Tuesday, August 15, 2006


I think I saw a prostitute under the Queensboro Bridge at 6:45 in the morning. It was the start of a new day for me. I was dragging my ass to the gym. I guess it was the end of a day's, er, night's work for her. I didn't want to stare, so I didn't turn around until after I passed under the bridge and crossed 59th St. She was gone. Damn, that was quick. She really must have been prostitute. After all, who stands under a bridge at 6:45 am wearing skin tight shorts hiked up like to look underwear and high heels that lace up the leg that isn't a prostitute?

Around 2:30 pm this afternoon I'm standing on a corner myself. The Red Hand is telling me to stay put, so I'm standing there.

"You must not be from here, or you would have gone by now!"

I shot this man holding a McDonalds bag the Look of Death. I hadn't seen sunlight in over six hours and missed having lunch with Annie because I had been caught up with work—proofreading and putting changes into Quark—WITHOUT my left contact because it had broken in HALF. I felt like I was the Grand Duke with the monocle in Cinderella. So the Look of Death was more like a Skewed, Squinting Look of Death.

"I live here. I'm on my lunch break and I'm not in a hurry."

"Well, I'm from California!"

Hmmm. I care?

When the White Walker signaled that it was OK to cross he actually said: "Nice talking to you!"


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