It’s Tuesday again and it’s not my fault. I did everything in my power to make it Thursday but obviously that didn’t go as planned. My carbon monoxide detectors kept going off last night. It seems if I come home and turn on the heater to medium it sets those buggers off.

So for most of the evening I was sitting in the apartment with the windows open, heaters off and wearing layers as opposed to the single thong I usually wear when I write. Yes butt floss does a writer good. And I keep checking to see if I am red in the face since Harpy hipped me to the fact that carbon monoxide poisoning can be seen when you’re looking beet red.

Visions of Vitas Gerulaitis pass through my consciousness. The late tennis pro died of carbon monoxide poisoning a while back while living in the Hamptons. The detectors haven’t gone off so far and the heaters are on at a minimum.

Obviously I am still alive though by this writing sometimes one can’t tell.

One the bus home today I was reading Sarah Vowell, The Wordy Shipmates and of course it’s very funny but despite me chuckling to myself I could barely keep my eyes open.

That may have been from the errand I had to do taking me from 49th Street and Third Avenue to 56th Street and Seventh Avenue. Right by the Carnegie Club, a posh cigar bar that I have been to a number of times.

Fortunately it wasn’t open.

I say fortunately since I usually bring my own cigars and they charge you $10.00 if you are not going to purchase one of their over priced cigars. It is a good spot though, drinks a bit pricey. It’s best to stick to beer, I’ve found.

Actually what’s best is to go on a company credit card. It’s where I had my going away party when I left Putnam Lovell NBF, I mean, Wanker Banker. Oddly enough I only had one cigar that evening which kept going out due to the fact that I was so chatty that night with everyone wishing me well.

Little did they or I know that where I was going, Wolff Olins, I mean, McMann and Tate was the proverbial fire underneath the frying pan.

I much prefer the Cigar Inn where I’ve been the past two Fridays with Steve the former coworker. You do have to buy your cigars there but you can also bring in your own libation. I don’t know if we’re doing it again this week, neither one of us has brought up the subject.

I walked around listening to the Story of Jamaican Music on the iPod Alexander Lopez got for me over the holidays. After writing about the Jamaican music last night I decided to load them into my iPods.

I listened to all of that so much that I know all of the words and I found myself singing along as I walked through midtown.

It was almost ironic since I saw a messenger walking along rapping along to whatever it was he was listening to while he was doing his errands and I thought it was odd.

But singing about how the train is coming is a lot different than saying ‘I’m gonna shoot that mutha fucka in the fuckin face’.

Wouldn’t you agree?