I think this has been my longest posting dry spell since this site's inception. I'd love to catch up, fill in all the blanks, but we all know that's not going to happen, so let's just go with the flow and pick things up in a random spot, shall we?

"You taken' pictures bro?" the woman who camped out behind us said to the young guy in jams and a T-shirt. He was aiming his iPhone right at Deborah, who was topless, and the two fully nude girls lying on towels behind her.

Not that you'd be able to tell from a little image posted above, but I bought a new camera the other day. After running a few errands, I took a stroll to play around with it.

Call me determined, persistent, stubborn, pig-headed, foolish, crazy, or just plain dumb, but I finally took my motorcycle out for a spin. After suffering two motorcycle-related accidents within six months, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little nervous out there -- and nearly getting T-boned at the very first intersection didn't help any -- but I kept things slow and tried to be extra cautious. (I'd say I was overly cautious, but if I'd been overly cautious, I suppose I wouldn't have gotten on the motorcycle at all.)

For the past two days, I've been buried in a corner of the largest warehouse I've ever seen, organizing the Stephen Sprouse archives for the umpteenth time.

Deborah came home from work on Friday with a craving for Beef Goulash. There's a Viennese restaurant not far from our apartment, and she'd been fantasizing all day long about going there for dinner. "How's that sound?" she said.

"Bombay Row?" Brian said as we made plans to meet for dinner. He was referring to Sixth Street between First and Second Avenue, dubbed "Bombay Row" by our friend Joe -- in fact, Brian did an impression of Joe as he asked the question. The last time I met Brian and Joe for Indian food on Sixth Street, I pointed out that since the real Bombay isn't called Bombay anymore, perhaps we should update the nickname to match. "Mumbai Mews," I suggested, but it didn't stick. No matter, most of the Indian restaurants on "Bombay Row" are actually Pakistani owned and operated anyway, and since Islamabad Avenue is too much of a mouthful, Bombay Row it is.

Included in a battery of tests recently ordered by my doctor is a 24-hour urine test. I was given a half-gallon jug marked "Biohazard" and told to use it instead of a toilet for 24 hours, then return it for testing. Although I got the jug a week ago, I decided it was best to wait until the weekend so I wouldn't need to bring a jug of piss to work. Lucky for me, yesterday was another gray and rainy day where I barely left the house, perfect for playing Howard Hughes.

Although he originally planned to stay for six months, Brian cut out of the Buddhist Monastery three months early. He drove north from Virginia, stayed with our friend Joe in New Jersey for a couple of days, and then disappeared into the wilderness of western Connecticut, where he remained incommunicado for months.

I pulled my hood up and ran from my front door to the shelter of the elevated highway, where I could remain relatively dry for five blocks before I had to turn left and head up the street to Walgreens pharmacy to fill a prescription.

A couple of modern-age Norwegian explorers go on an around-the-world tour on 70 year old Danish motorcycles, and all I got was this lousy T-shirt.

Deborah and I were walking around Williamsburg after work last night -- she needed to pick up some yarn from the yarn store to feed her knitting habit -- and decided to get something to eat afterward. "How about Diner?" I suggested -- a rehabbed Kullman Diner car in the shadow of the Williamsburg Bridge that I used to go to all the time until I met Deborah.

Over the summer, Deborah fell in love with a necklace at a local flea market -- an intricate and ostentatious piece of costume jewelry from the 1970s made of metal and plastic that the saleswoman tried to convince us was worth the 150 dollars she was asking for it. She told us the designer's name -- which I now forget -- and gave us some exaggerated history about him. "He's known for his owls, and this one is a beautiful example."

Over 15,000 boring, unflattering, out-of-focus, and/or embarrassing pictures were tossed into the virtual garbage when I finally decided to begin organizing my photo library over the weekend. I’m sure I accidentally lost some good ones, too.

Aside from a few things I can’t talk about, and a few things I don’t want to talk about, there’s not much to say. I have a little money in the bank, my arm is nearly healed, and I have a job lined up for February. Things are good. No drama.

It’s certainly not enough to retire on, not enough to even take a year off to travel the world, but it was enough to throw the teller for a loop.

The dirt riding school where I broke my shoulder has a spring session on their schedule, and I wondered aloud whether my arm would be healed in time to attend.

When my doctor first prescribed physical therapy twice a week for six weeks, I balked. “I have a fifty-dollar copay,” I said. “Twice a week for the next six weeks comes to six hundred bucks. I can’t possibly swing that right now.”

This is something I wrote for a middle school English assignment. I guess I was somewhere between ten and twelve years old.

After complaining about our heat for several weeks, using space heaters to keep warm, our building management finally sent over a couple of guys to fix our drafty windows. We have three bays with four windows each for a total of twelve panes. The guys took them out, one by one, and replaced each window’s worn-out insulation. It was roughly 20°F outside, and I put on a coat and a hat while they worked.