READ IT HERE BEFORE YOU READ IT IN METROPOLITAN DIARY
Because I've been so wrapped up in odds and ends of joyless work drama this week, I totally forgot to share with you a deeply embarrassing story. And since the only thing I hate worse than being laughed at is being ignored, I'll happily share it with you.

First, you need a little background. I'm not the sort of person who likes the phone. In fact, I actively dislike the phone. Always have, always will.

And I hate people who yammer on their phones. Especially on, say, a New York City bus.

And I drink a bit. But you already knew that. When I do, though, a lot of my hard-and-fast rules go out the window.

So Tuesday night I had seven a few drinks and two shots with Michael after work, but -- since we hit the bar early -- it was still light out when I jumped on the M31 to go home. As the bus turned north on York Avenue, I remembered that I owed an old friend a call. [Sidenote: this old friend may or may not have been the model for 'Jamie Brock' in Trust Fund Boys, for those of you who have or will read it, by which I mean all of you.]

So I called. And we talked for the next ten minutes about, oh, gay bars and gay restaurants and gay couples and gay marriage and gay pets and gay gay gay gay gay. And then we said we'd talk again soon, and I hung up, as the bus pulled to the curb a few blocks from my stop.

Three young women stood to get off the bus and, smiling, looked toward the back of the bus, where I was propping myself up near the rear door. And then... they burst into applause.

I looked around, confused, sure I missed something. It was only when an older woman, seated near me and also smiling, glanced at me that I realized that the applause was for me.

"Me?" I asked. The older woman nodded.

Drunken bus-riding as performance art. I make commuting in New York City just that special.

I figure that in a month or so the other passengers will no longer recognize me. I think I can avoid the M31 until then.