Last night i met up with my old friend Howard. He and i used to work together on Employee Benefits magazine back when he was young and i was dark-haired. Now he lives right here in New York City, in an apartment in the East Village. 'It's a bit gangy, but they're nice boys,' he commented in his impeccable 'never-losing-my-accent' Queen's English as we passed some youths handing each other things in the hallway. Handing each other things! That can only mean they're up to no good! People don't hand each other things in the building in Washington Square where I'm staying.
(Actually i think everyone else in my building may be dead except the staff. There are about six uniformed doormen and elevator men but i have not seen another resident since i arrived a week ago. On asking a doorman about this, he said it's because they're all old.)
Howard (who is not quite as evil as he looks here) has fostered this friendly lovable kitten that was becoming a regular in the bar he frequents. If no one claims it, he will keep it forever. I hope no one claims it.
Howard took me out to dinner at Sea, a great Thai restaurant on Second Avenue. Then we wandered by the Rockwood bar to see who was playing. As soon as we walked in, this guy took the stage in unusual clothing and took up his guitar and sang us into the mountains. His name is Michael Daves (say that again in a Michael Caine voice).