I was intermittently annoyed all weekend that I wasn't getting laid. That cranky feeling has stretched straight through today, but has somehow transformed itself into a feeling of apathy. I don't feel much like writing, or reading, or doing anything else, though I've no problem with completing my work tasks. When it's this hot out, I have no desire to drink or imbibe in any other vice. I just want to fuck.

That said, work is moving along swimmingly, and, for the most part, I had a fine weekend. Most of my weekend time in August is almost entirely devoted to my family, and this weekend was no exception, as my aunt and uncle visited Manhattan.

On Friday night, we ate and ate and ate at Yama in the West Village. The pieces of fish served there are about three times the size of fish served in any other sushi restaurant, and while my brother and his wife tried to warn us, my uncle and I just never listen when it comes to sushi. Oh my. I was full. It was good, and I could have sworn I was done for the night, especially with the addition of numerous glasses of sake, served chilled and spilled in wooden boxes.

But on my way home I received a call from Gus, surprisingly, who wanted me to meet up with him and his fiancee, Gretchen, since they were in the East Village. I met them for a quick drink, sat and listened to Gretchen rant about things that made me blush (At one point I actually said, "You know what? That's too much information." And I do not blush easily, as you might have guessed.) and then had them walk me home.

(A quick visit to Gus' website shows a somewhat different take on the night. The referenced discussion we had about how I don't talk with straight males about sex was just a touch different than Gus reports. I said that I don't usually talk to my straight male friends who have girlfriends about their sexual preferences, because I think it shows a lack of respect to the girlfriends. I wouldn't really want a boyfriend of mine talking in too detailed a fashion about our sex life to his girl friends. And, in general, it's probably best to be sincere with everyone until you know them, not just girls. I don't think sincerity is too much to ask for in life. Sigh. Whatever. I'm tired of this already.)

On Saturday, there was more food, and more drink. It simply did not stop. I was at the mercy of my family. Or we were at the mercy of each other. Somebody was driving this train, and I'm sure it wasn't me.

Around 1 PM, I went to my brother's new house in Queens for lunch. It's a colorful, spacious new house, and it's always a pleasure to visit. Plus, my brother and his wife are quite the gourmet chefs, and every meal always looks like it could be in a magazine. First, they served us a small green salad with roasted corn, and a wedge of blue cheese, which was delicious. After that, they dished out fresh, spicy gazpacho made with ripe tomatoes from their garden (My brother gave me a tour of it after we ate; he cursed himself for his inability to grow mint, which is supposedly one of the easiest things to grow.), topped with three, perfect, grilled shrimp. The dishes were pretty and light, and it was the only time the whole weekend I remember feeling full but not overwhelmed.

And then it was home, to clean and then shower and dress for - you guessed it - another meal. At 6:30, We met at the W Hotel, where my aunt and uncle were staying. The W, for the uninitiated, is this sort of trendy, Euro hotel in midtown, where lots of beautiful people stay. Everyone in the lobby bar looked like they were about to go clubbing. It made me laugh.

Over the past few years I've seen quite a few hotels here in New York (In my side career as call girl - hey, a girl's gotta pay the bills, don't judge), and I think I prefer the stuffier ones the best. I don't need to hear Bootylicious when I'm lugging a big-ass bag and I've just gotten off the plane. Save it for after my nap.

My brother, his wife, and I checked out their room (Nice, but I've seen better. Sniff.) then went to the Campbell Apartment, an old (read: historical) bar in Grand Central Station. We were served and drank cocktails that cost approximately fourteen dollars each. I think this is too much, even with those high, high ceilings, don't you?

God, I hate New York sometimes.

After one round, we headed to Eleven Madison Park, so that we could have another two rounds while waiting for our 8:30 dinner reservations. For those of you following along at home, that's three stiff, overpriced drinks in two hours. I had one of those, "Am I incredibly happy or incredibly sad right now?" moments that lasted about fifteen minutes, but I got over it. (At a certain point with your family, does it really matter anymore? The point, I guess, is that you are feeling something, in a way that no one else can make you feel.)

And guess what we did after that? We ate. Jesus. Steak and oysters and swiss chard and potatoes and gnocchi and duck and lions and tigers and bears, oh my. And a couple of bottles of wine, and after dinner drinks, and dessert, and...don't you just feel full reading this?

Somehow I hauled myself and Dante to Williamsburg later on the evening, to some new club that falls in the "Should be in the East Village, but there's no more room left there" category. I lasted for about fifteen minutes, happy to see my friends and sip water gently, until the German DJs came on.

How did we know they were German? Because the female half of the duo announced, "Hallo, we are from Germany, and we are going to show you how Germans make music." It was at that instant that I realized: This is going to suck. And guess what? It so sucked. I've sat through a lot of techno shows in my life, but this experimental live show shit is for the German birds. It should be noted that the boy half of the duo had hair exactly like the lead singer of Flock of Seagulls.

I really, really wish I was making it all up, but I'm afraid it's true. People still have those haircuts, and there's nothing we can do about it.

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