The napkins were red, and the waiters all wore x-mas-esque apparel.

It is oppressively quiet in this apartment building, and the silence on the streets outside is also overpowering. Normally, when I go to the front door of this apartment, I hear sounds from an apartment upstairs. For some reason these sounds are only heard while standing in the little area by the front door (it's not a foyer). But tonight those sounds are not there. If anyone else is in this building could you please stomp your feet. And if the rest of you could just rattle your jewelry.

I would tell about the cool shit I got for Christmas, but it might inspire someone to come over here and blow my ass apart as happened to those guys over on West 75^th Street last week. Just a block or two from where I lived at 166 West 75^th, someone rang a guy's doorbell and identified himself as a U.P.S. delivery guy. He was let into the building and he went to the apartment and announced that this was a robbery. There were 3 guys in the apartment, and one of them tried to defend himself. He was shot dead, and another guy died on the way to the hospital. A third guy was uninjured.

I fucking hate U.P.S.

For some reason, this incident is sticking in my mind, and every several minutes I remember the video they showed on the news of the cops wheeling out the bodies of these guys in bathrobes who had just been sitting around the apartment.

It is stupid to try and defend yourself when these things happen.

Part of the reason this story made such an impression on me is that it reminds me of a night when I lived at 166 West 75^th. The building is called the Parc Lincoln, and it is a transient hotel. Some people live there for years and years, others for just a few nights. I lived there for almost a year.

One night, after 1:00am, the buzzer from the front desk rang. That buzzer made the most horrendous honking sound; it was like a foghorn, and any time it rang I would always leap in a startled frenzy from whatever position I was in.

I went over to the intercom and shouted "Huh?" or some similar grunt. I recognized the voice of the desk clerk, and he said "John is here. Here to see you." I yelled "I don't know any John." This was not true, I did in fact have a friend named John who lived 2 blocks away on 73^rd Street. But I was not expecting him, in fact I had been sound asleep, and if this was really him he would certainly understand that I didn't feel like hanging out right then.

The next day I asked John if he had stopped by at 1:00 that morning; he laughed loudly and said no.

Maybe it was death calling for me. Maybe it was the same guy who shot up these other guys last week. Maybe it was the angel of death for West 75^th Street. Maybe I'm lucky to be alive. Or maybe I should have let the bastard in.

Merry fucking Christmas