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.]

With Kentuckians and Missourians and god knows who else crowding my Times Square-adjacent block in anticipation of tomorrow’s ball drop, my brother and I will instead be escaping down to the East Village to celebrate New Year’s Eve at FEVA‘s Bedazzle Ball.

The problem: a costume’s required. So, in a burst of do-it-yourself ingenuity, we headed down to Home Depot to purchase Tyvek Hooded Coveralls, 3M Woodworking Respirators, green latex gloves and a Sharpie marker.

Back at my apartment, we emblazoned the back of the coveralls, “Times Square Dirty Bomb First Response Unit,” then drew nuclear warning symbols and a slew of official sounding nonsense (“Alpha Squad 4HQ3”) on the front and arms. I wrapped an old handheld digital metronome in white paper, scrawled “Dirty Bomb Geiger Counter” across the top, and cut a hole in the paper to allow us to turn on menacing beeping at the touch of a button.

Let the 2005 hilarity begin.

Drinking homemade vodka with my high school friend, Lis, at home-away-from-home Russian Samovar.

Me: Actually, this bar is part-owned by Mikhail Baryshnikov.

Her: No it isn’t.

Me: No, seriously.

Her: [Very skeptical look]

Baryshnikov walks through the door, nods as he passes, then sits down at the piano and begins to play Debussy’s “RÍverie”, flawlessly.

Her: Okay. So maybe it is.

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.