  Vicente checked the calendar at Dada. So did Smokin' Joe. I guess, though, Club Dada changed their minds at the last minute and decided to nix Open Mike Night and put it off until next weekend. So Vicente, Fab D and I traipsed down to West Village and ate outside at Paris. Beautiful night. Lots of dogs. Too much cheese. Vicente was almost convinced to play hooky this morning and stay in bed with me.
Unfortunately, our fucking jobs always seem to get in the way. He did stay long enough to witness Snarky Bitch's dementia concerning feeding time. Nico (no longer Sparky Jr. but now named Crotch Dog) falls for it every time. Rainman just sat on my leg staring into space. I'm really out of things to say (incredible, I know) so for once, I'll end it early. I would suggest you check out Bun's latest post, and let me know what songs you would have played at your funeral. Copyright 2004 Non-Girlfriend 
