I am in Baltimore. My dear friend Viki needed a homosexual to help her decorate her apartment, and I got the job. We spent the better part of two days at Ikea, dodging other fag/hag duos in search of just the right shade of hot pink accessories. This is a whirlwind tour, as I have to be back in New York tomorrow afternoon.

I feel as if I have committed a drive-by beautification.

Not all of my motives were so altruistic. On Friday afternoon, I met my mother for lunch at an Indian buffet, and she took me to her warehouse store to stock up on supplies that are too expensive in Manhattan. She was generous enough to buy me forty-eight Mach 3 Turbo blades, over a hundred Clorox disinfectant wipes, two bath sheets for Goblin's crate, and a pair of dress pants with loops too small for my belt. I also went to Target for two packs of boxer briefs and a new pair of pajama bottoms, which my friend Bill calls "lounge pants." One time Bill came over, and I said, "Bill, why are you wearing pajamas to my house?" and he said, "They aren't pajamas, they're lounge pants." I think he has also worn them to work.

They are pajamas.

Tonight, Viki and I met Martin, Philip, and my archenemy, Spuds, for coffee. Martin and Philip are as delightful and fun as can be. Spuds is a deranged madman with delusions of superiority and designs on world domination.

I wonder if he has any lounge pants.