I left Dahlia’s going-away party last night, and taxied up from Alphabet City to Midtown to meet a date. We had planned to head to Saka Gura, a great sake bar and restaurant that’s a favorite amongst the Japanese expat set. As my date hadn’t been before, and as it’s a bit hard to find (being placed in the basement of a nondescript office tower), I suggested we meet on the corner of 43rd and 3rd.

I came up 1st Avenue, and so was on the east side of the street; my date, having subwayed into Grand Central, was on the west. I could see her, thirty feet away. But, in between, there were police barriers, and dozens of uniformed cops.

Apparently, some RNC-related VIP would be hurtling up 3rd in motorcade, and while there were no cars up or down the street as far as the eye could see, we weren’t allowed to cross. Not to worry, though, the police assured me; they wouldn’t be blocking the intersection long – certainly not more than an hour and a half.

So, in the end, we scrapped the Saka Gura plan, and both cabbed down in parallel (along 2nd and Lex, respectively) to Union Square, where we were able to cross the park and meet in between.

As we headed off to nearby Underbar, my date was furious. “It was just politics before,” she said. “But now Bush has made this personal. Nobody gets between me and a drink.”

For the most part, I think of myself as a merely moderately funny person. Sure, some of the posts here are (to me, at least) reasonably amusing, I’ve done my share of improv comedy in the past, and, like most people, I’ve at least toyed with the idea of leaving it all for a career as a bumper-sticker writer (“Honk if you’re Amish” being an easy hit). But, really, I don’t see myself headed off on the stand-up circuit any time soon.

Still, in the past few months, I’ve been told repeatedly that, with a couple of drinks in me (and here, by “a couple”, I mean seven or eight), I’m pure comedy gold. While I’ve long had a vague sense that I’m at my best with all sheets to the wind, I rarely have clear enough memories of the conversations that take place in such a state to suspect any talents beyond drunken self-delusion.

With a slew of recent confirming reports, however, I’m now increasingly sure that I really am in prime form when liquored up. Perhaps that’s because alcohol inhibits my (admittedly already meager) desire to be liked, leaving me free to make all the sarcastic, assholish (albeit self-deprecatingly sarcastic, assholish) comments that spring to mind.

At first, I was only vaguely pleased with this inebriated talent, as I suspected it might push me past the level of belligerence that even the bitchiest girls would find charming. But that opinion changed when I awoke this morning with some young lady’s phone number scrawled on the back of my hand, though with only a vague recollection of to which young lady in particular that phone number might belong.

With a quick phone call to another party attendee, I was able to attach a name to the number. But I was also advised that actually calling the girl (at least while sober) might not be the best idea, as I’d apparently convinced her that I was a.) an Australian illegal immigrant, and b.) a performance artist who’s signature piece is a lengthy strip routine, while in black-face.

When it comes to the pick-up potential of ironic humor, it seems there really is no such thing as too much.

Last night, while drunk, I convinced my brother to let me sharpie a bannered “MOM” heart tattoo on his right arm. At which point, he did the same to me.

It wasn’t until this morning, getting into the shower, that I noticed he had actually replaced the contents of the banner with “MEN”; apparently, the kid has a sense of humor.

This Saturday, following a fair bit of drinking at Bar Nine for Yoav’s twenty-sixth birthday, we all headed back to his apartment to brave the rain and burn a teddy-bear.

Sadly, neither Yoav nor I can lay claim to the idea of stuffed animal torching – the credit instead belongs to attendeed Mike Schupbach, three-time Emmy winner (seriously) and head Muppet Wrangler for Sesame Street, who suggested that Yoav write everything negative that had happened to him over the last year on a piece of paper, stick it up the bear’s hoo-haa, and then light the whole thing on fire in a Santeria-esque ritual that would doubtless permanently traumatize any six year-olds who happened to catch a glimpse of the action.

By the time of the burning, everyone wanted in on the act, and so the poor little bear was loaded up with an array of scribbled-on paper scraps, doused with enough lighter fluid to match Hades, and set ablaze.

The flames leapt a good five feet in the air, and when the rain finally cooled the embers, there was less left of Teddy than a well grilled hamburger leaves behind. And while we all likely took years off our lives inhaling the chemical fumes flame-retardant stuffing apparently puts out when push beyond the limits of its retardation, it was clearly worth it.

We left feeling cleansed, ready to face the world, knowing that whatever problems, trials and tribulations we’d previously faced had all gone up in smoke, stuffed up a teddy-bear’s ass.

[Recent discovery: cigars and Schlitz beer are about equally bad.]

I have officially become the first rube in the history of the world to actually be surprised by a surprise birthday party.

Special thanks to my brother for masterminding the wonderful evening, to Tova, Joe, Colin and Yoav for helping him pull it off, to all of my friends who showed up, and to Mikhail Baryshnikov for walking in to Russian Samovar as we were all there drinking, shaking his head, and walking upstairs to get away from us.

Also, you know you’re already rather drunk when you stagger into a surprise party being thrown for you and initially think, “that’s funny, there are a lot of people I know in this bar tonight.”

6:00pm
Meet one of Cyan’s investment bankers down on Astor Place, chat about progress on raising our film fund.

6:30pm
Head to NYU’s Tisch School for panel on the business of film. Roll eyes frequently at moderator’s inane questions and panelists’ equally inane answers.

7:15pm
Skip out of panel early. Head down to Stellar Network event honoring Philip Seymour Hoffman. Drink several vodka sours at the open vodka bar. Talk with three different women who actually end conversations with ‘my people will talk to your people’ or ‘let’s do lunch’.

9:00pm
Head over to Serena (under the Chelsea Hotel) for drinks with Coro Fellow Ari Wallach, to discuss both a TV show he’s pulling together, and a network he’s building of young leaders interested in shaping broader culture by careful introduction of memes. Discover he’s having drinks later this week with Leah Katz, who bought me in a kissing rally when I was in tenth grade, and on whom I had a monster crush.

11:00pm
Join my brother and my cousin Jason at Otis, a bar around the corner from my house, for bad beer and even worse game of pool. Embarrass ourselves thoroughly by making much-too-loud snide comments about other patrons.

12:00pm
Head a few blocks up to underground bar Single Room Occupancy to meet up with my lovely friend Tova. Observe amusedly as Jason and my brother both try to put the moves on the bartender.

12:30pm
While outside talking on the phone, watch as the cops pull up in front of the bar, clearly thinking someone is throwing a monster party in their basement. “It’s a bar,” I shout to them. They ask the name and how long it’s been there, and, apparently satisfied by my slightly slurred answers, drive off.

2:00pm
Stagger home. Manage to insert key into door on only the third attempt. Someone seems to have quadrupled the number of stairs between the front door and my third floor apartment.

8:00am
Wake up for morning meeting, noting that my eyelids feel literally stuck together by the gummy still-drunkenness of my eyeballs. Hit the shower. Rinse, repeat.

A busy evening last night, involving three parties in succession, the last (and best) of which being Ms. Sarah Brown’s and Mr. Ryan Chittum’s joint birthday bash, the first party I’d attended since college that ended by being broken up by the cops.

Got my knuckles Sharpie-tattooed (again) by Sarah, this time reading “TALK SHIT”, and, feeling immensely honored to be one of the few to achieve two-time tattooing, I’ve now decided I have no choice but to shoot for eventually getting my knuckles similarly SB-defaced more times than anyone else. As the current leader, Erin Byrne, a.) a lives in Oklahoma, and b.) is a librarian, I’m totally ready to kick her ass.

The only downside to the plan is that, while other people apparently can wash their Sharpieing right off, I, possessing a special magnetism for people and ink, am left with tattoo remnants for a good two or three days. Which, frankly, makes for some excellent business-meeting conversation:

Big Investor: “Why does it say ‘Slow Deth’ on your knuckles?’

Me (sitting on hands): “Slow deth? [Nervous laughter] I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Six months back, following our Halloween party (the infamous Hell’s Kitchen Museum of Curious Deaths), one of my high school friends emailed to get the phone number of another guest, a documentary film producer who he had flirted with briefly at the party, and wanted to ask out.

I checked with her to see if she’d mind, then passed the number along. As I saw them both rather infrequently, and neither mentioned it again, I assumed that he’d perhaps not called, or that the date hadn’t really gone anywhere.

Still, last night, at the Mother of All Parties, I saw the two talking again. How cute, I thought. A second chance.

Not exactly. Apparently, the first chance had been more than enough, as the two weren’t meeting up again at this second party – they had come together. They’ve been dating since our first shindig, and are moving in with each other June 1st.

Parties here at the Gotham Sugar Shack: alcohol abuse and effective matchmaking, all rolled into one. Damn we’re good.