Been sneezing a lot this week and suspected that it was an out-of-season hay fever attack. But today it felt more like a cold. And by late afternoon, I was pretty sure of that.

But I had planned a night out with some old friends, so to not appear even more lame than they already know I am, I sucked it up and joined them for a trip to a West-side Mexican restaurant (right across from Fordham Law -- as I gazed out the window I couldn't help but think about the gobs of money Alane and I left there over the years).

Anyway, we drank a lot of tequila. A lot of tequila. And we ate well. Got on the train and listened to the panic-fed phone calls of a woman across from me who'd apparently had even more tequila than me -- she needed someone to come get her at the station, she whined into the phone, because "I'm so fucked up right now... I am like, so fucked up." She was laid out across the three-seater, and between phone calls she asked me to please not let her miss the Tuckahoe stop. Then she repeated her entreaty.

It was quite a performance. And though she never did appear to lose consciousness, she was sufficiently involved in another "so fucked up" conversation to not notice we were pulling into Tuckahoe. So as I got up to leave I slapped her on the leg with my book and called out in a large voice, "Let's go, party girl" -- which was probably the first time in my life I ever used those words in that exact order.

And now that I'm home, sweating out the tequila, I don't feel that cold anymore. Somehow, I feel I have accomplished something tonight.