Apologies, kids, for the recent silence and relatively crap posts; real life, as it’s sometimes wont to do, has been getting in the way.

On the work front, we’re getting ready to launch into pre-production on Earthquake Weather with Cyan, and prepping This is Not a Film to head off to the DVD presser with Long Tail.

But, more detrimentally to my regular raconteuring, I’ve also been drinking the nights away, with nary a free minute of ‘me time’. A quick run-down, for those looking for some vicarious liver damage:

Wednesday night, headed out to celebrate The Girl’s birthday. As she quoted me saying on her own blog (and, no, I won’t link it, because heaven knows my mother doesn’t want that much detail about my sex life. Not that we’ve had sex. I’m, um, saving myself until marriage. Yes, that’s it! Saving myself until marriage…), there are two traumatic events that can fall within the first few weeks of dating someone: Valentine’s Day, and their birthday. And, wowsers, there’s nothing like getting both in the span of a single week.

Still, I think I stumbled through both reasonably competently, as I’ll be seeing her again this evening. (More on that later.) We started the natal evening at a Nerve bash, largely because it involved free wine. As she ran into train trouble, I headed into the party alone for a half hour or so, and emerged just in time to discover that the doorman wasn’t letting her (or anyone else) in, despite her repeated protestation that she was actually on the guest list, and that her +1 was waiting patiently (albeitly already slightly drunkenly) inside. Fortunately, as I had come out sans-overcoat, I managed to get us both inside with the old ‘I need to retrieve my coat’ and Jedi mind-trick stare one-two punch. Though, frankly, it wouldn’t have been worth much more effort. The small bar, Odea, was packed well past the confines of fire code, and moving from one end of the narrow bar to the other made me thankful for years of practice on thrown-elbow dodging. We did, however, manage to get onto Gawker, as Team Party Crash was stalking the event; add back-of-the-head picture of me making out to the growing list of incriminating artifacts trailing me around the Internets.

Post-Odea, we cabbed down Broome to the excellent Ivo & Lulu, a closet of a restaurant with truly excellent food they inexplicably sell for about a third the rate of similar gastronomic delights elsewhere. (For potential visitors, it’s BYOB, so either buy in advance, or [as I was forced to do] head next door to the oddly-named Monkey Temple bar and sweet-talk them into selling you a whole bottle of cabernet at wholesale) Then over to Circa Tabac, where I first pissed off and then befriended the owner by requesting two empty wine glasses to finish off the remains of the cabernet bottle.

I’m pretty sure we cabbed back to my apartment following that, though the combined effects of wine, more wine, and a stiff Sidecar left details sketchy until the following morning, when, waking up at 9:00, we discovered a lawyer nearly pressed up against the glass in his office across the street, admiring the show through my aquarium-like bedroom windows. Thank you, but no, life-imitating-Hitchcock.

Despite barely staggering through the rest of the day, and repeatedly swearing off liquor, I nonetheless found myself at Russian Samovar later that evening (drinking problem; what drinking problem?) for a sipping vodka carafe with the visiting Dan Birdwhistile, founder of the Dropstone Group, a new and rather cool young-people-driven nonprofit. Then, after a brief glass-of-water respite in my apartment, I was out yet again to B.B. Doyles, to meet up with long-standing friend Mike Hoevel, in town for the weekend from L.A. (and, before that, China), as well as recent-ex-roommate Colin and his lovely girlfriend Carrie.

As ever, there’s nothing like an evening of bad beer with good friends to pass the time, though Hoevel at one point launched into a retelling of a story I’d long since forgotten: in the Yale dining hall, over dinner one evening, I accepted a five dollar bet to stand on a chair and de-shirt. Though, contrary to the name of the site, I try to steer clear of too much narcissistic back-patting, I must admit I was thrilled that Hoevel described the event as a bit like Flanders shirtlessly mowing the lawn: I was ‘unexpectedly ripped’.

As the evening rolled on, Colin excused Carrie and himself, to nurse the start of a winter cold, and both were replaced by Hoevel’s man-du-jour, who trekked down 9th from Julliard. Eventually,after several TableTaps of YuengLing, and much flirting all around with middle-aged Irish waitress Regina, I made it back home to once again fruitlessly swear off ever drinking again.

Yesterday evening, in penance for the prior two nights, I met my friend Tova to take in some art at the Met, where she works, as well as some behind-the-scenes gossip on the Rubens exhibit and newly-redone modern art mezzanine. Then went with her to meet her friend Joel, a TV writer, for moulles, frittes, and more frittes, at Petite Abeille. (I may eat healthfully most of the time, but a french fry so rich you can feel your arteries clogging as you chew is certainly not to be missed.)

After crashing at home early, I spent most of the day cleaning my apartment and re-doing work I’d been too hung over to do well the first time through in the past few days. Now, I’m off to dinner with ex-girlfriend Kate, having lost a steak dinner bet that she wouldn’t still be dating the guy she’s in fact still dating after three months. And, then, up to Morningside Heights for the Girl’s official birthday extravaganza, as well as a second chance at ruining the good first impression I made on all her friends.

But, at least, I won’t be drinking much.

[Famous last words.]