Hey, should I put the beer in the fridge?

If you're one of the hardy souls who's been reading this blog since the month of its inception, you will have noticed that the list of links to the left has been slowly expanding. This is a good sign: it means my web habits are finally diversifying.

But I feel like I've arrived at the party extremely late. The apartment is mostly empty. Well-known bloggers lie naked and insensate on the floor. Somebody's snarked all over the bathroom tile; the entire apartment reeks of pith and bile. The iPod hooked up to the stereo system has become trapped in a loop of the Arcade Fire album. A couple of drunk Gawker types are chatting each other up on the fire escape. One particularly pitiable soul, either tripping or merely distracted, is staring into the mirror with boundless fascination. Everyone who's still lucid is remarkably unattractive. "This shit is played," I hear a studiously unkempt writer mutter as he exits. Even the NYT reporter is getting her coat and leaving. And here I am, clutching my sixpack of cheap beer, my eagerness looking increasingly pathetic. This seems to happen to me a lot.

But I'm in it for the long haul. I'm sitting on the couch, rolling up my sleeves, putting on a little Sergio Mendes & Brasil '66, and bringing the bottle of Jameson over from the mixed drink table. Let's party. Let's use "party" as a verb.