Oh, dream weaver. I believe we can make it through the night...

I just woke up from a terrible dream — a nightmare, if you will — that I was back in Tiffin, going back to COLUMBIAN, to finish my degree at Kent. I was forced to take three classes, one of which involved pie baking. I remember thinking, how am I going to pull of baking a pie when I can barely make macaroni free of errors?

The only solace I found in the dream was the fact that I was wearing white patent leather shoes — something the non-dream me has wanted for months now — and a belt to match. But no amount of amazing fashion accessories in TIffin could replace being in New York. Especially this weekend.

Last night I caught up with some old broadcast buddies — Mary Traina and Joey Seaman — at the Upright Citizens Brigade for a mostly hysterical two hours of improv comedy. If the name sounds familiar, that's because UCB used to be a Comedy Central show starring Amy Poehler, who still does shows there most Sunday nights with ASSSSCat 3000. The best part about all the shows? They're only $8!

After UCB we moseyed over to a diner right by Madison Square Garden and feasted on fries, pancakes and tiramisu (the latter would be mine, thanks). We wanted to go out but needed to find a place to accomodate Mary and her underage sister, so we settled on Opaline, which was on 39th and 5th. Keyword being was — only after we got there did Mary's friend Boomer realize it had moved to the West Village.

So rather than force our tired bodies to get drunk, dance and somehow make it home at 12:20 on a Friday, we decided to call it a night and regroup tonight for a burlesque show and some serious boozing. The best part? The burlesque show will be FREE, courtesy of Joey's part-time job selling tickets on Broadway. Between all of our connections — mine at Ad Age, Mary at Transistor, Joey on Broadway and Boomer on the Late Show — we will probably do some sweet-ass stuff this fall for little to no money.

Unfortunately, all the money in the world does not make the V train pick you up any faster after-hours on a Friday night, so I found myself improvising my way home. After waiting a good half hour for a D or V train to come, I ultimately hopped on the A to 125th, walked through Harlem for the longest 15 minutes of my life (the only other white person I encountered was a cop, natch), hopped on the 6 and finally got off at 96th. It was a riskly 90-minute commute, but it probably would have been even longer had I decided to wait for the buses that could have taken me home on a route that actually made sense to travel.

Nonetheless, I am home in one piece and stinky as hell — all this walking and waiting in the steamy subway queues makes an out-of-shape boy work up a pretty decent sweat. So it's shower time, then track down Christie for the afternoon of Chelsea and visiting the WTC she promised me.