I know people who don't think much of blogging, who can't even say the word blog without scrinching up their faces like they just ate a pee-soaked lemon. But being LOD has given me two priceless gifts: a deeper appreciation for writing, and lots of new friends who share it. Like Liz, equal parts business plannery and comedy geekery. And Tony, blessed with a singular penchant for media piracy. And Pierre, whose life is so annoyingly charmed that his babysitter was available on New Year's Eve. The four of us had a blorgy last night, in full view of about 100 bar patrons. And it was good.
I walked home past Union Square, where the bedouin boutiques that infest the south side of the park every December have been torn down, returning the area to the normal, wide-open space where people can sunbathe, or bloviate, or be run down by skater punks. As it should be.
And then I returned to my ancient apartment building, which is currently undergoing the equivalent of a little prostate surgery. The sewer connections need replacing, and this initially struck me as bad news because I can't imagine how old those pipes must be. About two years ago, the road began collapsing over the ancient main sewer line, which was (and still is, I guess) made of brick. Like a Roman friggin' aqueduct. And now, the plumbers have started banging away at the feeder tubes -- and unleashing the mice.
It's a funny little game the rodents play with us. They wait until after the boys are asleep to start foraging, and they're especially careful to fix us with baleful glances as they skitter past the glue traps. (This is the best you can do, monkey boy?) The exterminator arrives tomorrow, with his infrared doohickeys. Stay tuned as the saga continues.
