It's supposed to be spring here.

There's still slush on the streets, as well as pretentious Manhattenites. Dear Matties; You are not Carrie Bradshaw. Cocktails don't equal lunch. There is more to life than sex, stingers, and Starbucks. Sheesh.

New tenant. Artsy type. Andry herm. Wears black and an expression like he just smelled something rancid.

"I am celibate," he told me, as we were poring over his paperwork. "I have foregone earthly pleasures in persuit of my artistic ideal."

"That's nice," I responded. "Sign here. Initial here. And here."

"I have devoted my life to the worship of Sariswati" he went on. "For me, there can be no worthier pursuit than that of an artistic ideal."

"That's twice you've said 'artistic ideal'," I murmured.

"What?"

"Sign here." I straightened up, and, on a hunch, asked him what kind of art he drew. He sniffed haughtily.

"I depict lascivious members of the fairer sex of tractable disposition who feel no qualms about the inherent sexuality of their bodies."

I ran it through my reverse-BS-translator, the one I use to read Tycho's Penny Arcade newsposts.

"Hot naked women?"

"If you must be so crude."