As I might have mentioned (probably not), the building I've moved into is an 8 unit, 2 level apartment built in 1928, with all the built-ins a little (gay) boy could ask for. And Tony, the manager, informed me when I was checking it out for the first time, it is filled with artists and musicians, which is what truly sealed the deal for me.

No. Actually, 'twas the industrial grey carpet that did it. I have it covered with a HUGE throw rug, so don't worry: It ain't Rancho Depresso.

I have heard, on rare occassion, my neighbor, Lenny, practicing guitar (he is fucking amazing on acoustic and electric), and yesterday, my downstairs neighbor, Greg, was jamming...JAMMING on the sitar while I took out the trash. I tried to peek in his windows, hoping to see him draped in a kimono, sucking on a hookah, strumming away, but I saw nothing.

Inspired, I came back upstairs and lightly fingered my ukulele in shame, privately, in my walk-in closet, humbled. Then I said "fuck it", dropped my ass on the sofa and cranked out some Elvis Costello.

For just a few minutes, the echos of sitar and ukulele filled the street in front of 907 Sanborn Ave.

My new life. Wild.