Too many cool things to do in this city. Tonight I have tickets to see Ghosts at B.A.M. but I've also been invited to a party where the Gipsy Kings will be performing. I like Ibsen and I love Ingmar Bergman's directing, but the Gipsy Kings are going to win tonight.

First, I'm still hungover. Second, I only got four hours of sleep last night. Third, a combination of the first and second points makes the idea of sitting through a long play, especially one in Swedish, unbearable. Fourth, tapas. Fifth, dancing. Sixth, it's a charity event. Still, I hate to let the tickets go to waste.

I've enjoyed the little spike that came from being mentioned in the Slate article yesterday, but it really brought home the fact that people are reading this and judging me based on it. Am I coming across as weird? Too gay? Boring? Stupid? Too much/not enough about rugby? Now everytime I start typing, I worry about it.

Fuck it. I don't know you. You don't know me. I guess that's part of the fun.

Speaking of rugby, our end-of-season party is Friday. If you happen to find yourself walking in Chelsea in the high teens and 7th Avenue late Friday night/early Saturday morning and you see a bunch of big, burly, really drunk guys doing things that ought not be done in public, that's us. Say hi. We won't bite. Well, actually we probably will, but I promise you'll enjoy it. Or you can just meet up with us at the Eagle. We usually wind up there eventually.

Speaking of Chelsea, if you hear any weird noises in that area tonight, it's probably just my friend Mike. His boyfriend just came back from a two-week vacation; I imagine the entire island will be rocking tonight. Ah, to be young and in love. Or in love with someone young. Whatever.

Lucky bastard.