Ok, it’s Thursday. Not much to report. Maybe I could make something up. No, not tonight. I’ll give you some mundane details. I promise, I’ll write some fiction soon enough. Until then some non fiction, some of my life. A pound of flesh for you dear reader.

Last night, I found the couch. It was buried under clothes and mail and Mojo and Uncut magazines as well as a songbook or two. Bill did a decent job in cleaning the apartment. It still has a way to go, but it’s a step in the right direction.

You’d think, two gay men living together, the place must be immaculate. Well that goes to show, you can’t trust stereotypes. I’ve always had a problem keeping things neat and orderly, and with Bill around I’ve surrendered to the chaos that surrounds us.

Normally if Annemarie, Rex and Earl were coming this summer we’d make an effort, perhaps even hire a cleaning lady to come in and do the things that we can’t seem to figure out to do ourselves.

We did that last year and talked about having her come every now and then, but we had more money last year and the Arcata contingent were headed east. Not so this year. It’s ok. Juan doesn’t mind.

He’s a college student so it all seems somewhat homey to him. He just sits in the couch and we watch the tv and get jazzy. Last night was the same only no Juan and I was doing a jazz solo.

Bill came back from the laundry and we watched Keith Olbermann then after that watched Dave Chappelle who was very funny, funnier than Keith Olbermann. After that, sleep. Bill was out at 6:00 and I stirred soon after getting out of bed myself.

Lot’s more people on the bus lately. Too many, and they all take my favorite seats. They always give the Hoboken run the worst buses, and this morning was no different.

I got off the bus, listening to Orbital as I picked up my free newspapers and walked to Smilers for my breakfast sandwich from West Indian Tony. Tony of course, asked all about Bill. He never asks about me, I guess that because I’m in front of him and by being there I must be alright. West Indian Tony can also predict the weather by how much his knees ache.

As I walked up Fifth Avenue I ran into a former co-worker. Daniel Begin, who set up a successful hedge fund which was also legal, and that’s rare these days. Nice guy, a fellow atheist and quite an intellectual from Israel.

I saw him last summer in Central Park with his wife and kids. It was awkward since I was beat from riding from Hoboken to the George Washington Bridge over and down to Central Park. Plus my eyes were a little bloodshot from a quick jazz improvisation off the bike path.

Not this morning though. We exchanged pleasantries and business cards and we were both on our separate ways. He asked me to tell my boss, Greg Stevens that he had said hello. Greg remarked that I always seem to be bumping into former co-workers and it’s true I do.

I saw the former head of Wanker Banker this morning too. His new company is across the street from my building so I see him fairly often.

Work was slow today. I had to see a vendor, someone who is trying to get my company signed up with her mobile phone service. They never take no for an answer and I was pigeonholed. She was nice and most guys that aren’t gay would love to spend time with her. Me? I just told her some horror stories about cellphone service, she works for T-Mobile which is my carrier.

She listened politely while telling me more and more about how the Blackberries she is promoting are the very best and give good value. I think deep down she knew she wasn’t going to get anything from me, everyone already has a Blackberry with their own service and they aren’t about to switch.

I told her I would bring it up at the next budget meeting next week, which isn’t going to happen. I did get her name which is the title of this post. After that was my special Thursday lunch, penne, pesto and chicken. I was quite a gavone while I ate.

Walked to the bus terminal after work listening to Public Enemy, then I saw a t-shirt that said ‘Never Stop’ so I switched over to Echo and the Bunnymen. Sat in a crappy seat and read ‘Tweak’ by Nic Sheff, the son of David Sheff who wrote the last book I read, ‘Beautiful Boy’ about his son’s addiction to methamphetamine. This is even more harrowing since it’s written by the junkie son. It’s a sad story.