Our former neighbor, Adie, gave us an amaryllis last spring. It bloomed shortly after she gave it to us, and it bloomed again in the fall. Adie was surprised at its second bloom. "I threw mine away after the first one," she said.

I don't want to say too much, because it isn't a done deal yet, but I think we've found a new apartment. We're applying anyway. It's a lateral move in a lot of ways — that is the unit itself isn't very different from where we are, slightly bigger maybe, but with lower ceilings. It has nice windows, but they aren't quite the expansive wall of windows in our current place. But what good is a wall of windows when it overlooks an auto body shop?

With every cocaine fueled party in the hallway, every out of tune guitar lick that blares from an overpowered guitar amp down the hall, and every pilfered mail package, we continue to plan our move.

Deborah was in the bathroom the first time I got sick. "Just a minute," she said when I knocked on the door, but a minute was too long to wait. I stumbled through the side door of Aide's house and puked next to the heating oil tank. The sun was just coming up, birds were chirping, a squirrel was swinging on the bird feeder that hung from a big tree across the lawn. Steam rose from the small patch of wine-red vomit.

If all goes according to plan, the next time you hear from me, I'll be in Hong Kong — assuming I have time to write while I'm there. I'll be busy working, overseeing the installation of a Stephen Sprouse exhibit at the Hong Kong Museum of Art -- part of a larger exhibit called Louis Vuitton: A Passion for Creation.

Two beers seemed like the right amount. I don't drink much these days, so it was hard to know. I needed enough to make me carefree about what I was doing, but not so much that I'd get sentimental or, worse, careless.

Deborah sent me a text from the airport:

"They took my skin stuff!"

Deborah has flown a few times since the restrictions on liquids and creams went into effect, but not enough to remember all the limitations concerning what you can or can't take on a plane.

The above photo is of my great-grandfather ice skating on Tom's River in New Jersey. If you don't think it looks safe, you're right. In 1919, he fell through the ice and died.

"Where do you want to go?" I said.

I'd been complaining of burnout and dreaming of getting away from New York for weeks. Deborah suggested we take off and spend the night at a cheap hotel somewhere — anywhere.

"Secrets are revealed," said Brian when he finally handed me the first four chapters of a book he's been writing. A memoir of sorts.

For a variety of reasons, Deborah and I rarely visit the fancy pizza restaurant that opened up directly across the street from our apartment. But for a variety of other reasons, tonight we did. Once I finished my wafer-thin personal pizza and Deborah her small plate of pasta, we were still hungry and asked to see a dessert menu. "We don't have a dessert menu," the waitress said, "but let me check with the kitchen to see what we have."

've been to Deitch gallery a dozen times since the Sprouse opening, and keep meaning to take some good photos of the installation but for some reason I never do. I took a bunch during construction, but since it's been finished, I've barely taken any. Even at the opening, when cameras were flashing everywhere, and I was surrounded by people all dolled up and anxious to pose, I only took a handful.

I'm not sure what I was expecting from traffic court. I wasn't surprised at how run-down everything was — after all, it was right next door to the DMV — but there was something odd about going to court at Atlantic Center — a Brooklyn shopping mall with a Target, a Best Buy, and a Vitoria’s Secret — and riding the escalator, waiting in line alongside store windows selling clothes and electronics. The only storefront that was open so early — 8:30 AM — was a law office, with bright fluorescent lighting illuminating messy piles of paperwork.

All Stephen Sprouse, All The Time

Stephen Sprouse's archives are currently in a temperature-controlled art storage facility in New Jersey, but previously, they were in a Brooklyn warehouse. The owner of the Brooklyn space called me the other day to say he had found some of Stephen's small canvases from the late 1980s. They were in excellent shape, he said, and might be appropriate for the upcoming retrospective, so I rushed to collect them.

Our neighborhood was dead quiet last night, everyone away for the holiday. Deborah and I didn't go anywhere, just lounged around the house playing Scrabble and watching the Yule Log on our 10-inch TV.

Suddenly, a whoosh, then angry screams punctuated with shrill question marks.

"Deadpan, detached and seeming a bit lonely," is how Page Six described Bill Murray in an article last week about how Bill Murray has been showing up at random bars and parties around the city — including a loft party in Brooklyn where someone told him, "I think you're making bad life choices."

Deborah came away from a recent doctor's appointment with two prescriptions: one for a skin cream to treat a mild skin condition, and one for a narcotic sleep aid to treat her insomnia. Which one do you think her insurance company gave her a hard time about filling?

Between the Louis Vuitton collection, the exhibition at Deitch Projects, and The Stephen Sprouse Book, there's a lot of "Sprouse" stuff coming up.