wine and cheap perfume

Well, not really. In truth, I don't even know what "March Madness" means. Is it just some generic term that bars like to scrawl across their window chalkboards because there's an ultra-jazzy alliteration factor and they feel it might arbitrarily lure people off the streets and into their joint? Or is it like an official time of year when serious football or hockey games are being played? Not sure. It's been far too long since I last wrote. I've started and stopped a new job (the bartending school things--like, no thanks), gotten into and M.F.A. writing program for grad school (Sarah Lawrence, which is awesome save for the fact that as far as I know, all women who go there have full beards and chest hair), fallen deeper in love with my dog, and have generally just felt like a happier human being. February was the worse.
On another note, Annie and I found ourselves locked out of the apartment for the first time last night (I explained in a prior post that we've been locked IN before, but never out). She was furious and stormed off with the dog, and I found myself in the next door neighbor's apartment for the first time, resting on a brown velour lazy-boy, pounding vodka and pomegranate juice like it was going out of style and pretending to know things about architecture. He's a tall, quiet, older gay man, obviously very neat, and private, so I had never really had the chance to get to know him. He's nice. Very kind. Very fond of vodka. When he first graciously ushered me into his home, he said, "Would you like some vodka?"
I was already slightly drunk, so I said, "No, thanks."
He said, "I'd really like to have a drink right now, but I never drink alone."
I replied, "I'd love some vodka."
And that he did. When the locksmith people finally came to let us back in, I was so drunk that the room was spinning, I could barely remember my name, and somehow managed to mash a jalapeno popper into my favorite jacket.