’t make sense to buy anything. Yea, right. Two hours later:

● A signed first edition of the script from Fever Pitch by Nick Hornby. (In paperback. There was never a hardcover issue.)

● A signed UK hardcover first edition of Oscar and Lucinda by Peter Carey

● A copy of Intrepid—a poetry mimeo journal from 1967 with an appearance by Charles Bukowski

● A signed hardcover first edition of Purple American by Rick Moody that has a wrap-around promotional band advertising the paperback release—a real oddity!

The first step is admitting…oh, never mind.

As I mentioned earlier, I saw The Female of the Species and loved it very much. I was going to attempt to describe how good of an actress Sophie Thompson is but, thankfully, Bob said it far better than I ever could.

We went to the big Ian Fleming retrospective at the Imperial War Museum. I know for a fact that the vast majority of you, the reading public, probably wouldn’t be the least bit interested in spending an afternoon ogling—no, salivating over—a complete set of first edition Bond novels in perfect dust jackets along with (are you sitting down?) many of the original manuscripts and many other sundry literary items, but I was in heaven. There was some movie memorabilia that was kinda fun but the bulk of the exhibit focused on Fleming’s literary output. How did he ever get away with calling a character Pussy Galore? In 1959?! Pussy Galore was a lesbian who worked for Goldfinger. She was converted to heterosexuality by James Bond’s superior lovemaking skills. They don’t write ‘em like that anymore! The exhibit was so good that I might ditch Mrs. Wife tomorrow and see it a second time. That wouldn’t be too crazy, right?

After the low-art of Bond we went high-end at the Courtald Galleries. It was an unexpected surprise. Who would have suspected that such a small, unassuming gallery would house such a spectacular collection of Impressionist work? They have a Cézanne exhibit which was okay, but their permanent collection is a real smack in the kisser. It includes Manet’s most famous work, A Bar at the Folies-Bergère…

…along with van Gogh’s Self Portrait with Bandaged Ear. Also, a big room full o’ Rubens, if you like that sort of thing.