My friends’ apartment is currently up for voting in Apartment Therapy’s Smallest Coolest Apartments 2007 contest. If you have an account for AT, go vote.

My friends’ baby (her father is a lawyer).

I am still a bit shocked at how it happened, but welcome home Mr. Quinn.

I have marvelled at Denis Darzacq’s photographs before and was pleasantly surprised to see a link to them in today’s VSL.

I guess I am 10 days slow on the uptake, but I didn’t notice that Google had added wireframes of tons of buildings to its maps. It appears that they added buildings a few months back but built them out about two weeks ago.

It’s certainly not the end goal, but its still kinda fun (and now that I think about it, knowing that your address is the third building in on a given street is actually quite useful - assuming the data points are accurate). Go Play.

According to the New York Post, part of Mayor Bloomberg’s plan to create more space for housing in New York City could involve building on top of the BQE.

I live in one of the buildings behind the caption bubble.

David Holthouse spent 72 hours with a group of people going on a Shabu binge.

On this Thursday afternoon in late summer, Nick is preparing the second-floor recreation room of his fashionably appointed Highland home for what has become a twice-a-month ritual of extreme indulgence for a revolving group of five to ten fellow hip, young and successful citizens of Denver.

“Basically,” he says, “we blast off Thursday night and don’t pull the chute until Sunday.”

During their 72-hour run, he and his friends will eat little solid food save fruit, so Nick’s fridge and freezer are stocked with the makings for smoothies. Along with yogurt, organic apple juice and frozen blackberries, strawberries and mangoes are five bottles of Moët champagne, a dozen bottles of Italian sparkling water, four cases of microbrew, two bottles of chilled New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc and a discount-warehouse carton of 400 Otter Pops.

Holthouse’s retelling of this weekend is so intense that I felt physically drained after reading the article.

The article is at turns funny. The pack leader, Nick, referring to the Shabu:

This is the shit JFK was getting jacked in his ass during the Cuban missile crisis. I shouldn’t even be calling this shit ’shit,’ because it’s disrespectful.

And at turns sad:

Depleted of lightbulbs [ed. note: they were using broken lightbulbs to snort the Shabu.] and either unwilling or unable to head out to the Strip at dawn to buy more, they resort to snorting lines of crushed Shabu off the metal toilet-paper dispensers in the casinos restrooms. On the plane ride home, Nick, Ike and Bonnie all bleed from the nose.