The mystery of the Polish waitress.

Not only is my hotel room incredibly posh, and equipped with a fax machine. Not only does it have super fast wifi and a video and a DVD player and Bose ampspeakerything that my laptop is currently jammed into, spraying forth the mighty GLC into the ether. Not only is there hair conditioner in the bathroom, which gets replaced every day. Not only is there a telly in the bathroom. Not only is there a rack of CDs for me to listen to, and a very comfortable dressing gown and a swively chair. Not only does not only start to stop making sense when you've typed it out too many times. But I have developed super powers. Serious! I think they're connected to my moustache in some way, but I also think I might be able to mentally detach them as t'were, and maybe still have them when the tache is unwaxed. I shall pop down to the bar after this and check.

So, I have been out, which is unlike me. Holly took me up a building on Friday, and we stood atop a roof and heard dual drummers fail to drown out a hipster (I love that word!) take on death metal. What were they called? Burmese, I think. Yes.

I spent Saturday atop another roof, this one in the middle of Manhattan, filled with poshers and free booze and food and boobs and babies. Babies are so dope in the context of a day party. Anyway. I had good hummus and met a bunch of safe clarts and saw Spiky and went on a mission. Bannana's brother, a fine southern gentleman called Charles and an animated and razor-spectacled chap called Kyle (who was raised a Mormon, but has only hung onto the Bigamist angle) and I dined on tiered mini Burgers downstairs, you know. It was there I noticed the super powers. We were all entirely amazed at our super powers. Then we went out, via another roof. And danced. And today I have a hangover. And tomorrow I start my working out stuff. I wonder if that will enhance these super powers. And I wonder if they'll work in the UK. I don't get hay fever over here you know.

Boy, I keep meeting young Bankers too. "What do you do?" asked one. "I make stuff," I said. "You?" "Stocks and bonds," he replied. "How's that working out?" I enquired. "How the fuck d'you think?!" he grinned, thickly. "WHOO HOO! TOP OF THE FUCKIN' WORLD!"

Mothboy sent me this, then. I laughed at it. And it is true. I am glad I am not a baban in Kansas. Intelligent design is about the least intelligent thing I can think of right now. Apart from Pat Buchanan.