Last night I licked my fingers a lot. Paul Katcher rescued me. He grabbed me over IM and forced me out of my apartment. Paul and I met at a blogger nerd herd fest in January. He once told me he read my site for the seex stuff. I didn’t know I had “seex stuff.” Okay, so there’s the story about Pam Cooking Spray. That’s it though. So we chat over “northern ribs” (hence the finger licking), watching the NBA playoffs, and I tell him I’ve been on the upper west side for a long time, if you count my time at 55th and Broadway when I was in college.

“Oh, 55th and Broadway, that’s near Hooters.” He says.
“Um, yes. Most people say near David Letterman, but okay.”

See, when navigating around Manhattan, people like landmarks. St. Paul’s Chapel, The Empire State Building, Bryant Park… ther Starbucks beside the new Time Warner building… you get the gist. Paul knows the bar we’re going for drinks is 53 blocks north of Scores, 6 blocks east of the Penthouse Executive Club, and not as close as he’d like to Larry Flint’s Hustler Club. But he hates strip clubs… um, unless he’s in Montreal. Paul would rather lick someone else’s vomit than watch a Hugh Grant movie, probably would prefer a bullet hole in his scrotum than be subjected to even a conversation about Oprah, and prefers bikinis most definitely to a one-piece… and believe it or not, we’re friends. I thank you. And Linus thanks you for the leftover ribs.