The "headless doll" book cover I designed won Tony Pierce's contest. He very promptly sent me a congratulatory note, along with the $66.66 in prize money. I'm not sure what to do with it. The Red Cross? I decided to use it for a ticket to the Mojo Aid Hurricane Relief Benefit Concert held at Irving Plaza last night. A friend of Deborah's helped organize it and bought us two tickets. Going to a benefit on a free ticket didn't seem right, however, so I dug into the prize money to pony up the cash.

We were talking about how the summer is lingering when Deborah suggested we stop at Uncle Luigi's for an ice cream. We stood in line and watched as the could n't-be-bothered cashiers rolled their eyes and sighed with each order. "Everyone who works here has such a bad attitude," said Deborah. "No matter when I come, or who's working, it's always the same. They act like, when you order ice cream, you're asking them to do you the biggest favor in the world."

"Wait, let's go this way, I want to check my mail."

There are two entrances to my building. I took Deborah's hand and tugged her in the direction of the one near the mailboxes.

"Bah," I scoffed, pulling my mail from the box. "Another rejection letter."

While out with my friend Virgo, we randomly came across a DUMBO art opening and were chased by a guy in a baggy snowman costume. We weren't chased, exactly, but he appeared to head right for us anytime we got close. Virgo revealed that she has a fear of people in fuzzy costumes, and the possibility of the snowman getting close enough to touch us set her on edge. The costume's big black eyes made it impossible to tell where the snowman was looking, and must have made it equally hard for him to see where he was going, so we were probably imagining it all anyway. "Do you know what I mean about people in fuzzy costumes, though?" asked Virgo as we backed away to a safe distance. "They're like—like—"

She was a bit of a tomboy who, at sixteen, had already broken her nose five times. It looked perpetually swollen and slightly crooked. I met her the year before she broke it once again, this time on purpose, when she elected to get a nose job to have it fixed.

"Have you thought about killing her?" asked Joe.

"You mean in the book? Or in real life?"

Joe burst out into a loud cackle, "Both, both."

When I went out this afternoon, I ran into the coffee shop girl from down the street. She was sitting on the bench outside the coffee shop, killing time before she had to work. Her hair is getting long, and I almost didn't recognize her. Her feet were up on the bench, with a notebook resting on her knees. She was busily writing something down, but she looked up as I passed, and said hello.

Deborah works a dozen different jobs, and I have trouble keeping her schedule straight. Last night, when she suggested we meet at a restaurant down the street from where she was working, I had no idea where it was. "Where are you?" I asked. "Where's the restaurant?"

It's true that I only visit my parents once in a blue moon, but since Saturday was a bona fide blue moon , I had little choice but to visit them. Besides, even though I wasn't looking forward to the drive, I thought a trip away from the city might help me get over the flu I have.

Despite Virgo's wedding being held just two hours north of the city, I didn't feel like making the drive in my suit. I convinced Deborah not to wear her dress either. "We'll just find a place to change when we get there," I said.

When I got home from work last night, I decided I’d have a nightcap at the local bar. After leisurely drinking a cheap beer in a quiet corner, I left.

Exactly halfway home, I ran into my friend, the S&M receptionist.

"Jamieeee!"

I can tell a crappy form letter on crappy stationery from a mile away, so when I get an agent's rejection letter, I rarely bother reading it.

Driving with the window open did little to keep me cool. After a three-hour drive in a rolling black box, pushing through the stifling, humid air from South Jersey to Brooklyn, I arrived home with a soaking wet stripe of sweat across my chest where my seat belt had been. The open window kept my head filled with highway noise most of the way, which I tried to combat by cranking the car radio to eleven. When I finally pulled onto my street, shut the engine off and closed the car door behind me, all I could hear was a chorus of angels.

I arrived last night, just past midnight, at a quiet house full of sleeping relatives. Two were asleep on the living room couch, two more sleeping in the "computer room", another two on the fold-out couch in the family room, and my mother was asleep in her bedroom. My father led me to a couch of my own, set aside in the sunroom. "You need anything?" he asked.

Although we've both lived in New York for years, my friend Geoff and I rarely see each other. When we do, it's usually just a quick, "Hey, what's up?" at the occasional gallery opening, rock show, or corner store. Even when I rented an apartment just a few blocks from his, we still never hung out. We always said we should, however, and yesterday we finally did.

When I called my friend Reflux yesterday, I had no idea that he was in town from San Francisco for a few days for work. "You are? What the fuck? We have to get together."

I helped my friend, Dusty, move last night. It wasn't a major move or anything, just a few boxes from an apartment down the block from mine, to a new one a mile down the road. Her former landlord is a Hasidic boozer who chain-smoked and drank cheap beer as he watched over us. "Watch the paint," he said, as I carried something through the doorway. "It's still wet. It's brand new paint."

Signe's dog boutique had its grand opening a couple of months ago. I went to congratulate her and see how the store looked, but I only stayed for about two minutes. Enough time to give Signe a peck on the cheek, say congratulations, and tell her "I like the wallpaper." She had it custom-made and featured a graphic rendition of her dog Shady's face. Shady's face happens to be the boutique's logo, which should come as no surprise since the name of the store is: "Shady's Waggery."

I'm on my way — or rather, I will be on my way as soon as I stop dilly-dallying on the internet — to pick up my friend Pauline (Holland's intrepid reporter in the Ivory Coast) at the airport. She and her cousin will be my house guests for the next week. We'll have to wait and see how that affects the frequency of my posts. I already upset Pauline's cousin with a post I wrote several weeks ago about meeting her in Amsterdam, so I have to watch my step.

When Dusty, the S&M receptionist, called to say she was out with some friends at the neighborhood bar, I nearly felt too exhausted to accept her invitation to join them, but not quite.