"Of course people think you're sullen when they first see you, you don't smile much." Well, I suppose I don't. I don't smile for the camera, I don't fake anything, and I find that I can't even play make believe when it comes to my own emotions. Or the way I look. Oh, and that's bethany speaking, telling me that when the random chick last week told me I look sullen, indeed, I look sullen.

I'm not sullen or unfriendly, I swear. I just don't smile much, it's a flaw in my genetic makeup.

I made dinner for Bethany tonight. I made my almost patented Chicken in a mustard cream sauce, but I ruined it. At least, I felt like I did. I sauteed shallots and added them to the sauce, hoping to add a layer of complexity, but instead added a sweet note where one wasn't needed. Stupid experimentation.

Ms. Jones and I spent much of a muchness shooting the shit about boys, girls, life in the city, and sex in the city (and how our lives resemble that goddamned book) and how really we want to write for publication by third parties that are not ourselves. It was interesting to speak to someone whose writing makes mine pale in comparison, and to realize that indeed, I'm merely an amateur, and I should get a day job, because this writing thing may not work out.

We ended up at Tribe, and the vibe, well, the vibe is all different. They wouldn't make my drink, so I ended up with Jamesons, and so now I'm starting to keep an eye out for a new bar.

Before Bethany, my parents were in town, so I had brunch with them, and went shopping with them, and witnessed a scene where a beautiful girl, obviously a dancer, desparately wanted the dress she had tried on. Her mother responded "well, I don't like it on you at all, but if you really want it, I'll pay for it." I was in shock. The woman in the dress looked like something out of a movie, she looked elegant and beautiful and sexy at the same time, and her mother was dragging her beyond down, her mother was embarassing her in front of me and my father. It was shocking, it was a movie moment, when the daughter is trying to break free of her mothers hold. It was tragic.

Last night Ethan and I had plans to party our pants off, and see just exactly the sort of fun that could be had on a Saturday night outside of Manhattan. Obviously, when the two of us are involved, we only made it to a third of our planned destinations. I was supposed to go to the Blackkat party, a party with Zimerman and Marcos, and a party in Park Slope at Ari's place.

The evening started off auspiciously. The first thing I noticed outside my apartment was a blow up sex doll arranged as if it were having sex with two bicycles (IMAGE 1, IMAGE 2). Figuring the night would take turns for the weird, I snapped those photos and moved on with my night. When I reached the 2nd Ave station to go out to meet Ethan at Last Exit, a man walked up to me, put out his hand to shake, and said "Hi, I'm [so and so], I've been reading Swerdloff dot com for awhile now, and I just wanted to say that I like it" or something thereabouts. And the full moon ended days ago. Very strange, but very nice. It was nice to have someone actually say "Yes, I read what you write, and it's not a complete waste of your time."

It reminded me of the days, years ago, in college, when I was very lonely but still writing that comedy column in the school paper, when I said things like "I'm friendly, I swear, if you want to chat with me, here's where I can be found, and here's my drink, and if you buy, I'll talk" and I was dead serious. Virtually nobody ever took me up on that offer. I'm not sure why, but I have my suspicions.

So this recognition that I write made my night. It did. From that point forward, no matter how bad things would eventually get (and frankly, they simply got better) I wouldn't care, I'd had a moment. If I were that sort, I might've even gotten verklempt.

Instead I hopped the F to Brooklyn, and met Ethan at Last Exit, and settled in for a night of whatever. I met a woman named Sharda (?) at the bar who went to college with one of my closest (and craziest) friends from high school, and we reminisced briefly about his level of lunacy.

Eventually it was time to pick a party, and we decided to start at Ari's and take the evening in stride from there.

Upon arriving in Park Slope and getting off the F train, I made the boneheaded comment that it was nicer than I thought it would be. Ethan quickly pointed out that I'm an asshole when it comes to all things not Manhattan, that I grew up in Connecticut, and really need to get over myself. Maybe so.

We arrived at the party, walked up the stairs, and were made comfortable very quickly. Upon reaching a state of comfort within the party (I'm not a party guy, particularly, and a room full of people I only know by sight will make me as nervous as a president with a cute intern.

My nervousness disappeared when a new random person walked up, introduced himself, and told me that he reads this site sometimes. If you're reading, thanks, man, you gave me the impetus I needed to just chill the fuck out, something I'm not very good at doing. The gracious hostesses did their best to make the evening as comfortable as possible, and frankly, I had a damn fine time. I bumped into a few people I knew, and things were easy and fine.

So the party was interesting, mostly in that "I only know _of_ most of the people here, I don't know them" and there was some business card beaming and some drinks and some dancing and chatting and general party stuff.

Ethan and I headed to a very deserted F stop around 4 in the morning, and wondered if the trains were running at all. Thankfully, they did.

I got home and collapsed at about 4:30.

And since this question has been burning a hole in my mind lately, I figured I'll ask you: What can you do in New York City at night that's not alchohol or performance (i.e. movies/plays) related?