Yesterday, after being holed up all week in this apartment, I had to get out. So I bundled up and walked over to the East Village to see Allan. Grey cold day. Just too fucking cold to be out. After a few blocks my nose was running and my ears were frozen. Goddamn this winter. These short, bleak dismal days– these freezing nights Allan and I sit at his kitchen table and drink beer and he tells me about his date with Steve the night before. Allan enjoyed the man very much; and the details: This guy is Allan’s age and president of his own highly successful company. He’s a clinical psychologist and operates a series of health and weight maintenance centers across the country. His clientele is mostly wealthy. He knows a home in Hastings, he is masculine and intelligent and warm and Allan thinks a romance may emerge. And they didn’t even fuck! Allan is having a dry spell. The usual problem about not being able to relate to other than anonymous sex has been compounded lately by an inability to even get into anonymous sex. Over-saturation. Maybe. We sit and bitch about winter and how bored we are with our lives (yes, Aunt Doris, bored, bored, bored… tired of working, tired of fucking, tired of the bars… just tired, tired, tired.) Oh, it’s the midwinter blues, I know. We go to book stores in the neighborhood; I have brought over several books that I’ve had for a long time and didn’t really want to keep. So I traded them for a hardback copy of Flying, and paperbacks of Tales of the City and The David Kopay story. We wander around the East Village– rummage through pet stores and used clothing stores and card shops. We have lunch at a restaurant filled with punkers– new wavers, girls with multi-colored hair. Then back to Allan’s apartment, where we drink beer and Triple Sec and listen to music and Allan reads from his journal to me. Allan has a supposed date which never showed up; so, we walked to the corner and took a taxi back to my apartment, without discussing, but knowing we’d hit the bars later. Allan dozes on the chair and we watch TV until 1:00. This strategy develops: relax at home until late, 1:00 is good. By going out that late you minimize the time spent futilely drinking and cruising. Nothing happens until late anyway, when all the drunks start lurching around staring at each other. Hurrying before the lights go on. So, by 4:00, you’ve had enough time to have a few beers and hit the crowd when it’s ripe. If nothing happens, there’s always the Mine Shaft. Or home. Last night, for me it was home.