Last week we had Ben's birthday party at dba in Noho (I assume there's something called Noho, since there's a Soho. One of the annoying things about NYC is the fact that saying stuff like that sometimes makes sense, and sometimes just has people looking at you like you're an ass. I get that a lot, anyway). It was a really nice bar - you can walk out the back and there's a covered courtyard with a bunch of tables and whatnot. I wish I had known about it before winter set in - that night it was a little chilly to be sitting outside. At least it was too chilly until a few dozen people showed up and I had a few beers, after which both the objective and subjective temperature increased. A good time was had by those of us that were there, but the occasion was marked more by the absence of certain people than the presence of others. Neither Christopher Lee or Ian McKellan's agents returned our phone calls (we were planning on dressing them both up in wizards robes and recreating the battle on Sarumans tower). And Kylie Minogue never got back to us, and she was supposed to jump out of the cake. Which on one hand sucked because we didn't see Kylie jumping out of a cake. But on the other hand, we were cakeless, having only a few boxes of cupcakes; and it's just not the same jumping out of a box of cupcakes.

I think this is a good time to mention that the cupcakes were yummy.

Went to see Rules of Attraction last night. Based on a book by Brett Easton Ellis, Rules of Attraction sucked. That's my 5 second review. Don't bother seeing in, unless you have a thing for Shannyn Sossamon (which now, all of a sudden, I do. As if my sisyphean obsession with Elizabeth Shue wasn't enough, I need to have yet another crush on a Hollywood starlet). It was interesting to watch a movie that was filmed the way Ellis' Glamorama was written; but since I thought Glamorama was a bad book, it was interesting in an annoying way. And a note about the next paragraph: although it starts with the words "So, I was in the bathroom the other day," it's safe to read. Strictly PG.

So, I was in the bathroom the other day, washing my hands. And it just so happened that I was listening to some music at the time (I had just walked in the office listening to my You-Know-What and had one of those 'Must wash hands' impulses). And I was getting my groove thing on, bopping around, dancing; call it what you will. And I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and I realized something that I believe is going to scar me for life. The way I move when I dance is not unlike the way The Man from Another Place (ie the midget) in the Black Lodge dances in Twin Peaks. And I don't even dress as well. It's a sad, sad thing; one that will probably keep me from attending the next party I hear about. Although now I have a great idea of who I can be for Halloween.

Well, that's enough of that. There is some real business to attend to for once. One about current housing, and one about future housing. I went on walkabout with Sam on Tuesday through Queens (after me cancelling on him once or twice last week and coming off like a total flake, I'm sure). We looked at a couple of two bedrooms. The first was pretty funny - we went to the address provided and 'talked' with some old lady for a couple of minutes. I put 'talked' in quotes, because neither Sam nor myself speak any Greek, and it didn't appear that she spoke very much English (although I suppose she could have been fucking with us, which would have been really funny). The exchange we had ended with me giving her $20, and her handing me a set of keys and pulling up her skit to show me the varicose veins on her legs. Which seemed to make sense at the time, but on reflection is pretty stinking creepy. Then we went to the place, which wasn't that interesting - pretty small. The best part about it was that it's only two blocks away from the Astoria Beer Garden. The other apartment we looked at was a ways from the subway stop (about a 15 - 20 minute walk). Really big, lots of rooms, but put together pretty strangely. Probably neither will come of either of those two viewings, but it was really good to be back looking at places.

And finally, current housing. My bedroom. My inner sanctum, my lair, the place I lay my head, resting place of my PC and depository of all my stuff. It's really stinking cold. Part of it is that fact that the windows (there are three) are old windows, and aren't very thick, and don't have the double pane glass that's so good for keeping out the cold. But most of it is the fact is that the walls are a quarter-inch thick, and have absolutely no insulation. Since there is pretty much nothing between me and the outside except what amounts to an opaque sheet of paper, it often ends up being colder in my room than outside (because the warming rays of the sun are efficiently kept out). Now, I'm not complaining. Wait, yes, I am complaining, but that's neither here nor there. They say experiences like that build toughness and character. Well, by my calculations, I have more character than three thousand Dungeons and Dragons players locked in a room for 4 years with an infinite supply of mechanical pencils.

It's not so bad on the weekends, because I'm one of those people (it's probably an evolutionary defense mechanism) who like the room really cold when I'm warm under blankets. But with the whole 'having to go to work' thing going on these days, it makes getting up in the mornings tough. My point bringing all of this up (other than the fact that I thought it was kind of funny) is that I measured the height of my blankets today. It's only the ides of October, and my blankets are rising 7 inches off the bed (without me inside). A quick set of calculations shows that, come my birthday (mid-February for those of you wondering when to send the gifts), me piling on the blankets will cause them to reach a maximum height of 3.5 feet. Unfortunately, at this height, the weight of the blankets will smother me one night, so you may as well make those birthday gifts donations in my name to your favorite charity.