2:50 pm, Camp Street:
Young gay hipster, all Ben Sherman plaid shirt, skinny jeans and Ray Bans, flailing arms indignantly, telling his bored female friend about his "total bitch" of a boss.
3:00 pm, Pleasant St.:
A freshly dead parrot carcass, flattened on the brick banquette
11:30 pm, Canal St.:
Five police men in the foyer of the Ritz Carlton. A trail of blood on the marble floor leads from door to elevator, a demitasse sized pool of blood in the elevator.
Another trail on floor 3.
11:32, Ritz Lobby:
My friend's friend: "What happened?" Concierge: "I don't know."
Janitor, with mop, furtively: "um...just a lil Ike and Tina, you know."
12:01 am, Royal St.:
Two prostitutes, both in white shorts and Burlington Coat Factory heels, leaning on the gate of the police station, mopping the sweat off their brows, half-heartedly trying to solicit us.
No, you really aren't the nicest person you know. - One thing that a young child I was blessed with was self-consciousness, and too much of it at that. Growing up I felt awkward, uncorridinated and ugl...