My London trip has been pretty surreal. When I checked into my hotel, the clerk seemed excited and upgraded me to the best suite. Upon checkout another looked up my name (I can never remember room numbers) and his spine straightened and he donned his extra-ingratiating smile. "Yes, I've heard of you," he beamed. Since he was around negative three when Chowhound opened, I assume there's some other Jim Leff on the rise somewhere.
And while I feel grubby drafting on his efforts, it's somewhat fitting considering that yet another Jim Leff drafted on my extremely minor fame in the 90s. There is a painter Jim Leff in San Francisco specializing in gay bondage-themed work, which assumedly has alarmed a series of googling ex-girlfriends over the years, who once asked me to send him my book so he could impress his mom with the accomplishment.
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