Don't ask me why I didn't take pictures last night, and why, instead, I've illustrated this story with totally random old pictures from all over the place.

My friend Jason celebrated his 40th birthday on Saturday with a small party at a barbecue joint near his apartment in Windsor Terrace, where he lives with his girlfriend, Erika. Deborah and I drove over, parked a few blocks away, and looked at the apartments between our parking spot and the restaurant, wondering what the rents were like and if it might be worth considering moving there.

Several months ago, a wood-burning pizza oven was delivered across the street to a nondescript cinderblock building next to an auto body repair shop. At the time, it had a sign above the door that read, E.S.P. Construction Corp.. An odd place for a restaurant, perhaps, but someone had a vision. I watched eagerly out my window as spring turned to summer, summer to fall, and the new year came and went. "When the hell is that pizza place going to open?"

Work has resumed in the stairwell of my apartment building, and once again our apartment is engulfed in toxic fumes. Apparently, the paint stripper that's being used isn't effective unless the ambient temperature is above 50°F, so at least when they use it, it's warm enough for us to open the window to get some arguably fresh air.

I passed Crispin Glover on the street. I recognized him immediately, but as he got closer, I thought I was mistaken. Then, when he was right at my side, I was sure again. I almost didn't recognize him because his hair was so clean. Like a shampoo commercial, clean. I half expected him to flip it in slow motion and see bluebirds and flowers shake out.

For a few months now, I've been hesitant to reveal the big news, because the few people I did tell all asked the same questions: Did you get her a ring? Did you set a date? They also wanted to hear a story filled with romance about a candlelight dinner, expensive champagne, and a bended knee. Since my answers were always disappointing, I stopped talking about it. But that doesn't mean I stopped thinking about it. And what I thought most was, "I really need to buy Deborah a ring." Without one, I felt like a grifter in a con game.

Signe wasn't kidding when she said that Kiki de Montparnasse was the sexiest store in Manhattan. Sexiest store she'd ever seen, I think she said. She was also right when she said it was pricey. But that didn't stop Deborah and me from plunking down way too much money on things we didn't need. We decided to plan a photo shoot, which somehow helped us justify it.

Deborah has been trying to grow out her bangs, and she alternates between hiding them under a hat and holding them on top of her head with a hair clip. She threatens to cut them at least once a day. I liked the way it looked this morning, and I said so. "You look awesome," I said. "Sexy. I like your hair."

The new girls who moved into the apartment down the hall are very small and look much younger than they probably are. They don't dress like hipsters — yet — and are most likely college students. Deborah was walking behind two of them and overheard one of the girls ask her father for money to pay the ConEd bill

I was working in Stephen Sprouse's warehouse yesterday. It’s a commercial space in Williamsburg where Stephen had me consolidate his archives shortly before he passed away. Many items had previously been stored in a Pennsylvania barn full of hay and mice, with wild temperature swings. It was a twenty-foot-tall pile of cardboard boxes, canvases, sketches, clothes, magazines, and books. I couldn’t help but be reminded of the 12-yard commercial dumpster on 14th Street into which Stephen’s former landlord had thrown the contents of Stephen’s entire apartment—much of it highly personal. He’d been evicted for several reasons, one of which was for painting his entire loft, floor to ceiling, with silver alumichrome paint. (And when I say “he,” I mean “me.”)

When I met Signe for lunch the other day, I was hoping to take some pictures of her broken ankle; however, when I saw her walking towards me, I didn't see a cast. She wasn't walking with a cane or a crutch.

On our way home from the corner store, I noticed the full moon glowing oversized, low, and orange over a warehouse to the east. I stopped.

Like most New Yorkers, I do a fair amount of walking. I also ride my bicycle here to there from time to time, but it took sitting still for half an hour for me to realize how out of shape I am. Inflexible, in any case. Here’s what happened:

My niece, Cassidy, is getting married this weekend. Actually, she's getting married tomorrow. They couldn't find anyone to officiate on the weekend with such short notice, so the legal stuff will happen tomorrow, and the wedding party will be on Saturday: a pig roast at a gun club in Pennsylvania.

While riding aimlessly on my motorcycle, I stumbled upon a block party outside Monster Island, an art space on Metropolitan Avenue near the East River. I pulled over to call Deborah and ask if she wanted to take a break from working on her jewelry to come check it out.

As we approached Moto to use the "dinner for two" gift certificate that my Triumph had won for us as "People's Choice" at the motorcycle show a couple of weeks ago, the bike conked out. I'd been riding solo all day without a problem, and even after picking Deborah up and riding double, it seemed to be purring nicely. But just outside the restaurant, it stalled and wouldn't start again. I pushed it into a suitable parking spot and trusted it would restart after dinner.

Everyone in my building — everyone I’ve spoken with, anyway — has been hit with a rent increase. While no one was looking, someone slid envelopes underneath our doors. "Your rent is being raised. As of September 1st, your new rent will be—"

This coming Sunday is the annual Motorcycle Extravaganza Vintage European and Japanese Motorcycle Show sponsored in part by NYC VinMoto. As a member of NYC VinMoto, I subscribe to their email list and read that they were looking for people interested in showing their bikes. Jason told me that he was going to enter his 1975 CB550 Four, and suggested I enter my Triumph as well. Neither one of our bikes is anywhere near a flawlessly executed concourse-correct restoration — we wouldn't have been riding around yesterday, thrashing our bikes on a 200-mile burn up if they were — but that's not the point of the show.

Several years ago, my friend Denver gave me a tiny jade plant cut from a larger one that grew in the backyard of her upstate apartment. When I say tiny, I mean tiny. A stubby stalk with a single leaf. The terra cotta pot it came in was less than two inches tall.

My motorcycle is too small to travel any kind of distance with Deborah on the back, but I wanted to ride some of the narrow sandy roads through the Pine Barrens, so I loaded my Triumph on the back of my truck and brought it with us..