The thing that amazes me about so many freelance writers out there is how they so have clearly honed their productivity, meaning they can wake up in the morning, every morning, and get the work done, whereas I can never predict when I will be willing to write. These are the people who are constantly pitching and working, people who see a story around every corner, and actually act on their instincts, rather than just doodling little notes in their journals like I do. David Gallagher and G. Beato come to mind. Those guys always seem to have a new piece out there. But I imagine they have a structure to their lives that I do not, and that's why they get to write for the New York Times and Spin, amongst other places, and I am stuck jerking myself off on this site.

Oh don't get me wrong, I do love it. To jerk off, that is.

Anyway, instead I waste entire days socializing. But can you blame me? After the snow (Snow? Can you believe it?) earlier this week, the weather turned beautiful and it was time to run around Brooklyn on a lovely, sunny Saturday, with all my boy and girl friends. I can't help it. I've just spent the last three months inside. I need some F-U-N.

So Adam picked me up around 11 for a coffee run and a visit to the pet store. For the second time this week I visited the Read Cafe, on Bedford between N 8th and N 9th. They have a cute backyard that was completely empty yesterday because it had only just stopped raining, so we had it all to ourselves. We talked, as people do on Saturday mornings over coffee, about dating. Adam had a date planned for that night. He seemed excited about it, except for one thing.

"She has a bad name," he said.

"What?"

"Marnie."

"Ohhh."

Now I have known a lot of Marnies in my life - there were six alone at my high school - and the name, to me, conjures up the image of spoiled suburban princess. I apologize if there are any Marnies reading this site, because I am sure you are all lovely, intelligent, urbane, and completely unspoiled people. (As are all my readers!) But to sit there and look at Adam, with his stubble and unkempt hair and leather motorcyle jacket and oversized jeans and combat boots, and picture him with a girl named Marnie, well, it was hard to imagine it working.

But I could be wrong. I have been wrong before. Actually I am wrong constantly. They'll probably get married. After he gets a haircut.

Then we went to the pet store where I was pleased to see that the usual array of women who talk in baby voices to random animals had elected to stay at home and like, knit or something. Not that there is anything wrong with knitting. Or baby voices. Or girls named Marnie.

We had to pick up a twenty dollar bag of food for my spoiled prince of a cat, Cracker, who, if you haven't heard the news, relieved himself on me the other day. Turns out all he needed was exorbitantly priced food for cats with sensitive stomachs. He's fine today, sleeping soundly on the rug, happy knowing he's going to bankrupt me for the rest of my life.

Later my old friend, indie rock boy Matt, came over for a Scrabble rematch. OK, here's the deal with me and Scrabble. I beat everyone who played me all winter long. I mean, wiped the floor with them, a 60-100 point lead almost every time. And then my mom came to town, kicked my ass, and I believe I've lost my mojo, goddammit. So Matt won. By five points. But he won. He did not lord it over me, as I usually do when I beat people. He handled it well. But can you blame me for the lording? Scrabble is like, the only thing I can call my own, and now, sadly, I can't even do that.

Boggle anyone?

I spent the next hour after he left working the phones, trying to find some sort of house party. I wanted to have actual conversations with new people, plus I just couldn't go to a bar or a club last night. I'm not in the mood. And anyway I've got two shows coming up this week: The Natural History at North Six on Tuesday, and Oakley Hall at Pianos on Thursday. I am sick of it all already and it hasn't even happened yet.

So Jules and Will dropped by and picked me up and we went to a party at the home of one of Will's bandmates, Claudia. She plays the fiddle, and has a beautiful apartment. There was too much drinking too fast (not on my part), so we only stayed a few hours, but that was enough time for me to have some really decent conversations with a couple of lovely people, as well as to drink some strong-as-shit mojitos. I love mojitos (though I would never buy one in a bar or anything, because they're expensive) because it's the drink that eats like a meal. I always feel like I'm getting a little salad with it because of the mint.

Back at Will's house, we called a car for me, and I went downstairs to wait for it. There were a couple of people hanging out in front of the building from a party at another apartment in the building. They were smoking a cigar. I chatted with them while I waited. And waited. For the car that would never come. Eventually the party people went inside, with the exception of one gentleman. He shared his wine with me while I waited. He attempted to call other car services for me to no avail. Finally he walked with me to the street and waited until I found a car.

The whole thing lasted like, a half hour, and I was like, "Wow, you're really nice. You don't have to do this." And literally he didn't. I could totally have hailed a car by myself. But he didn't want to leave me standing on the street by myself, he said. I was sort of amazed, and fell briefly in love with him, though I didn't get the sense that he was hitting on me. I can only think: either that party was really boring, or chivalry, my dear friends, is not dead.

I made it home just after midnight.

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