If it were your birthday, and you owned a bar-- a popular bar frequented by models and the people who loved them, wanted them or sponged a living off of their looks, plus the odd rock star, TV personalities and sports figures, and various and sundry others who, while not famous or beautiful, are pretty damn cool-- what would you do?

No brainer, right? You'd throw a huge party and invite all your friends, with plenty of food and drink and some kick-ass music. Pretty easy, actually, since it is a bar, and you also own the restaurant on the top floor, and you're paying the DJ anyway. And since yesterday was Tommy's birthday, it was party-time at the Mardi Gras.

The MG is one of our fave bars, and not just because we're friends with the owner (Tommy) and all the bar staff. It's a cool place, although we steer clear of it during Fashion Week. Models annoy me, and there are usually enough around on a regular basis without asking for an extra, super-size portion. Not that there's anything super-sized about the models themselves, you understand.

Oh, and it used to be a brothel, and has some sort of historical status. Tommy can't change the stairs down to the bathrooms, which are white marble and wavy and low, so watch your step. Especially after a few beers. I'm surprised that he hasn't had a drunk or two plummet to their deaths already. Although it might be a nifty way to thin the model herd, come to think of it.

Elvis, after a few beers himself, told our Brazilian friend about our possible impending move. I imagine everyone will know soon, as that's what generally happens when you tell a bartender. Not a wise move, but we'll see what happens. In any case, Jay (our Brazilian bartender friend) has decided that we need to brush up on what pathetic Portuguese we have and learn a lot more besides, which we undoubtedly do. He's started already. "Your bar tab is 33 Euro. In Portuguese, that's 33. Thir-ty-three."

Our bar tab, by the way, was much more than $33.

Incidentally, that's another reason we like the MG.

I managed to escape the party relatively unscathed. No hangover at all, just a manageable amount of tiredness. Tommy, I fear, was not so lucky. He was telling me last night before the party started (at about eleven, or standard Milanese time), that he didn't want to even have it because he was too tired then. Of course, he'd invited half the world, and I did notice he got his second wind somewhere along the line. Apparently, Tommy had been awakened by his next-door neighbors for breakfast in bed. We've met them. Cute girls, both of them. And we wondered just what Tommy the Bachelor was bitching about. Most men in his position would brag and probably embellish, I think. Not Tommy, though. Well, not in this case, anyway. Tommy says that, to him, sleep is more important than money.

Silly man.

Spent most of the day getting rained on. What happened to Spring? It was so nice and lovely and sunny and warm last week, and this week has been absolute shit. Cold and damp and pissing with rain.

I had a bad tram day, too. I had to go for my Italian lesson, because I needed to reschedule Thursday's class so I could go to Como and get rained on. The trams were late, of course, because of the rain. Finally, the No. 14 came, and after a while I got a seat. Then the driver made us all get off and wait for the next one in the rain, on a traffic island in the middle of the street, in the middle of Friday rush-hour. At least where I started, there wasn't so much traffic and we could cower under awnings while we waited on the sidewalk. Damn thing hadn't come after fifteen minutes, so I called my teacher. She had another student coming right after my time slot, and thought it probably wouldn't be worth it by the time I got there. So I turned around and went back home.

Sometimes, trams suck.

So, for an entirely different brand of fun, I went to the post office and paid my satellite bill. Which wasn't too bad, actually. I had tried to go earlier in the week, but the line was very long and I didn't feel like spending ninety minutes in the company of soggy people who don't wash very well. The gamble paid off, and it didn't take but fifteen minutes. They've finally finished the remodeling the bank portion of the post-office. Now, the banking lines are all by themselves in a separate building, so you don't risk spending half an hour in line only to find out you can only send packages to Ghana at that particular window.

They also got a nifty new electronic sign. When a window opens up, it makes a little bing-bong noise and the number of the window free appears in the display. It's even got a little arrow telling you which direction to go. Very nice, although most of the Italians haven't figured it out yet, which cuts down on its efficiency considerably.

They've also put in a skylight, and painted the room white with soothing pastel accents, so it no longer looks dank and gloomy. And they've taken out the high glass barricades at the counter, with their hells-bells-this-gas-station-is-in-a-bad-neighborhood slide through for cash and fatture. You can actually see and hear your teller, now. And there's a line of glass walled offices along one wall, for credit applications and information, I guess. In fact, the BancaPosta now looks like a modern suburban branch of any American bank. It could be anywhere.

They've made the whole experience more pleasant, while at the same time taking a lot of the fun out of it.

How sad.