It hit 71 degrees yesterday; an uncanny April day filled with New Yorkers going mad from warmth. That it happened on a Saturday seemed a message from god, proof positive that weekends were not meant for laundry and apartment cleaning, but for roller-blading, champagne brunches and marathon shopping sprees.

I celebrated the hottest day 2,000 had yet doled out, by taking off my cowboy jacket, grabbing it by the collar and waving it about like a flag.

Then I went of one of my increasingly infamous breakfast marches. This consists of waking up at 9:45, making a cup of tea because I am trying to cut down on my coffee intake, drinking half the cup of tea, throwing the other half out in disgust, (I like black things not brown things), making a small pot of jet black lethal Bustello, sipping it while breathing fire at the same time and all the while complimenting myself that although this Java is more concentrated than 4 cups of espresso I am still sticking to my plan of only having one cup of coffee a day.

It is generally at the self-complimentary coffee moment that I realize my stomach is burning and the only thing I have in my refrigerator are condiments and cat food. I’m a co-dependent caterer, so naturally I can only cook when others are coming to eat not for myself. I mean what would be the point?

So I finish the cup of liquid cocaine and start pondering the business of breakfast. Breakfast in my new neighborhood used to be simple. It started and ended at “The Life Cafe’”. My breakfast march began one afternoon when I slid into my usual table and started to order my usual eggs. Suddenly it hit me like two cups of my kinda of coffee. I go to this place every day; EVERY DAY!!

Normally this might not be so terrible but this was the year 2,000 and I had a mission (I mean other than finally acquiring noticeable abdominal muscles). My life was going to become diverse and interesting damn it! I was not going to fall into the comfy rut that ruled my day-to-day life in the West Village when I wound up eating in the same cafe’, taking the same power walk along the Hudson River and stopping to admire the same window displays for five years!!!!

Oh no. This was a new century. This was the East Village, one of the hippest most culturally diverse neighborhoods in the universe, a haven for outsider artists, multi-ethnic families, drug addicts, Ukrainian diners, chique little clothes designers, out gays and closet yuppies.

In this melting pot of cappuccinos, cafe’ con leche’ and Budweisers in brown paper bags I would find my inner adventurer and make my life as wondrous as Sinbad (the sailor not the comedian).

So I slid out of the chair at “Life” and into my strolling boots and changed my typical Avenue C to B walk to plow down 1st Avenue all the way to Houston instead, searching for the right “new” breakfast nook.

On day one of my breakfast march I wound up having an omelet in a cozy 24 hour cafe in the West Village. I was so happy sunk into that window view couch that I completely overlooked the fact that I had walked about 40 blocks and wound up at my old breakfast place, rut central!!! But it was 2:30 in the afternoon and I was so hungry I didn’t care about ruts, guts or mutts, just give me eggs lots and lots of them.

After that I took a break from my breakfast march and ate at “Life” for a few days trying to summon up the energy for another voyage into the unknown.

Unlike what some might call “normal” people, breakfast for me rarely occurs before 2:00 in the afternoon. It starts out innocently, answering a few phone calls, checking my e-mail, sipping that one nuclear cup of Joe and then suddenly the ringing in my stomach sounds out like a burglar alarm and it’s only after checking all four windows and the absent fire alarm (gotta replace that one day) that I realize, yet again, that I am going out of my mind from starvation. “Life” may not have been known for their excellent food, but sometimes the block and half walk is all I can muster up when I am dizzy from carbohydrate withdrawal. I need some rye toast and I need it fast.

On a recent breakfast romp, (I won’t go into the last six, too redundant and depressing) my stomach alarm didn’t go off until 2:30 in the afternoon and somehow after passing a half dozen diners that just didn’t seem good enough I wound up in a tattoo parlor admiring a large beautiful brushed steel earring, the kind I would love to wear if I wasn’t allergic to anything but gold or platinum.

“It’s custom made, a one-of-a-kind special order made for a client who never showed up to claim it,” cooed the multi-pierced, tattooed and branded Cleopatra peering out from behind the counter, “It’s white gold!”

My credit card was out of my pocket and in her hand before she could pronounce the D in gold. “Its white gol.......!”
“I’ll take it!” I screamed loud enough to cause a few mistakes in the tattoo room.

So she rang me up as I surveyed her arm trying to comprehend exactly how it must have felt to have a hot cattle prod stamped all the way around the top of your bicep.

She gave me my receipt but when I held out my hand for my new treasure she said, “Oh no. That’s a higher gage, you’ll have to see one of the medical technicians in the back.”

“Why,” I asked dumbfounded.

“Because you need to be stretched,” she replied almost yawning from boredom.

Now, I had heard of piercings, tattoos and brandings, but this was different. I assumed she meant stretched out on nice chair while one of the mystery people in the back cubicles made some adjustment to my new earring.

A young man in rubber gloves and a multitude of tattoos asked me to come to the back and sat me on a medical chair that looked just like the one my gynecologist used, (talk about stretching).

He took out my earring and rubbed anti-biotic ointment on the naked hole.

“I’m already pierced,” I said, confused and hungry.

He responded “Yes but your hole’s not big enough for this earring and just sticking it in will rip your ear.” He then produced a thick glistening needle and wiped it in anti-biotic gel.

“Now turn your head that way....”

I glanced at my cell phone and noted that exactly 20 minutes had elapsed since I went from looking for scrambled eggs on 2nd Avenue to buying an earring to having a medical procedure. I was too delirious to put up a fight.

“Now breathe in....”

As I did he harpooned my ear.

Maybe it was the lack of ice cubes, Led Zeppelin or marijuana but this stretching thing hurt a lot more then either of my ear piercings had. I did what came naturally; squealed like a baby pig being torn from its mother.

I stumbled out of there with my head spinning and something that felt like a quarter pound hunk of metal weighing me down to the right.

At 3:45 I had breakfast at “The Life Cafe.’” I had to. It was on my way home and now I needed to be close to home in case I had to have emergency medical attention for what might be a full scale hemorrhage.

Anyway, like I was saying, it was 71 degrees yesterday, absolutely gorgeous. At 1:30, I defiantly marched past “Life” chanting, “No way baby,” and waved my cowboy jacket flag to further push my point, nobody noticed, nobody at Life ever notices anything, that’s why people go there. It’s definitely not for the food or the service. One time I had to call the bartender on my cell phone and ask her to send a waiter out to my table. They still talk about that.

My plan was to head straight across to Lafayette and down into Soho where M was getting a facial, have a lovely exciting breakfast along the way, (since she’d already eaten) and then chat it up with her for a bit.

I passed countless cafe’s, but my requirement on this beautiful day was outdoor seating.. Of course, all the eateries with outdoor seating were full and I never could bear the thought of waiting on line. Aside from the fact that I had been too young, broke and tacky it was the main reason that I never made it to “Studio 54.”

I made a pit stop at the tattoo place to ask Cleopatra if it was normal for my ear to still be throbbing and for blood to be leaking onto my pillow.

“It’s fine,” she cooed and I noticed the way her nose ring lifted up when she smiled,”It can take two weeks to heal. You’ve got to treat it like a new piercing, a whooooole neeeeeeeew pierciiiiiiing.”

As she tried not to giggle I fixed my eyes on a striking onyx studded piece of jewelry featured prominently in the glass case and briefly considered piercing whatever body part was required to wear the twinkling bar. I tore myself out of there fast before Cleopatra could trace my gaze and send out her pied piper call, “It’s gol..........”

Looking back over my shoulder I saw her smirking at me in a definite, you’ll be back expression, her nose ring raising up and down as she muffled her giggles.

Crossing the magical line into Soho, (medium priced shoe stores become overpriced designer shoe stores, basically the same shoes) it was 2:00 and I was so hungry the feathers on a passing tourist’s hat looked appetizing.

I passed a natural take-out place chock full of off-duty models munching on sunflower sprouts; too healthy. I sniffed at a farm style eatery; too crowded. The trendy cafe’; too many tourists and made my way to Origins the skin care store where I purged my hunger pains by buying a toner and mud pack.

At 2:20, I plopped myself at the jazz cafe’ next to the spa that was presently massaging M’s face and left a message for her at the front desk to meet me in the cafe’.

At last, I was somewhere for breakfast, not outside but right under a large open skylight. I was doing it, yes, yes, I was. I skipped past the coffee and ordered an orange and peach juice concoction that practically irritated my waitress into a nervous twitch. The menu was about as diverse as my life in the West Village had been; sandwiches, salads and two kinds of cake that’s it. No breakfast food.

Just as I was considering the tuna platter heavy on the hard-boiled eggs, light on the tuna, two blonde women eased onto the couch next to me and proceeded to laugh at their own private jokes and stare at me.

I knew they were staring at me and not out the window despite the fact that I was sitting in front of the window because every time I would look over at them they would look away. “Perhaps they are jealous of how cool I am,“ I told myself. I was, after-all, wearing Chelsea boots, black nylon pants and was periodically waving a cowboy jacket over my head. They, on the other hand, were dressed in YECH! color. How utterly revolting! Suddenly I was overcome with rage. How dare they step into my city wearing bright colors!!! I hated those women. I hated their stares, their pinks and their sea-mist green, their straight hair and violet nails. I hated everything about them, everything they stood for.

I began to fight an almost overwhelming urge to stand up, turn to them and scream,”Die you beauty salon freaks!!” Instead I plopped five bucks down on the table and gave them my “Monosynchranic is beautiful look,” before charging out the door.

M was paying at the front desk when I showed up. Her face glistened from eucalyptus steam, aroma therapy oils and massaging fingers.

“Are you hungry,” I asked without saying hello. Perhaps there was a chance she might have re-gained her appetite since the noon feeding.

“Hmmm not really but obviously you are, she laughed, “Come on. I still have an hour before I have to go upstate. I’ll take you to eat.”

I sighed knowing in an instant that I was about to fall prey to one of my weirdest character defects; that I can only fully satiate my hunger when the person I’m with is hungry too. I can’t explain it but if I’m the only starving one, than all the bingeing in the world just won’t do it for me. No this was going to be a croissant and butter thing at the most now, no fun in chowing down alone.

“Come on I want to show you something,” M said leading me down the street to an outdoor parking lot. Wedged in the back of the overcrowded corner lot was a bright red, 4-seat-pick-up-truck, (color can be as bright as it wants to be if it’s on a truck or a vintage car). The truck towered over the Jeeps, compact cars and Range Rovers like “Godzilla” to the Japanese.

This was a Jersey white boy’s wet dream.

“This is what I rented to get me around while they’re re-building the engine on the Mustang,” M beamed. Her pink perky facial skin striking a pleasing contrast to the black turtleneck, black jeans and black cowboy boots she had stretched over herself.

She whispered devilishly, “Come onnnnnnnnn. Let’s go for a little ride.......”

I climbed up and into the front seat and we took off before I even had time to comment on the luxurious splendor of this $30,000 boy toy. It even had a pull-down compartment built to do nothing but hold your sunglasses. With windows rolled down and rock&roll blaring, M took me for a cruise around downtown Manhattan so fast that even the taxi drivers were cursing at us.

I did what any other red-blooded, god-fearing person would do, hung my head out the window and screamed.

Suddenly I was 15 years old, cruising at top speed past the sea wall, enroute to Asbury Park, my car filled with friends singing along to the Blondie and Rolling Stones tapes blaring from the speakers in my mom’s Volare’.

“Yoooooooweeeeeeee!” I screamed at my friends. “Yoooweeeeeeee!” I screamed 20 years later at M.

Then she said it; breaking my wall of pleasant numbness like a sledge hammer, “You must be starving. I’ve got to get going but can I drop you off someplace you can eat.”

My stomach alarm answered for me, “Rrrrrrrrr! Yeah! 3rd and B, lot of places there...rrrrrrr!!!”

I jumped out of the monster truck, landing with a loud thud and mumbled something about needing a parachute next time.

M smiled from inside her twinkling facial and drove off nice and slow. Well, there were two police cars idling at the corner.

All the restaurants on 3rd and B were winding down their brunch. It was, after all, 4:30. So I walked up on B to 10th Street and slid into my usual table at “The Life Cafe’.”

“Menu?” my usual waiter asked.

“Why bother,” I responded,

“Huevos Rancheros,” he said.

“Of course,” I responded utterly defeated, ”....and can you ask the bartender if she has an aspirin? My ear is killing me.”