"Oh son, your missus is a nutter."

Dennise emailed me yesterday to ask "what the hell is going on up there?" I think she was a little dismayed by the creepier versions of the opposite sex taking a sudden interest in me (see previous entry). Hopefully it's just a phase; it's hard work trying to dodge the roving hands of the creepy men.

I've been out five nights straight. My wallet is depleted, my liver taxed, my body sleep deprived, and I have a sneaking suspicion that there will be more beverages of the alcoholic variety later as it is my coworker's last day. Just say no, kids. Oh and I need to rest up before Beth gets into town on Wednesday for a round of NY fun.

* * *

I made progress in my campaign to add the word "akhenatenize" to the English language. Having spread the word on my nefarious plans for Phil Collins, people began offering their own ideas about who or what should be akhenatenized. The incomplete list is as follows. Feel free to add your own.

Jello
Ranch dressing
Britney Spears
George W. Bush
Penn Station
Escalades and Hummers

"Whatever point you're going to make is accurate."

I don't get it. Why is it that I have a litany of men who like me and want to take me out, but my batting average with the ladies is abysmal? Let us look at the line up of options here (includes a couple of Fleet Week edits):

Bowery Pay Phone Guy
Do you always offer random women your cell phone number? And why were you on a pay phone if you have a cell phone in the first place? You said I had a beautiful smile. I politely declined your offer, but was officially branded a "creep magnet" by Jane.

Canadian Airforce Man
I was so tired and ready to go home, but you saddled up to me looking for some action. Your Nova Scotian accent was cute and you were probably 20 years older than me. At least you were a gentleman.

Royal Navy Seaman
Though very good looking, you were so drunk you could barely stand up. You humped my leg, licked my face, and introduced yourself as Ben Dover from Nottingham. Thank you for defining the word class for me.

FedEx Man
Very good looking man, nice smile and build, always makes the flirty flirty eyes with me. I'll break your heart one day.

Pot Dealer
Thanks for buying drinks for me and my roommates last night. I really enjoyed your compliments about my smile, but I'm gay, which prompted you to ask, "So that means no men?"

Photographer
I really like the flirting and attention. Keep it coming, but know that I like girls.

Cab Driver
You asked if I was a model. If you weren't driving me back to Brooklyn, I would have thought you were blind. At least you know how to work a nice tip.

Construction Man
Yes I saw you wave and when you stared at me from your backhoe even though it was creepy. I smiled and kept walking.

Anyone spot a winner here?

"Big smile for me, Cinderella."

I've decided that I can't be witty at 10 am. The caffeine hasn't sufficiently mixed into my blood stream to make my mental synapses of any use. However there's something special about the last couple hours of the work day. It's too late to do anything really productive, but the right time of day when all the bile and bitter resentment has built to a magnificent crescendo and comes spewing forth in a torrent of razored criticisms and laments.

My coworkers have been eying me wearily as I use my scissors to shave off another curl of plastic from the end of my ruler. The proactive person that I am, I've been sharpening it in preparation of ritual suicide -- though it might be more poetic to just leave the end dull, but that would be the equivalent of trying to slit your wrists with one of those plastic knives that comes in the wrapped pack with the equally useless spoon, fork, and napkin. Useless and messy. Then again maybe the ruler is just a precautionary measure. I shall mount it over my desk in a glass box with a sign that says. "Break In Case Of Emergencies." That'll get their attention.

Oh but hark, I actually have work to do now that it's half past two in the afternoon. How generous.

* * *

Like a prodigal roommate, Fala came back from Texas for an extended visit (ie: till October) while she sits out the mandatory quarantine for her cat before he can be admitted into the UK. I have to say I really missed her even though she drinks my gin with Country Time lemonaid.

"Fitter, Happier, More Productive."

Game plan is to get a new job. As my brain slowly decays from disuse and I seriously entertain committing ritual suicide at my desk with a ruler, I have come to the realization that there is no other option. Sanity must be preserved. Asses must be kicked. If I have to beg for something to do one more time, I shall do a swan dive off the top of my building.

I need to lose this odd code of honor where I think that ditching a job after 6 months is bad form and disloyal.


Not a big rah rah lover Egyptian history, I am nonetheless fascinated by the Amarna period during the 18th Dynasty. It's an interesting story because the pharaoh Akhenaten decided that Egyptians would worship one god (Ra), moved the capitol to Amarna, and set about completely changing the culture of the time, specifically evidenced in the shift in the representation of Egyptian art. Then after his death -- and a couple of other brief successors -- Akhenaten was deemed a heretic, capitol moved back the Thebes, and all traces of his reign destroyed. Sculptures were smashed, his name removed from the official registry of kings, and references to his name chiseled out of hieroglyphs. Pretty thorough revenge if you think about it, however obviously not thorough enough since archeological evidence remained and we know the guy existed along with his wife Nefertiti. I even got to see a lot of this broken statuary when I was at the Met on Saturday. Nerd-tastic.

My point here, and it's pretty roundabout, is that Phil Collins is the devil's spawn. While I was on hold with one of our CSRs during my latest fit of boredom, the music blaring through my receiver was none other than Mr. Phil Collins (now referred to as PC). I shuddered and thought back to my shopping experience on Sunday when my ears were assaulted by not only PC, but the Pointer Sisters too. Holding back my immediate reflex to vomit, I pondered what sorry human being programmed the hold music with PC. So in the very long minute or so that I was on hold, I suddenly struck upon the idea that PC needs to be wipped from existence Akhenaten style. Every CD melted, master tape burned, every last musical publication sought after and his name sharpied out like the US Government does to declassified documents. And perhaps we can all envision a day when someone says, "Phil Collins? Who's that?"

Why this guy continues to be a blight upon culture is beyond me.

"Would you like a gift receipt?"

Can today be any more boring and tedious? Besides those PDFs I put online, I've had NOTHING to do today other than screw around on GU and fantasize about getting a new job. I even had the balls to contact the woman I interviewed with nearly two weeks ago to reaffirm my interest in the position only to get her out of office reply. Besides that disappointing email, contact with the outside world has been frightfully dismal. Even my lunch time purchase of gym shirts and gold flip-flops wasted a mere 45 minutes. I don't even have a happy hour to look forward to -- just a pile of dishes and an obligatory trip to the gym. And it's like 40 degrees outside, overcast, and windy.

This is the longest day ever.

* * *

Never a big lover of dogs, I have been surprised (dismayed) to realize that I'm starting to like them (!). I once previously mentioned in this blog that I even caught myself cooing over someone's spaniel in the elevator one day. What the hell? So last night I dreamed that not only was I the owner of a chihuahua puppy, but I named it Ben. And then the little shit peed on me when I picked him up.

Please let this not be a vision of the future . . . though I am slightly intrigued about the notion of being a chihuahua owner.

"Oh my God, Becky, look at her butt."

Filed at 9:28 p.m. ET

New York (REUTERS) -- In a long anticipated move, the Pentagon has reported the start of a fierce military campaign in the region of Gluteus. Operation Pantstootight* centered around the city of Heiny where US command is playing down reports of heavy resistance by the paramilitary Gluteal Liberation Army.

Long a center of anarchy, negotiations broke down last week with the GLA installed government when a last minute peace deal was rejected. The "Ass Crisis" began three months ago when suspected members of the GLA began border raids on Thigh and bombings in the capitol of Abdomenastan.

Speaking on behalf of the president, White House Press Secretary Scott McClellan stated that "the United States is very serious about rooting out all those who oppose liberty and justice."

The United Nations recalled its special envoy to the region after diplomacy failed to diffuse the crisis. UN Secretary-General Kofi Annan released a statement late Tuesday condemning the latest unilateral move by the US government as "reckless war mongering."

The Pentagon has reported no US casualties at this time.

* Translation: I went to the gym.

"Never give up. Never surrender."

I have to figure out what I did with my Galaxy Quest DVD. Did I leave it in the pub yesterday after lending it to them for movie night? Yes, too much Brooklyn Brown Ale was involved, but I do remember the bartender giving it back to me (at least he gave me the check), however a survey of my blue bag right now reveals the following contents:

Cellphone
MTA Unlimited Card
Wallet
Crumpled map of the Metropolitan Museum of Art
Paperback of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban
Checkbook
Black gel roller pen
Old receipts
Umbrella
Tin of L'Occitane shea butter
Makeup bag
New York City map
Netflix DVD ready for return (In Good Company)

No Galaxy Quest DVD. Hopefully it's either a) still in the pub or b) on my dinning room table with a pile of other crap I need to sort through.

Sigh. I have a headache.

"A photograph is a secret about a secret."

It was no great surprise when it began pouring on Saturday evening; the eerie yellow light that bathed the streets of my industrial park neighborhood was enough of an omen. And when I went out for a quick run to the local bodega for beer and tortilla chips, the dark skies in the west reminded me that I only had a slim margin of time to get back home before the rain began. The interesting bit was that it was still blue skies in the east.

During the hurried three block walk and back, I saw people on their roofs looking out towards Manhattan and cheering on the impending thunderstorm. There was enough of a view of the west to see the distinctive black band of clouds on the horizon. If I could only get up to my roof in time, I'd be able to get a great view. Back at the loft, I grabbed my camera and Jane and headed up to see the show -- Manhattan had completely disappeared behind the curtain of clouds and rain moving into Brooklyn. Normally I am able to see the Empire State Building, but it too was reduced to a faint outline on the horizon surrounded by crackles of lightning. Pretty freakin' cool.

* * *

Earlier I went to Met, keen on seeing the Diane Arbus exhibit and getting out of the loft. After two hours getting lost and barely finding the exhibit, I went outside, sat on the steps, and read my Time Out. Then I took a bus that ran all the way down 5th Avenue to Astor Place. Good times. It was my first time on a NYC bus! I texted Dennise to let her know of the momentous event.

"You've been to Coney Island?"

Well if Holly doesn't like me, at least I know there there's a NY cab driver who thinks I'm hot shit. We were barely out of Alphabet City when he breaks out with this gem:

Cabbie: "Are you a model?"

Me: "Am I a mother?" I wasn't sure if I heard him right. Did he not see that I have the biggest ass known to man?

Cabbie: "Are you a model?" he repeated.

(Cue incredulous laughter)

Me: "No, no, I'm certainly not."

Cabbie: "Oh. You're so beautiful. I was just slowing down to tell you so, but then you wanted a cab."

(I. Have. The. Biggest. Ass. Known. To. Man. Cause of international incidents. Didn't you see that, buddy?)

Me: "Well thank you."

(Side note: this guy was in his 20s, so it was not like I was getting compliments from someone old enough to be my dad)

I've had a shitty week and have been depressed, but thanks Mr. Alam Imran for making my night, even though I told you I was gay and you still wanted to pick me up in your "other car" and bring beer to drink. You made a valiant effort. I almost left my shoe shopping purchases in the back of your cab, which prompted you to say, "It's a sign from God."

Oh yes. Yes it was.

"WARNINGS! I AM A ROBOT!"

Break out your faux Burberry tracksuits and imitation bling, 'cause come May 30th, I'll be seeing Goldie Lookin' Chain at the Bowery Ballroom.

What? Who?

I know GLC, a Welsh rap group (yes I just said Welsh and rap in the same sentence), are known to about 1.9% of the American population, so much of the humo(u)r and references may be lost here. But these are the makers of such international (UK and Ireland) hits as "Your Mother's Got a Penis" and "Guns Don't Kill People Rappers Do."

It's chav time, boys and girls.

"You're going already?"

Some Random Thoughts

Why is it that the street by my loft has become a magnet for abandoned mini vans?! In addition to the one I spoke of back in March, two more have since arrived in the last week. 311 moved one of them (or someone), but I am still waiting for the white mini van (seen above) to get towed away. That said, I managed to get photographic evidence and since have decided to catalogue more of my grievances with the neighborhood.

* * *

Flip-flops in summer: Good

Flip-flops in New York: Bad

After wearing my flip-flops all day yesterday, I came home to discover that I had the dirtiest feet in all five boroughs. Cue some determined scrubbing with bath gel and a poof.

* * *

Horrified by a chance glimpse of my ass on CCTV, I made a decisive strike in the escalating Ass Crisis: I joined the NYC Parks Recreation Center in Chelsea. Yes the fitness room is tiny, but the membership was $75 and I figured it was a good place to start. Too bad it's all the way in freaking Chelsea (W 25th and 9th Ave).

While filling out the membership form, I came to the question where they asked who to contact in case of emergency. Even as a 26 year old, I still have to give pause to this question. I can't put my parents down; they live in Maryland. I live in a city of 8 million where I only know like four people, so who do I put down as my emergency contact?? Have I gotten to a point in life where my roommate is the best I can do for an emergency contact? Seems sad.

"If you're lonely, you know I'm here waiting for you."

For some inexplicable reason I woke up in a really good mood this morning, a little tired (blasted lychee martinis), but doing a sort of mental zipadee do dah as I walked through the sun soaked shithole that is my neighborhood. It was as if I had some sort of great perspective on my life and suddenly everything was making sense -- my job, my lovelife (or lack thereof).

I have to confess to doing a tarot reading yesterday (you have my permission to roll your eyes). Was the tarot reading's outcome the source of today's good mood? Not sure, but the cards did say that I am on the verge of a period of prosperity and that a new opportunity is coming my way blah blah blah. The cards also said I need to stop stalling on things and just make a decision even if it's the wrong one (Holly? New job?). I know, a tarot reading was obviously not a very scientific thing to do, but if things suddenly go on the upswing, you can say you heard it here first.

I went out for lychee martinis last night with Holly (you have my permission to roll your eyes again) and I think I am starting to understand this whole dynamic here: she sort of just got out of a relationship, has disparaged herself as quality GF material (the whole "I'm crazy." response and others), but still makes comments that hint that she wants me around long term (like last night's one about me going to Michigan to meet her family). I think she's being cautious because she doesn't want to get into a relationship only to fuck it up.

Have you finished rolling your eyes? Why you may ask am I even bothering? Faithful reader Heather tells me to "move on" -- fair advice. The reason is that I'm stupid, tenacious, masochistic, stubborn, and always one to see something to the bitter end (I'm a Scorpio afterall). I like this girl because she's beautiful, smart, dorky, and we're amazingly simpatico on many things. So why the hell don't I tell her so? Because in addition to being tenacious, I'm a chicken shit.

So there.

"Maryland hearts you."

When Jane and I reached Union Square to switch to the 6 train, it was apparent that she couldn't stand my sullen silence anymore. It's true, I really couldn't shake the sense of despair that creeped into me during the course of the work day -- the sense that every time I try to do my job I get thwarted in some way. Welcome to my mental obsession.

Jane: "You're going to cheer the fuck up, have a tasty beverage or two, and enjoy the concert tonight, okay?"

I gave her a wan smile and agreed to be in a better mood. With my flip flops on, I could see my retro-red toe nails -- a reminder of my pedicure and earlier attempt to cheer myself up. Clearly it hadn't worked.

Jane and I were on our way to see Kasabian at the Bowery Ballroom, and after a couple beers and a rocking show (K-I-L-L), I was in a much better mood. We took a cab home and decided on a night cap at Life Cafe where we got sucked into the end of Shawshank Redemption. It was 2:30 am by the time I got to sleep.

Yawn.

"Season Finale. Double Feature."

If my life were a sitcom, this would be May Sweeps, the time when networks throw out all the stops to wow and captivate their audiences. So if fate is the network, I am some tool of an actor starring the comedy/tragedy that is my life. Let's review the highlights a little.

First there was the will-they-or-won't-they dynamic between Holly and myself with a little dash of bartender flirting and then there was the will-I-or-won't-I have a job anymore sprinkled with the two recent interviews I've had with separate companies. Too much drama for you? Yeah me too.

Even though I proclaimed in a previous entry that I was done with Holly, I had her over to the loft for dinner on Saturday. Inspired by my recent cooking class and an unplanned trip to an Italian market on Lafayette Street, I cooked gnocchi, tagliatelle, homemade alfredo sauce, salmon, chicken, and caramelized pears for dessert. And let us not forget the two bottles of wine consumed between Holly, Jane, and myself. I felt a bit like a cooking goddess, so hopefully my skills made an impression on Holly.

Maybe I threw in the towel too soon with her and maybe I need to try and get things between us spelled out, but even Jane commented that Holly gives off a reserved vibe.

I'm too depressed to live. Perhaps I'll get a pedicure.

"A chef has to have a passion for the libidinal pleasure of eating."

When Jess and I showed up at 6 pm, I noticed something familiar about the chef teaching our Essentials of Mexican Cooking class. Jess, far more astute than I, immediately recognized her from Mario Batali's team on Iron Chef. It was good to know that we were in seasoned hands.

The class lasted until 10:30 and during that time the original fifteen paired off into groups of three. My group worked on the chili poblanos rellanos, guacamole, huitlachoce con calabacitas estilo queretaro, and churros. Helping us with our cooking was the liberal flowing of mango margaritas and beer provided by Chef Anne. I got to learn how to hold a chef's knife properly, dice onions the correct way, an caramelize them. Later when the cooking was over, we got to feast on our results, which also included Mexican wedding cookies, shrimp in pumpkin seed sauce (oh my god yum), green corn soup, homemade tortillas, and tamales. I was so ungodly full by the end and it was a nice way to end a rather shit-tastic week.

And I got to go home with leftovers.

"This is our worst nightmare."

Well, where to start. I've quite possibly had the worst three days of my career. Tuesday was the Major Fuck Up That Shall Not Be Named, Wednesday I got spanked over it (hello, I'm not your scapegoat!), and Thursday . . . drum roll please
. . . the Major Fuck Up happened again with our other magazine. What are the odds?!

So I spent Thursday morning waiting to be fired, but it didn't happen. Since I'm not stupid enough to be the root of two mirror catastrophies, I think I might be off the hook a little. But the day was excruciating nonetheless. And since I have the habit of replaying events in my head over and over again with obsession, I conducted imaginary conversations where I made impassioned defense after defense to my bosses as to why the Fuck Up was not my fault.

Utterly defeated emotionally and psychologically, I bought a lot of beer (the very yummy Eye of the Hawk) from the organic bodega by my place, drank said beer, and then went to the pub to drown my sorrows in cheap tequila and hang out with the owners, James and Kelly, and other assorted artists/photographers. The booze caused me to wake up at 4 am and since I was unable to get back to sleep, I got to obsessively relive the past three days some more.

Let us all take a deep deep breath.

* * *

Today was my job interview for a design position in midtown. How's that for contrast? My life is a roller coaster. I think it went well, liked the work that they are doing, and I liked the design director there. So I just hope that I can get the hell out of my current position on my own terms.

"Oh dear, is this the end of my career?"

So when life turns utterly shit, it's always good to watch a little Bridget Jones since I'm always interested in watching someone who's more incompetent at life than I. But what the fuck! She gets far more action and gets to go to freaking Thailand. That bitch. Oh but wait, there's that Thai prison bit and she teaches everyone the lyrics to "Like A Virgin" so she's not a bitch after all.

Bare with my by bit of schadenfreude here. I'm enjoying my view of the bottom.

Awww . . . but she gets (back) with Mark Darcy in the end. My cold, stone heart is melted revealing the girly girl that I am.

"Straight lines to bad lands."

I've decided to give up on Holly. If my life were a sitcom, we would be a storyline of unfulfilled romantic potential providing enough titillation to get the viewers hooked before taking on a separate story arc. But I should clarify that by giving up on Holly I do not mean that I'm giving up on friendship, it's just that I am not getting a lot of reward/feedback for my efforts. Who knows . . . maybe something will happen down the line, but for now it's time to concede defeat gracefully.

Speaking of conceding defeat, I totally got read the riot act at work today over the Major Fuck Up That Shall Not Be Named. Basically I'm on really thin ice, which is not fun. But hey, if my interview on Friday goes well it will give me a chance to get the hell out of there.

Or maybe I'll just run away and join the circus.

"We have a major problem here, guys."

What an absolute motherfucking nightmare of a day. Everything seems to be going four different kinds of bad with a major fuck up at work leading the charge. It may not be my fault, but I can't help but think that the bosses think that I am guilty by association.

Good god.

Let us cast our gazes upon last night's movie night at the pub (yes, I went to the pub AGAIN). I somehow sat through four hours of Star Wars (Episodes IV and V), but I was there for the beer, the bread pudding, and the camaraderie after all . . . and I was there to hang with Cat the bartender. Shortly after I arrived with Jane, Cat slinked up to my barstool and asked when I was going to invite her over for the margaritas and gourmet cooking that I mentioned the last time I was there. Now if only Holly were this forward. I smiled back at Cat and promised her that it should happen soon while the weather is nice. Later Jane said that Cat flirts with me a lot more than Holly does. Harrumph. At least I left the pub that night with Cat's email address. Hurrah! Should I mention that I'm supposed to go out with Holly tonight to an art show. Oh yes. I am bad.

Also I should mention that I have a job interview on Friday with another company who found my portfolio on Comm Arts. The wheels of change are turning.

"Big mistake falling for a first class rake . . ."

I've been spending too much time at my local pub and I even reiterated this on Saturday night to the pub's owner.

Owner: "The Universe wants you to be here. There must be a reason why you are here."

New Age speak aside, perhaps she was right. Not only was I was shamelessly getting to know Cat the bartender and playing the "Make a Random Drink for Me" game, I was also getting to know the owner's British husband (boyfriend?). He told me of a two bedroom floor-thru just two stops down the subway line where the owner was looking for the "right tenants" to occupy it. Who knows, though a tad bit fortuitous since our lease is up on the loft in July. I gave him my number and email address.

So that was my Saturday night. Sunday I moped around the house for lack of concrete plans or anything exciting to divert my attention with. Plans I had with Jess fell apart and I sulked by reading some Harry Potter. My mopiness even spilled into today when I came to the conclusion that I Hate Everyone, especially Kinkos . . . but that's another story.

In case any of you were wondering what the deal was with Holly, I tried to breach the subject with her on Thursday. Both of us had had a lot of tequila and I tried to suavely (drunkenly) ask "what we were doing here." Results were mixed and inconclusive. She kept saying, "I'm totally crazy." When I asked for clarification, I could tell that we were sailing into awkward conversation territory. I steered us back towards neutral ground and decided that this is going to have to be a concerted effort on my part . . . unless she is just trying warn me off. Hmmm.

And then I read my horoscope for today:

The Bottom Line

What's wrong with this picture? Find the tiny problem before it grows.

In Detail

Getting close to someone isn't an easy job for any of us, but it definitely becomes more difficult when you're wise enough to know not just what closeness entails, but exactly what you're risking to give it a try. You, of course, are quite familiar with all the highs and lows of intimate relationships, so when you decide to take one on, it's a tremendous compliment. You may have found someone who also understands all of this. Let them know how much they're appreciated.

"Help Me Find My Owner!"

This is my L subway ride home from work yesterday.

1. Standing up on the train, I have a clear view into the next car ahead. There is some guy doing a magic show, which has all the trappings of the trade including a white dove. It is one of the more inventive forms of busking I have seen.

2. Not too long after the guy finishes the show, which is right before we hit the Bedford stop, a fight breaks out in the car. All I see is some guy in a white hoodie laying punches into someone seated. People flee the fight by coming into my car and I can't help but be mesmerized by the odd turn of events. When the doors open at Bedford, the white hoodie guy runs off.

3. The guy who gets punched -- early 30s, probably a professional coming off work -- is understandably agitated. After a minute or so, he is up and pacing the car. Even though I cannot hear him, it is obvious that was talking loudly and gesticulating wildly. In typical New York fashion, the passengers -- those still left in the car -- are doing their best to ignore him. I fully expect him to get out at the next stop since he is hanging out by the door, but when the train stops at Lorimer, he stays on. More pacing ensues and then leaves for the next car ahead.

4. When I get out at Morgan, someone (yes, a human) has taken a shit in the corner of the station. The only reason I notice said turd is because someone has posted a big sign that says, "Help Me Find My Owner!" with an arrow pointing down.

5. There is some strange decapitated African statue sticking out of one of the dumpsters on my walk home.

6. There is a dead white and black bird at the corner by my building. It looks as though it had been hit by a car. Upon closer look, the bird is clearly alive because I see it blink.

"Going back to 1848 . . ."

Happy Cinco de Mayo everyone (aka Election Day in the UK).

Recently while sitting on a Manhattan roof and sharing the last and only bottle of Corona Lite with my friend Jess, I did my best to explain the Oregon Trail computer game to her. Neither myself nor her roommate could believe that she had never heard of it. I mean come on! Classic childhood computer memories!

"Oregon Trail wasn't an overly difficult game by any means, but at the same time, it had an aesthetically addictive quality to it. The game was so simple to figure out from the get-go, yet a nearly endless number of combinations of disasters and misfortunes could present themselves as you traversed the trail...."

Do any of you remember playing Oregon Trail? I was always the sad sucker who's child died of dysentery or worse yet, the one who's entire family drowned in the Columbia River due to a capsized raft. Christ, that was some good education times.

"I would like a beer and a sympathetic ear."

My Sunday Night

Cat: "I heard you had a hot date last night."

Me: "There was nothing hot about it."

Cat: "So is she your girl?"

I got the keen sense that she was fishing for information.

Me: "Who the fuck knows. It's undefined."

As I flirted with Cat the bartender, whom I once ran into at a lesbian bar, I realized that this was what I was missing with Holly -- a sort of reciprocation of body language, a silent confirmation that reads, I fancy you.

I gave her a genial smile.

So here I am trying to shamelessly flutter my eyelashes at Cat when a drunken asshole named Matt is doing his best to chat me up. Matt is a budding comedian who gets his material by trolling though an online message board trying to wind up the other posters. I ask him how long he's been a comedian.

Asshole Matt: "A month," he replies drunkenly.

Me: "A month?"

Asshole Matt: "No wait. I meant a year."

I'm not sure if this is a freudian slip or not.

Asshole Matt: [lists all the comedy shows he's doing this week]

Me: "I'm sorry. I'll be busy promoting my homosexual agenda."

Asshole Matt: "You're gay?!"

Matt is probably a former frat guy. He has that air about him. And his eyes are lighting up as drunkenly remembers every piece of lesbian porn he ever jerked off to. Lovely.

Asshole Matt: "I knew that. I knew that."

Me: "Sure you did."

Asshole Matt: "So I guess I'm not getting lucky tonight?"

I grabbed a salt shaker and threatened to pour it into his eyes.

"He who sins first kicks the first ass."

On Saturday evening, I grabbed some dinner and some beer with Jane at our local pub. Seduced by the television over the bar and the crap VH1 programming, we nursed our beers and watched the Surreal Life while occasionally I would take a moment to flirt with Cat, the very cute bartender. She would flirt back . . . which was nice.

Holly called me in the midst of this to ask me to have lasagna with her at her brother's place. Hurrah, I thought. Maybe this will be a makeup for the lack of action I got on Friday. I hurriedly settled up my tab as Jane gave me a pep talk with comments on what I should wear for dinner and I noticed that Cat was paying attention to this little exchange.

* * *

When Holly and I reached the top of the narrow stairs, we were greeted with the smell the lasagna coming from the apartment ahead. Once inside, I can only say it was as though I suddenly entered Borgin & Burkes in Knockturn Alley (from the Harry Potter novels). The walls were red, the exposed beam ceiling painted black, and every inch of the walls and ceiling hung something from pictures of medical dissection, skulls and mismatched light fixtures to Victorian medical oddities preserved in formaldehyde. It was amazing. Later Holly and I sat up in the loft drinking beer and watching her brother and his friends get on with their sculpting. When it got late, we kept with the horror show theme by going back to her place to watch Ringu.

Nevermind the movie. I was expecting something more out of our trip back to her place. Perhaps a little making out? But apparently the gods had other ideas. We watched the movie on separate chairs, and when it was over I tried to get a car service back to my place in an attempt to retain some of my dignity. Unfortunately car services don't like picking people up in Bed-Stuy at 3:30 am, so I stayed over and slept on the air mattress.

Clearly Holly and I must be on different wave lengths.