Do you realize summer is pretty much over? We had such a great season here in NY/NJ. I’m sorry to see it come to an end. Mrs. Wife and The Daughters got a lot of pool and beach time in. I spent many an evening in the city. When the weather is cooperating, there’s no place I’d rather be on a summer night than in Manhattan.

Friday after work I popped down to Chelsea for dinner and a few glasses of Dewar’s. The West Village use to be the epicenter of the gay community in New York but years ago it migrated about 15 blocks north to Chelsea. There’s no doubt about it: gay men keep themselves in tip-top physical condition. I almost wish I had passed through a period of bisexual experimentation when I was younger. I’ve had a rather staid sexual past and it would have made it more robust and given it some depth. Living in the city as long as I did, I had plenty of opportunities but it never appealed to me. If there’s one issue you can’t force, it’s sexual preference. It is what it is. I like girls. Always have. Men? Not so much.

I had a big plate of pad Thai noodles at Regional Thai on 7th Av and 22nd. Delicious. You can’t screw up pad Thai noodles. You just can’t! Later in the evening, R Esq. told me, “That’s what white people order in Thai restaurants.” It was a bit hard to take coming from a pale NYC lawyer who was born in Oregon. I secured a table on the sidewalk so the dinner entertainment was the unending parade of humanity down 7th Avenue. It never gets old.

Met aforementioned R Esq. at Peter McManus, which is a glorious shithole of a bar. He and his lovely bride C Esq. work lawyer hours, which is to say, a hell of a lot. He went over their annual billing cycle and it’s pretty intense. I couldn’t do it. I lack the intellectual wherewithal and, much worse, the drive.

Each morning before work I sit for a spell in Bryant Park. Bryant Park is a beautiful patch of grass located right behind the big library on 42nd St. and 5th Ave. I’ll either read the paper or bang out a blog entry or watch the pretty office drones parade by in their summer dresses. On Fridays, my peace is compromised by the Good Morning America Summer Concert Series with Diane Sawyer (sponsored by Listerine mouthwash). A stage is set up and a different band plays each week. Not long ago by bliss was ruined by Miley Cyrus. This morning it was Lynyrd Skynyrd and Kid Rock.

When I was in Junior High School, a humungous lump of dumb named Greg Schopell use to take my lunch money away from me whenever I couldn’t run fast enough. He was a big Lynyrd Skynyrd fan. He always wore Lynyrd Skynyrd tee-shirts (that smelled) and had a Lynyrd Skynyrd belt buckle that was the size of a sewer lid. Do you know what? FUCK Lynyrd Skynyrd! Their music suuuuucks. It’s repetitive and it fed the violent tendencies of Greg Schopell. But I like Kid Rock. He’s great.

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I am employed by Benevolent Dictators, Inc. It is an asset management firm. They manage pension funds, endowments, foundations and, my favorite, High Net Worth individuals. I recently discovered that there’s a tier above that. They are called Ultra High Net Worth individuals. Can you believe that!? Even if you’re High Net Worth, you’re STILL not the top of the food chain. This gives me a whole new benchmark for my own mediocrity.

We’ll get the Demo VP pick this weekend. Do you remember the good ole’ days when it didn’t make a damn bit of difference who the Vice President was? Poppy Bush didn’t get a lot of respect. Dan Quayle was a punch line. Al Gore was a totem pole. That was all before Darth Cheney was hired to head the Vice Presidential search committee for Bush II and wound up nominating himself. What chutzpa! He co-opted the Presidency from a lazy, intellectually challenged puppet head and in doing so has made the Vice Presidency very relevant. We’d better pay close attention from now on, particularly to whoever gets the GOP VP nod. I have a lot of respect for John McCain, but he’s a geezer and doesn’t look like he’s long for this world.

Mrs. Wife and the Daughters were down at the shore with another member of the Mommy Mafia and her brood when I got home from work last night so dinner was not on the table, as is usually the case. Not a problem! I had an evening massage appointment scheduled and didn’t have time to stand in front of a hot stove so I leapt into quick-feed mode. Dinner consisted of:

1 peach
1 slice of bread with peanut butter
1 tall glass of cold milk
Some Wise potato chips
1 orange
1 “fun size” bag of M&Ms
A second (larger) serving of potato chips
1 Klondike ice cream bar

Sounds scrumptious, doesn’t it? I lived alone for the better part of two decades and can’t recall eating so erratically. I think my dinner-making skills were severely compromised somewhere along the matrimonial way.

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I could never be a masseuse. To me, it’s an intimate act that requires you invade someone’s very personal space. Generally speaking, if I’m giving a massage, I want it to lead to something else. And I don’t mean sore hands. How do they do it? According to Jenna, the inflicter of pain (she uses her elbows!), it’s just a job. I had other questions that needed answers and she obliged.

I asked her if they charge extra for people who are morbidly obese (they don’t), how they deal with an exceptionally hairy man (lots of oil) and if a client has ever made a pass at her (all the time). She said she can see passes coming a mile away. Typically, men will pollinate by over-tipping and eventually move in for the kill. One particularly frisky client whipped off his towel, grabbed her hand and…well…yea. She ran out of the room and got the manager. Do you know what they did to him? They canceled his membership. Pardon me, but, isn’t that sexual assault? Did he get away with something? I asked what she does if a client starts to get a little too flirty. Her favorite road block is to steer the conversation into her exercise program, which includes lots of kick boxing and Tae Kwon Do. She’s got the shoulders and strength to prove it! Clever girl.

I did some design work for a Vice President at Benevolent Dictators, Inc. I like her enough and she’s pleasant, but I never really took her seriously. She seems a bit mousy and even though she’s in sales, she doesn’t talk a good game (which is a necessary tool of the trade). I work in an open-architecture environment and I overhear her cold calls. She lacks confidence. I’ve never heard her take command of a conversation. She appears to be of average intelligence.

Yesterday, I stumbled across her bio. She has a B.A. in molecular engineering from MIT. You’d never know! When am I going to stop judging people without first checking under the hood? How many times do I need to be taught that lesson? What a dolt, I be.