Flying back home.

My mod nephew shows us how the cool kids do what the cool kids do...Note: it involves suits and something about "living strong."

Apparently, I like to tilt towards - and onto - my immediate family. Especially when we're at dignified, somber functions. To which I insist on wearing pink.

Back to NYC - and questioning how I could ever leave when there's still so much scratchitti I have left to give.

Oh Brooklyn. I hardly knew ye.
Oh hot dog painting. You're totally gonna fit in in Denver.

Mine's not.

Perhaps it's best that this is the first and last picture I took during my birthday bacchanalia.

Thinking if the wine bar doesn't pan out...

Thinking if the store doesn't pan out...my next corporate job BEST be giving me three computers, unlimited soda pop and Bruce Springsteen sightings like Tan's do.
Note: Springsteen wears bracelets.
Lots and lots of bracelets.

After a day spent giggling over our MySpace profiles, eating Ukranian delicacies with the likes of Paul Giamatti, and visiting jewelry stores along 14th Street, Mike and I met up with Natasha at the aptly named "Wine Bar." The best part about this picture? The guy next to us apologized that his lacrosse stick was in the shot.

Obviously, he didn't know that Mike also was in the shot.

The second best part?
My bra.

The hairdo may say business, but the bosoms? They're ready to get down.

"And when there were no crawdad - we ate patater."

All the gaiety led us to this: the best picture ever.

Note: bra still evident. With the cross, it's all very Madonna circa 1992, no?

No?

And then trouble came a-knockin'....

Followed in short order by Elaine the elder, who served up a plate of mad stylez with a side of totally smokin'. Fishwife wisely knew to keep her trap shut about the double-parked Tacoma.

On my last day, I helped Carl and his friend move a $5,000 computer on a city bus. Among the many pleasures of the six-block trip was an engaging and delightful exchange about the Statue of Liberty with a toothless crossing guard.
Apparently it's closed to the public!
Huh!

Hard to understand why Carl wanted to leave the neighborhood. But you know what they say about gay guys and poon: "No estan amigos."

That is what they say, right?

To celebrate Carl's liberation from deepest Chinatown, we decided to pose as a couple - with a dog - and green thumbs.

18 pictures later, the mutual dissatisfaction with our life of lies was evident.

In my final bid to die a reckless death in New York, or at least get morbidly ill on the Upper West Side, I tucked into the most foul peanut butter ever at Kirsten's apartment. After spitting out my toast on her pillow, I shouted, "What the hell is wrong with this weird, metallic, greasy Skippy?" Then I realized that peanut butter has an expiration date.
And that it means something.

Mom, Dad: please listen. Please learn. I know you don't believe me about expiration dates (*hence the RED parmesan cheese) but, for God's sake, look sharp. Your cabinet may indeed hold similar horrors.

Maybe your Daddy should get into the nut spread industry. Lord knows it needs help. And my Daddy's busy napping.