There's an entry before this one, in case you're interested.

I stayed in the city this weekend for a bachelorette. It was tame, possibly because many of this group of friends are in their 30's and married with kids, or because it's the bride's second marriage.

I laid out for about 30 minutes on Saturday, enjoying the peace that comes with laying on a chaise lounge on the terrace off of my empty apartment. Our terrace is 8 floors above street level, and sometimes feels like a respite amid the tempest of this city.

I sat out there and read "Naked Lunch," mentally following the junkie Burroughs through lower Manhattan.

As I dressed for the evening, I received a call from Frogs who was with Mr. Destiny and his girl at the shore. I broke out in belly-hurting laughter at the knowledge that she is now hanging out with this guy I met in a bar two years ago. It's so preposterous, yet so typical of my life.

I went out and met the group at an over-priced Trattoria in mid-town. From there we went to one of those bizarre Eurotrash lounges, velvet ropes and $25 cover for access to a room filled with perverted older men with alleged royal Titles cruising from table to table with bottle of Vueve, prowling for a young piece of ass.

I watched pretty young things from Venezuela, Russia, Brazil, etc. shake their tiny asses to the memorizing beat of trance as men with money assessed who would be lucky enough to straddle him later that night and maybe get breakfast in the morning.

I tuned out self-absorbed conversations with friends prattering on about things I couldn't feign interest about, Tracey Feith dresses, impossible crushes and the like. Instead, I observed call girls reigning in rent money with suggestive dances and impressive tongue tricks while I threw back cocktail after cocktail.

Sunday, inspired by Trading Spaces, I ripped apart my room and cleaned. Moved furniture, pulled up my rug, swept and mopped.

I put winter clothes away and transitioned my closet. I lit candles and incense, applied self-tanner and sat down to read the Times online.

After that, I read some more of Sylvia Plath's journals, a herculean project that I tackle in small doses for fear that her mania may trigger a relapse of my own and transport me to that time a few years ago when I was less stable and romanticized life into an unrecognizable dream that was unliveable by those lofty expectations.

I read that Miramax is developing a film adapation of Plath's life as a Gwyneth vehicle, something that evokes disappoinment in me for Meg Ryan, who for years has lobbied for that role. That would have been a career making role for Ryan, something to elevate her beyond America's sweetheart and show her chops as an actress, as well as a role that she would be perfect for at this age, at which she can draw from her own ripe experiences as an emotionally charged mom and wife to emote Plath to a tee.

It is unfortunate, indeed, because Paltrow will do the role well, as she always does, but this role could have been a defining moment for Ryan, who is enormously passionate about Plath and her life and work.

I watched the ABC special on the Hamptons, the epitome of all that I despise about New York and thought if those terrorists were having second thoughts about attacking us again in the near future, they won't anymore after watching this heinous display ostenagous spending and vapid, godless living.

For the record, we aren't all like those people. Some of us have values and souls.

I dread going to sleep tonight because that signals the end of what has been a peaceful weekend and the beginning of what will be a tiring and combative work week.

Best not to put it off. G'night.

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