And tell me what street compares to Mott Street.

As my regular readers (hi Mom!) know, I am a fan of the Manhattan -- that delightful synergy of whiskey (I use bourbon), sweet vermouth, and bitters. The ratio varies, but I am in the 3 (whiskey) to 1 (vermouth) camp. But, my friends, it is not a Manhattan without bitters. A dash or two makes all the difference in the world.

And there has been, as some of you may know, a problem with getting bitters. I an out last month, and was reduced to drinking bitter-less mixtures of chilled bourbon and sweet vermouth.

Until today. I have been looking for months and low and behold! I found a bottle at a local market. I am, as we speak, savoring the glow of a real Manhattan. I'll take Manhattan, indeed.

Raven hair, ruby lips.

In my defense, she is a good actress. "Rachel Getting Married" was an excellent movie, and . . .

Ah, whatever. She's gorgeous. I admit it. Her character in "Valentine's Day" was worth the ticket and the popcorn.

I want a shot a redemption

Riddle me this, Dear Readers -- why does a lapsed Catholic who last regularly attended Mass during the Reagan Administration get a black smudge on his forehead today? And won't eat meat today or the remaining Fridays before Easter?

"Guilt" as one of my Imaginary Friends instantly responded. A correct, but incomplete, answer I think. Anyway, off to Our Lady of Perpetual Motion to be reminded that I am dust, and to dust I shall return.

One says she's a friend of mine.

Well, January has come and gone (almost), and my resolution to blahhhhg more has been, well, Not Followed.

I am not completely to blame. I had jury duty last week, and planned to catch up a little bit. Alas, for some reason, the Wi-Fi in the jury assembly room blocked access to Blogger. I guess that The Man didn't want me to reveal any jury secrets. Of course, I had no secrets, other than the fact that I sat in said room for two days without ever even being called out to be screened as a potential juror. Whatever.

Anyway, on to substance. After taking the time for a hundred visions and revisions, I dared to disturb the universe, and sent an email to The Punk Rock Girl. She responded, apparently Not Creeped Out by my message from out of the blue. We emailed back and forth a couple of times, catching each other up a little bit over what happened in the last [mumble-mumble] years. We even exchanged photos at her suggestion (since I am not on myspace or whatever).

All good. And it looks like we will maybe get together to catch up in person. But, as you all know, I am a man who is always puzzled by the mysteries of interpersonal dynamics and the whole boy girl back and forth. And something struck me about the back and forth, and I just had all of these questions about text, subtext, etc. In short, I needed advice and translation, and naturally reached out to one of my Imaginary Friends, who is an expert, in my opinion, on the ways in which XX and XY talk. And, naturally, she came through with some pearls of wisdom.

Quick aside -- I have, as I may have mentioned before, a whole host of Imaginary Friends. Most of them are women. They range in age from more than a few years younger than me to slightly older than me, and are in located in places far and wide. I really ought to explore this phenomenon at some point -- the fact that there is this network of intelligent, amusing, and insightful women with whom I maintain a series of almost entirely electronic and mostly platonic relationships.

Anyway, my "things that make you go 'hmmm' " thought about the PRG's email and photograph exchange was reinforced by the Imaginary Friend. Which on the one hand is a good thing because, hey, it's always nice to be told that your impression was Not Stupid. But on the other hand, when one's insight is confirmed, it doesn't really answer the question of what to do, no?

Stay tuned.

The Rangers had a homecoming in Harlem late last night.

Thank you Versus, for showing me the Rangers game tonight. Thank you, Rangers, for not blowing a 2-0 lead late in the 3rd period. And by "thanks for not blowing" it, I mean, thanks for managing to win the game. even after you allow Boston to tie it with around three minutes left.

Oy.

We'll just glide, starry eyed.

Advantages of flying JetBlue -- nice seats, the satellite radio and/or Direct TV, a lee-tle more leg room.

Advantages of flying Delta -- Woodford Reserve.

Verdict? Push.

Ah, well, my friends. Back to the salt mines tomorrow.

I looked once, then turned away. When I looked again, it was much too late.

Moral: if you go to a holiday party with your wife, do not hit on the hot vegan friend of the host. Even if you think that she is gay, based upon a comment made by your gay host and his partner, and that therefore any hitting is simply rhetorical (so to speak). Even if you think that you will be subtle in your game. You will be Not Subtle. Your wife will be Not Amused. You should, however, Not Admit that you were, in fact, doing any hitting. There is no upside there, of course.

And as it turns out, she was not gay (NTTAWWT). And apparently semi-famous, as a Google search revealed, and married to someone more semi-famous than her.

She was totally Not My Type, by the way, despite the hotness. She's vegan, for one. And with a semi-granola, hash soy brownie kind of vibe. But there was totally a spark there, as the missus noted when she threw a Hummel Madonna figurine at me at the next holiday party.

Denial, baby, denial. Even as you imgine how that yoga-toned body would feel.