I didn't know there were remnants of the batteries from the 1812 war still around in Central Park. I discovered them on Friday (I got the day off because our customer's office was closed, on observation of Reagan's funeral), when I explored the upper reaches of the park. Last time I was at the northern end of Central Park was 1987, when Manhattan was a much different city than it is now. Still, on the subway to 110th Street, I was the only caucasian on the crowded subway carriage, and there was a fight taking place between a big black girl and a rather scrawny black guy. It was like a form of street theatre as the entire carriage joined in with raucous laughter and encouragement to the fighters. I, meanwhile, just continued reading my Edith Wharton novel as best I could.

The northern part of the park is more beautiful than the southern.

A family mingling with a group of gay guys (playing guitars and banjo) on my new favorite location in New York - the Hudson River park down just below Chelsea.

This section of the park is very popular with gay guys - it's kind of like going to the gay beach, except it's within easy reach of a coffee break.

The reason I'm lingering in a cafe at five this evening, at a time when I'd normally either be at work or exercising, is that I still haven't recovered from another Saturday night out at the Roxy. The pattern is always the same: a hugely enjoyable night at a club, followed by a wasted Sunday, and a low-energy Monday. I'd planned on going to the Met on Sunday, but that went out of the window. About all I had the energy to do was read the New York Times, sit through "Dawn of the Dead" on the hotel video system, and fifteen minutes of the Puerto Rican parade (I don't think I've ever seen so many badly dressed, overweight people in my life), and witness (at an Irish Pub on 7th Ave) England lose against France by a heartbreaking brace of late goals in their first match of the European nations soccer cup.

The obvious question is: is clubbing worth the slump? (Carrie would come up with a better tag line) Is the heightened pleasure of the night in the club worth the subsequent down time? The club going world is probably divided into three segments: the first of which is made up of people who can go out late and recouperate by the next day. We'll ignore those lucky people for the purpose of this argument. The remaining two groups are people who can just enjoy the fun of going out without feeling guilty at the wasted day that follows; and then there are people like me - the hopelessly introspective - for whom no pleasure is complete without a comprehensive analysis of its place in life.

Oh, I've just realized, there should be a fourth group in there: introspective people who enjoy themselves, feel bad about it the next day, then decide, okay, clubbing's not for me. Should I join that group? The problem is that I hugely enjoy going out. I'm always amazed when I realize it's five o'clock in the morning. I try to go back through the evening, to account for where all the time went. I was dancing with this guy for a while. Then there was the latin girl in the dress. And ... where did all the rest of the time go? It's like no other pleasurable activity: a combination of physical acting out, and sweet natured personal interactions, plus a large helping of sensuality. There's no question that it's an addiction. If I haven't been out for a while, and I hear club music, I get a sudden flash of recall, a reminder of the intensity, a tingling in my groin, and it makes me want to go clubbing again at the next opportunity.

Maybe there's a middle way. A way in which I can enjoy clubbing without it taking over the rest of my weekend. Or maybe the trick is to limit it. I maybe don't need to go out EVERY time I come to New York. That way I could have some Sundays here that aren't spent in a tired-eyed haze. I can't forgo my monthly visits to Fresh in San Francisco, for there the pleasure is altogether too intense. But at least Fresh is a tea-dance, ending at midnight, and, in any case, I have to go to work the next day. And one thing I can almost always do is work, even when I'm tired.

So here's the plan, Keith. No clubbing in San Francisco except for Fresh, and holiday weekends. Take some weekends off clubbing when in New York. And maybe try to leave the club at four instead of six. The major problem with implementing this noble plan is that Ben will be here for my next weekend in New York, in July, and he will definitely want to go to the Roxy (and will probably get suspicious if I'm a nay-sayer). And the other problem is that the definition of "holiday" weekend is very loose. It almost seems there's one per month in San Francisco. So we'll lsee how it goes. Maybe the best remedy is that in a rapidly shortening number of years I'll be too old to take my shirt off in clubs, which will remove half the fun of it.

Or maybe the best solution of all is just to do whatever I want and see if I can't enjoy it. Just let go of all my guilt. Nah. Not this lifetime.