There's a bakery in Park Slope that specializes in fancy, custom-made cakes for high-falutin' big shots with money to burn.

With the remnants of Hurricane Ernesto having blown over, giving way to a warm and breezy end-of-summer day, Deborah suggested we take the bike for a ride. "We can go to brunch. That seems like the thing to do on a holiday weekend, doesn't it?"

Hot Rod clubs from all over the Tri-State area lined up their creations in the parking area under the BQE overpass. Cars coated in bottomless coats of candy colored paint, next to rusty jalopies held together with nothing but a faith in the lifestyle.

Thanks to everyone who weighed in with their antidepressant recommendations. And thanks to those who didn't, too. Something Deborah said when we discussed it was, "No one has to know," but I'm sure that if I ultimately choose to skip down the golden road of gingerbread and lollipops, I won't be able to shut up about it.

Stephen, an old friend of mine from college, was in town from LA over the weekend, and I made arrangements to meet him and his boyfriend, Scott, for Saturday brunch.

My last motorcycle was a Harley-Davidson Sportster. I bought it new in 1989 after my employer, Stephen Sprouse, went out of business for the second time. I was given a few thousand dollars in severance and did the only rational thing for a suddenly jobless person to do: I plunked down the money on a motorcycle.

For whatever reason, it seems I've only been reading heavy books lately. By heavy, I don't mean deep, but rather hardcover books too heavy to carry around in a bag all day just to read a few pages on the subway.

That's the old Greenpoint Terminal Warehouse burning to the ground as seen from my window yesterday morning. By the time I saw the smoke, the fire had already been raging for five hours.

Brian has been in Connecticut for the past couple of weeks, restarting the landscaping business he began last year, but he was in New York City over the weekend to pick up some extra work at one of the neon shops where he occasionally freelances. Since he wasn't in town very long, he tried to fit in as much catching up with friends as possible. He had dinner plans with a few people in the East Village on Friday night and arranged to meet up with me afterward.

"You're having a little writer's block, eh?" said Katrina.

After a few crossed text messages, I gave her a call to to say hello. She was home eating stale cupcakes and nursing a freakishly bad reaction to mosquito bites. "I can't even wear a normal size shoe," she complained, before making the observation about my writing.

"I've never had this kind of trouble finding a job before," Deborah complained with an exasperated sigh, shaking a fistful of resumes in the air before slamming them onto the coffee table. She'd been job hunting for weeks and was frustrated that all she'd been able to find was a one-day-a-month bookkeeping gig.

The romantic setting of a New York City loft in an industrial neighborhood was getting dry and dusty in the spring sunlight and crisp, cement-factory breeze, so Deborah and I conspired to escape. We packed a few essentials into a couple of bags and then hopped the subway to Port Authority for a bus ride to southern New Jersey.

Working freelance makes it hard to predict when I'll have a day off. I knew there was nothing cooking for yesterday, but I thought today was booked. Turned out I was wrong. With nothing to do, and the spring weather so nice, I decided to tag along with Deborah on her continued job search.

Speaking of speaking in tongues, Deborah and I finally went to see the documentary, The Devil and Daniel Johnston last night.

Maybe it's the sunny blue skies and warm weather, but for some reason, I've been running into a lot of people from my past lately. Some of them I stop and talk to, distilling our lives into the major talking points. Where do you live now? Are you still with so-and-so? Last time I saw you, you were doing such and such, while others garner just a moment's hesitation. Is that who I think it is? Should I stop? Say hello? Will they remember me?

Regardless of how much fun you're having, there's no denying it: time flies.

Several years ago, when I first started working freelance, I didn't know the first thing about Schedule C, or what I was allowed to deduct, or any of that, and decided it was best to pay an accountant to do my taxes.

A few weeks ago, Matt Flowers wrote to ask my thoughts on the movie Ask the Dust based on the book of the same name by John Fante.