It's interesting to have a bandage on your face. I bounded out of the men's room today and a man who was reaching toward that steel rectangle to barge on in was caught surprised. He exclaimed and stepped back a foot or so to give me ample passage, stammering two or three incoherent syllables. I told him: "Yup!"


If I could only begin to comprehend the the energy around my office, near Rockefeller Center. There's a thousand and one triumphs and tragedies taking place every minute on the asphalt stage between the theaters. A bike messenger whistling a warning and careening past. Christians from somewhere else: white-socked Mom and Dad, with arms spread a little in a futile posture of protection behind their bony pubescent girl, dolled up sexy-naif in tight jeans and a hat, and their petulant yet loving son with his glam-rock belt, gelled hair and Goth-rock shirt. But more and more it feels like the walk from my subway stop to my office door is like the walk from my bedside to the bathroom.