Another day, another dollar. Man, I wish that were true. I mean, it is true in a sense (I do go to work just about every day, and I do get paid for it), but what I mean is that I'd really like to get paid for writing this blog, and working on alltooflat. Of course, if that were the case, I'd almost definitely be fired, and right quick. I wonder what the reason given would be? Dereliction? Probably sexual harassment, although a strong case could probably be made for gross incompetence. In fact, that's definitely how it would go down. "Mr. Bromberg, were you a strong worker, getting your entries in on time and being consistently funny, we'd be willing to overlook your little indiscretions with the night staff. But between your jokes failing like the Dukakis campaign and the fact that we found you with a pair of underwear on your head in the office, I really think it's time for you to pack all your stuff up." So it's probably for the best that this is gratis.

Also, there's no way in Hell I'm giving up my underwear head gear when I write, so the whole thing is a non-starter.

I was reading the blog of an acquaintance of mine, who was discussing her new kitten (which I can say with a high degree of certainty is the cutest kitten I've seen in about 5 years), and how she got it (trip to the shelter, do I get a dog or a cat, "Oh, my, that fruitbat looks promising"). And then I realized that my web browser started to show me ads based on what I was reading, and it's since gotten stuck. So ads for things like "Puppies and kittens" and "Hunt-N-Dogs Estates" are constantly at the top of my browser. Which on one hand I like because it means the powers that be (the Corporate Amalgamation For World Domination, the Network, the Illuminati, take your pick) are getting false information about my interests. But on the other hand, it's really embarrassing, because now people at the office (which is where I was reading the blog) now realize that the reading I'm doing is not only not about programming, but it's about something really wimpy. Totally ruins my rep. Well, it would ruin my rep, if I had such a beast to ruin. In actuality, I have no such beast. Maybe I do. But my rep at the office probably isn't a 'tough guy' thing, as much as it is an 'odd guy inn the corner constantly listening to an iPod and dancing, but never at the same time.

Looking for an apartment kind of sucks. At least, looking for an apartment in Manhattan kind of sucks. As far as I can tell, there are five apartments listed on Craigslist . Not five brokers, or five buildings: Five apartments. I've only been looking for about two weeks, and so I've only seen about three of them. You might think that sounds funny, but I assure you it's not. There's this one apartment, on 13th and 1st Ave, that I've seen four times already, having been brought there by four different brokers. It's not the most horrible apartment I've ever seen, but it's close. Small, dark, and expensive. It might have the highest cost per square foot of any Manhattan apartment off of Park Ave. But I don't want it, and I'm starting to resent being shown the SAME APARTMENT four times. The second and third times, it was funny. The second time, the landlord gave me a look like he had met me someplace before, but couldn't quite place where. The third time, he laughed and gave me a thumbs-up. The fourth time, he was clearly pissed that he had gotten out of bed for me again.

It's resulted in a couple of funny conversations, this one apartment. The other day I was on the phone with a broker who I hadn't talked to before, and they were talking up this one really great-sounding place. Had everything - a wall seemingly designed for a projector, two nice bedrooms, etc. It'd be great, and I could see it tonight, just meet the guy on the corner of 13th and 1st.

"This apartment. . . it wouldn't be number 5E, would it?"

"Ummmm . . . let me check. Why, it is apartment 5E! How did you know?

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Another entertaining conversation I had about this apartment was just last night, at the birthday party of a friend of mine (named Stephen). A friend of Stephen (who's name escaped me for the moment, but is super-cool because she made a cake for the party that was shaped like a volcano, and actually erupted with tasty icing. It was pretty awesome, and involved dry ice. I was very impressed) and I were talking about apartment searches, and I told her about the conversation with the broker that I had just related. Then I went on about how little I liked this apartment, and hw horrible it was (using hyperbole, as per usual, to really make my point [and dig my grave]) and bitch, bitch, bitch. Turns out, she's moving out of her apartment this month, and lives right in that neighborhood. Her apartment number? 5E, of course.