I have a confession to make, but I'm going to save it until the end of my tale in hopes that you won't give me too much of that biting English disdain (are the English disdainful?). First I must warm your gloomy disposition with a story of the dark, new york underworld. Or, at least, those who used to reign in the dark, new york underworld.
I was walking west on Bleecker Street, briskly though thinking I had some time to kill, The Bitter End just up ahead. It was freezing, and I couldn't get in touch with my sister, whom I was planning to meet. Just as I was crossing Thompson on the north side, I noticed a line of people a half a block long and quickly catty-cornered towards it. Is this the line I'm supposed to wait in? I walked to the beginning and saw a familiar face first in line. You may remember her, actually, I know you remember her. Dolores (?), the Patti Smith fan of all fans we met in line to the poetry reading at the Baryshnikov Arts Center. How do they do it, those Patti fans!
Actually, I just looked at the clock and I'm very late for work. I will do my best to give you installments throughout the day.
Here's a blurry picture in the mean time:
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