Also, Bloomberg? Just cause you're some joyless shriveled white mummified prune, who believes entertainment should only be had quietly undisturbed by rich people while us poor folk wipe your chins, doesn't grant you the right to force Gotham into some puritanical bullshit. Trying to pass a law so bars will close at one instead of four. I suggest fruit, vegetables, and can goods be thrown at his, full of shit, head whenever he appears in public. Elitist choad smoking pube muncher.

Grrrrrrrrr.

Anyway.

Friday night. Quick shower after Luke calls for me to meet him and Cedric at Pat Pong. Cedric is the French Swiss chap subletting the room while Grace spins around India for three months. I can't help but call him Cedric the entertainer when he is not around. Will have to change it to Cedric the explainer, or Afrikaner, or some other some such nonsense. Yes, I know I described him as French Swiss and Afrikaner in no way holds logic. Bitch, my nicknames live in my own insanity flow charts, step off. I will most likely not change his name to, or refer to him as Cedric the Afrikaner.

Enjoyed my bean curd sate, and the crispy curry salmon with jasmine rice. The tea candles at our table fizzled out, sputtering wet finish. Immediately, demure Thai hands were replacing our burnt out flames. Extremely attentive ladies at Pat Pong.

Theater walk. First stop Village East. Playing no films of interest. Scuttle down the skinny sidewalk of Eleventh Street to Third Avenue Loews. A mother is vehemently arguing with the ticket jockey that her children, being accompanied under her obvious thoughtful adult gaze, should be allowed in to see Barbershop 2. I think, in her best Chris Tucker impression, the "you don't know shit bitch, I know the film laws, trying to tell me sumthin", was the most convincing argument. Managers were summoned. We head over to Union Square.

Osama looked promising, but not salivating enough to sink butts into Friday night seats. Hiked down Broadway. The church on Tenth still has scaffolding engulfed in plastic mesh draping on it. The bell tower eerily glows through the veiled metal bars, like a mechanical glowing heart, stillborn behind an iron ribcage. Across the street, in the windows that have a new art installment every month, creepy giant porcelean faced dolls were slumped into seating positions. Tenth and Broadway might now be the creepiest corner in my vicinity.

Land on Houston. Over the last couple days, I had been noticing quite a few intersections in the Village where the traffic lights were malfunctioning, ever since that brief brown out I mentioned a couple entries back. So it was on Second Avenue and Houston that night. Bedlam. Cars narrowly avoiding careening into each other in the anarchy of turn lanes. Mad honking. Quite a spectacle. Couldn't help but chill and watch for a while. How often do you get decent odds on witnessing, first hand, a multicar pile up? Not to be missed. Break out the fucking popcorn and lawn chairs.

We finally decided to check out the newly moved Living Room on Ludlow. Pleasantly uncrowded bar for a amatuer weekend night. Cedric, reeling from loose intestinal fortitude buggies, unleashed a liquified curry storm in the john. Left Luke and I to our cocktails soon after that. Some honies there. Horrible live music started playing in the back. Whiney derivative, cream of wheat, alternative rock ear pain. My heckles were not well recieved. Four drinks later Luke and I bounced.

Erin and Patricia were sauced. Erin was wearing a backless strappy number proudly showing off her lower back body art. Christ she's got a wummerful ghetto motor. I love seeing an ass you can rest a drink on. Roundy shelf. Rub my face all in that good stuff.

Irish car bomb drinking contest was insisted on. Patricia claims that my initial win was forfeit as I left too much backwash in my pint. I concede. Anything to please the ladies. Patricia wants to know why she hasn't been spending any time at my place recently. I offer that it's a question best answered on her end. She is more than welcome in my crib day or night.

Predictably, Melissa was there, pounding back the free firewater on her night off. Gave me a slap for not showing on her Tuesday night shift anymore. Gas face and ignore her. Come closing time she insists I join her for afterhours drinks nextdoor. As the bouncers were shooting us the stink eye while waiting for Patricia to finish counting her drawer, I thought it was a good idea to leave anyway.

Place is shady. Can't urinate without three dealers shoving coke on you. Honestly gentlemen, just down here in the darkly lit basement for a piss, no narcotics thanks. Surprisingly, Ama is already there with pals. Most of whom are buggin out on E. By about drink fifteen or seventeen of the night I was feeling the mighty effects. Fortunately, Melissa drug some frat boy out by his cock earlier and I didn't have to invite her along to the apartment. Ama's pal Emily hustles us all to her crib down on B. Loud music, junk food, six packs, green lanterns, and rails. Still no jajo for me thanks. I am a disgusting dick supreme on the marching powder. Believe I left for home some minutes after noon. Took an infernal long time shaking Luke out of his coma. After finally collecting his consciousness, he stumbles in all directions, and in his inebriated peripheral sight, spots an empty mattress. Bee line. Pleading from Emily to put a collar on the boy, and force his lifeless body off her roomie's bed.

In the accusing light of the flaming deathball in the sky, I ask Luke if he is well enough to stumble to his home without lurching headlong into stampeding traffic. We head in opposite directions. I pass out moments after throwing off the Pumas.

The Sunday ER visit is still to come. Not that I promise or anything. Dirty lawyer tricks promises are anyway. Lick the ball sweat if ya don't believe me. Spanky tales of medical emergency will come.