Saw Boogie Nights tonight. Like Mark Wahlberg's character, Dirk Diggler, it was long and dumb. The lack of plot surprised me because the reviews are great. Mark Walberg is serviceable, Julianne Moore underutilized. How could someone make a movie about sex so boring?

Weak character development, too, with only-slightly-better-than-porn-flick dialogue, and it managed to rip off a lot of better films, from Reservoir Dogs to Raging Bull.

It played at a gorgeous theater in the East Village, on 12th and 2nd Avenue. I went with my friend Elizabeth. Our uncertain friendship doesn't have a platform for a sex conversation, so until we could come up with another topic we didn't say much. I did say, "I thought it was too long." Pause. "No pun intended." It really hadn't been. Pause. "Sorry."

"That's okay. Inexcusably stupid, but forgiveable." She frowned.

In other news, my bathroom hisses like a snake. I've placed my ear on every pipe and can only assume it's the heat coming on through the building. The hiss is worse in the second floor hallway, which calms my fears. I was convinced my apartment would explode. Now I'm convinced the building will explode, which is still bad but at least not my fault.

And now I realize I made tea three hours ago in my one-cup-single-guy-no-need-to-make-tea-for-two tea maker, and it's sitting there cold as a stone.