Seeing as how it was a beautiful sunny, seventy-some-odd-degree day, what else was there to do about it but go to Coney Island?

I met Deborah last night. Who's Deborah? She's the girl who left me that funny comment recently.

"I can't believe you agreed to meet me," she said shyly, covering her face in embarrassment when I sat down.

Hooker, a friend from work, was hosting "Poetry Karaoke" at the Bowery Poetry Club and invited me to go.

I asked Sara, another co-worker, if she was going.

“What’s Poetry Karaoke?” she said.

“I don’t know. Let’s find out.”

After a single drink at the bar last night, I was all set to go home when a girl walked in and sat next to me. I'd met her before, and she said hello, then ordered a beer. I had a sudden desire to stay for one more and ordered one too. The bartender slid the beers over and asked the girl how she was.

When the cops first walked in, a young guy with a ZZ Top beard was playing poker with the barback. Another guy they referred to as "Danimal" said he wanted in on the hand, too. ZZ Top asked the barback if they were going to keep the money in the novelty donkey cigarette dispenser, as they usually did. The barback said no. "That way, if anyone comes in, we're just playing for shits and giggles," he explained.

Italian wine sipped from fancy Italian wine glasses, a German movie, Thai food, and chopsticks. I've been talking about The Tin Drum for months now. It's a brilliant book, but not exactly one that you just breeze through, so it took me a while to finish it. I finally did, though, and literally, the day after I read the last page, Signe invited me over to watch the film version.

I used to see her quite often when I'd stop by the local Health Food store to pick up some groceries. It's the only grocery store in the industrial park that passes for my neighborhood, so that's where I run into many of my neighbors. She and I would always smile and say hi to each other, and struggle to remember each other's names. "David?" she guessed.

Earlier this afternoon at work, I'd just finished taking a piss when I noticed that the toilet was broken. It wouldn't flush. In fact, the water was shut off completely for the entire floor.

Last year, when Stephen Sprouse learned he was sick and that the prognosis wasn't good, he asked me if I'd undertake the overwhelming task of sorting and organizing a warehouse full of his things: clothes, designs, furniture, photographs, prototypes, press clippings, posters, records, CDs, books, et cetera. He didn't have the energy, nor the emotional detachment, to look through any of it himself, and I'd worked with him long enough that he trusted me to do it for him.

Although I've already mentioned a couple of projects that have been swirling around in a state of primordial ooze for the past year, and, unlike my corporate gigs, I haven't signed any confidentiality agreements, I still think it's best not to go into detail about these projects at the moment. There will be plenty of time for hype as things gel. That being said, I was invited to dinner last night by two brothers, Mauricio and Roger, to discuss my involvement in one of said projects. The invitation was generously extended to Deborah, too, which ensured that dinner talk didn't revolve exclusively around work.

Happy New Year. "Jamie," said Brooke as we sat in my neighborhood bar. She had flown in from Amsterdam and was staying with me for a couple of days.

I was in a Fellini movie last night. No. I take that back. I was in a Woody Allen movie. No, that's not quite right, either. Besides, I wasn't really in a movie at all — I was in a gallery. What I mean is I went to a gallery. An art gallery.

A paycheck arrived yesterday -- one that was desperately needed -- and after depositing it in the bank, I took a little cash out to treat myself to a nice meal. Nothing fancy, but substantial. Too many people have been asking me if I've lost weight recently. I never weigh myself, so I never know, but it's possible. Probable. Ramen Noodles for dinner every night has that effect.

Stephen Sprouse used to love iced tea. He drank it all the time, and whenever you went to visit him at his apartment, he'd have a big pint glass of it by his side, and be quick to offer you one too. He’d pour you a glass from a tea-stained pitcher before refilling his own. I was never sure which he loved more, the tea or the ice. For years, any time we went out to dinner, he would order a Coke, an iced tea, and an extra glass of ice.

I leave for Amsterdam on Monday. Last I knew, the plan was to meet Brian at Schiphol Airport. His plane is due to arrive within a couple of hours of mine, and we decided to meet there and ride the train into town together. But I haven't heard from him in weeks, and he's notorious for changing his plans at the last minute. "Sorry, dude. I can't meet you tonight. There's too much shit I gotta do," is the usual line. Which is fine. "No problem," I usually tell him. "Call me when you can." But this is a little different. I've already bought myself a non-refundable, non-transferable ticket. Not that I can't spend ten days in Amsterdam by myself--I've done it before--but honestly, I wouldn't be going there if I didn't think Brian was going too.

"Am I going to be in your blog ?" asked LB with a twinge of sarcasm

We met to talk over L.B.’s notes on my manuscript, and she offered to take me out afterward for a belated birthday dinner.

My tactic for survival is more like a carnivorous plant than an animal. Like a Venus Flytrap, patiently waiting for a juicy fly to happen along. In other words, I'm not exactly a go-getter. Slacker, I believe, is the technical term. Not that I don't get motivated to do this or that, but it's rarely the kind of motivation that leads to a payday. Here's what inspired this little epiphany:

A few weeks ago, I received an e-mail from a young woman named Lina asking if she could interview me for her "multimedia DVD project about Bloggig as a contemporary tool of self-representation." It's a part of her Master's thesis in Anthropology, which she'll be presenting at the American Anthropological Association's annual meeting.

LB started a writer's group. The group has had three meetings, and I've attended twice. Last night was the second. The group is a mix of aspiring writers with varying levels of experience. At the last meeting, before I was introduced to anyone, LB asked if she could mention my blog. She thought it might interest some other members.