I bought three pounds of books today. Paperback books. I didn't buy them by the pound, but I know what they weigh because, after I bought them, I stopped by the office--the one I have keys to--and weighed them on a postal scale.

You may have heard me mention Jerry before. He's a guy I grew up with--who I've known since the day I was born. His family lived across the hall from my family in a small apartment complex in suburban New Jersey. The day my parents brought me home from the hospital, Jerry and his mother came to visit. Of course I was only a couple of days old, and Jerry only a few months, so we didn't have a whole lot to say to each other, but living in such close proximity, and being so close in age we were destined to be friends.

Brian and I met briefly for dinner last night before he had to run off to some kind of spiritual shenanigans at a meditation center with his Belgian guru. When he got out, he called me on my cell, and we regrouped. "Are you up for seeing a band?" he asked.

I’m sure this isn't news to anyone, but there have been protests going on this week. Helicopters buzzing overhead, cops on every subway platform, and every corner. People carrying signs and wearing slogan shirts. Bullhorns and banners in every park. News cameras and satellite vans peppered here and there. It's surreal.

In retrospect, maybe 11:15 AM is too early in the morning to watch Vincent Gallo get a blow job from Chloe Sevigny on the big screen. That's what time Ali and I met on Sunday morning to see The Brown Bunny.

L.B. invited me to an anti-Bush comedy fundraiser at a club in the West Village last night, and even though I'm not usually a big fan of stand-up comedy, I decided to go.

I mentioned the name of a girl to L.B., and it wasn't a name she recognized, so she asked, "Where'd you meet this one? The Internet? Or is she one of your coffee shop girls ?" Somewhere between the stories I tell on this site and the ones in my book, I seem to have developed a reputation.

Diabetes is a balancing act. At any given time, your blood sugar can be either too high or too low. When it's too low, it causes you to feel weak and shaky, and you have to eat something quickly to bring it back in line before you pass out. But other things, like staying out all night, can cause you to feel the same way, and sometimes, it's impossible to tell without using a blood glucose test meter. I pulled the kit from my bag and began the quick process of testing.

The bar wasn't crowded when I first arrived, and I managed to score a seat at a small table against the back wall. It was more of a stool than a chair, and from where I sat, I could scan the whole place. I watched the crowd thicken and the people begin to squish up against each other. There were two stools at my table, and a guy sat across from me, talking to his buddy, who was standing. Other than when the seated guy asked if I had a light, the two of them didn't talk to me, and I didn't talk to them.

"You wanna meet for dinner tomorrow night?" I asked Virgo Supercluster the other day.

"Sure," she said. "If nine o'clock isn't too late. And if you don't mind me being all stinky and sweaty."

In the nineties, I had a semi-permanent freelance job as a graphic designer for a clothing company. I designed labels and prints and hang tags, et cetera. I sat directly behind a young girl with crazy, curly red hair and heavy eyelids, who worked full-time as a merchandiser -- a job that I never fully understood. For the most part, we had a lot of fun. She would come in, usually with a raging hangover, and tell me all about her exploits from the night before. "Oh man," she'd say, "I was out with Rob last night."

I used to write a lot more about my "feelings" on this site. I don't know, maybe it has something to do with my parents discovering it, or that there are so many friends who stop by to check in, but  lately (my California trip aside)  I find that all I ever write about these days are random encounters in coffee shops and bar rooms. I hadn't been back from California for more than two days before writing another post about a conversation in a bar. It's getting boring.

I've been lying low back home in Brooklyn, trying not to spend any money, but I got restless last night and went to the local for a drink. There were two drunk girls there. I sat down a few seats away from them at the stool nearest the exit. They caught my eye a few times and smiled. I smiled back. They whispered to each other before introducing themselves. "Why are you being the quiet guy in the corner?" asked the big blond one. I shrugged the way quiet guys do. "You look familiar," she said. "Where have I seen you before?"

A while ago. I mentioned a trip to the golden coast of sunny California filled with dramatic scenes of sunshine and seashores; bikinis and roller skates; bubble gum and bare feet. Well, today's the day.

Last Friday I met with my new editor, LB. As I've written before, I was worried about getting her involved because she actually appears as a character in the very book that I've asked her to help me with. But we talked about it, and she assured me that she'd be able to maintain a professional detachment, so I threw caution to the wind and gave her the manuscript.

I had a fitful sleep last night. A window was wide open, and the street noise came in like voices from another dimension. Or ghosts. The wind wafted through the screen and blew the curtain. The raindrops pinged the sill. I kept thinking it was a leak in my bathroom ceiling.

Sunday, I was in New Jersey visiting my friend Reflux, his charming wife and their adorable little kids. Their friend Lilly came out too, but she got a later start than I did, so while Mrs. Reflux and the kids waited at the house for Lilly to arrive, Reflux and I went ahead to the ritzy beach club without them.

Everyone knows the Queen of Williamsburg. And now, I do too. I met her at Vera Cruz. The row of stools by the open window that faces the street is usually packed with an after-work crowd, but last night was different. Who knows why, but the seats were empty. I sat next to Lola Belle, sipping cocktails and sharing a bowl of chips. It seemed as though every other person who passed by stopped to say hello.

I'd give him a name, except that he's one of my many friends in Alcoholics Anonymous. And…well…he's anonymous.