Deborah and I rented Capote last night. Toward the end of the movie, Deborah commented that Capote's book, In Cold Blood, wasn't very long. She remembered it being fairly short, much like his other well-known book Breakfast at Tiffany's. I disagreed and said I was pretty sure the book was a full-length novel, if not a little on the long side. As it is with all questions these days, the answer was only a few keystrokes away, so when the movie was over, we looked it up online to see who was right. I headed straight for Amazon.com and began searching through the information listed for the book. If Amazon included a page count, we never found it. Instead, as is typical of online research, we got sidetracked.

After several riders complained of nausea and eye irritation, service on my train line was suspended for a few hours while police investigated. I made it to work by walking along the chilly, windswept, garbage-strewn, perpetual-construction-zone of Flushing Avenue and taking the elevated J train across the Williamsburg Bridge.

While looking for cat food in the deli, Deborah spied a dusty bag of pink and white marshmallows on the shelf and grabbed it. "Ahh! I want these!" she said.

My friends are like planets. Some shine brightly, circle closely, and I see them all the time. Others, while in a deeper orbit, are so dramatic that when they do come around, they're impossible to ignore. Still others are more like Pluto: in such a deep and misshapen orbit that it's pure sentimentalism to call them friends at all.

Morningstar commented, "You need to spend a little time outside of New York right now, Jamie." She couldn't be more right. Summer's over, and aside from a day trip or two and a single overnight visit with my parents, I spent the entire summer right here in the big city of dreams — no whirlwind European adventures, no Canadian road trips, and no African safaris.

I don’t know why the Labor Day Parade was a week after Labor Day, but a bunch of construction workers a week behind schedule didn't seem too unusual.

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.

An evening motorcycle run the other night found us on a short strip of road that looked a lot like Sesame Street. That is, it was neither an upscale tree-lined street with million-dollar brownstones, nor a run-down, trash-strewn ghetto. Kids were playing on the sidewalk, laughing. It wasn't until a couple of them started hurling rocks at us that the image was broken.

On Friday, Deborah and I went to dinner at the restaurant down the street.

"It's my birthday on Monday!" Deborah said to the waitress as the waitress handed us menus.

"It's weird being here," Deborah said, discombobulated. "Working all day, then riding my bicycle home, then hopping on the back of the motorcycle, and here we are at a strange, lame party in DUMBO."

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.

Yesterday, while Deborah was lazing on the beach at overcrowded Coney Island, I was at work. Which means I missed the elderly couple sitting on the sand next to her. I didn't get to see the old woman walk into the water wearing an old-fashioned bathing cap to protect her beauty-parlor permanent, a Pucci-print kaftan, and black lace leggings.

Severe thunder showers and flash floods would be great for a parade of real mermaids. Still, since Deborah isn't a real mermaid and was only planning to pretend for the day, the forecast has scared her off, and she's decided to join me on my drive to Massachusetts today instead. She wasn't keen on taking the subway to Coney Island all alone in costume, anyway.

Nerve.com posted a gallery featuring some of my photos of Deborah today. Unfortunately, it requires a premium membership to view, but if anyone out there has one, check it out.