I Can't See The Forest Through The

New Yorkers Have A Delightfully Narcissistic Habit Of Assuming That If They're Not Conscious Of A Scene, It Doesn't Exist.

I Don't Understand How You Can Be A Decent Writer And Not Know People.

But Now My Problems Had Been Set Loose. They Could Be Anywhere At Any Time And I Was Just Like Everyone Else I Knew: Almost Positive That There Was Something Profoundly And Undiagnosably Wrong With Me.

If I Go Into A Sandwich Shop Or Anywhere That Features 'today's Specials' On A Chalkboard More Than 10 Feet Away, I Have To Ask For A Printed Menu. I Smile At People I Don't Know On The Street And Ignore Those I Do. When At Home, I Often Find Myself Grabbing My 'back-up' Glasses To Search For The Better-loved Pair I Have Left On Top Of My Dresser.

Picture It In Your Mind's Nostril: You Get In A Cab In Time To Catch Twin Thugs Named Vomit And Cologne Assaulting A Defenseless Pine-tree Air Freshener.