I'm about to head out

to Mike and Em's farewell drinks in the East Village, but before I do, I have to write about the sheer ecstacy (or is it "ecstasy"? I can never remember which is the illicit substance and which is the state of bliss) of resuming use of my bike.

I got some new grip tape (pink, so I'm riding in style) and I rode downtown, midtown, uptown. The best part, though, was stopping by the ATM on the way home and riding right past the spot where I had my first bike crash and my 7-or-8-year-old skull was saved by the most gigantic, absurd-looking helmet in creation. A speed bump right outside the UN Plaza residence, just south of 49th Street, just east of 1st Avenue.

In other exciting news, I returned home to find John, the ancient doorman, in his usual reclining position, stealthily concealed (or not) by the hallway cabinet door and drawer, opened precisely in such a manner as to obstruct the view of the bench on which he lies prone and snoozing. Luckily, door attendants in Auntie Mame's 'hood are really more about tradition, class, and general ambience than they are about security. Or so one hopes.