VII. On Foot At World's End: Bleecker Still

And then I thought I was alright, until I crossed Bleecker Street, at first quickened and enthused by the lure of strong coffee even if it was from Starbucks the Ubiquitous and not one of the beatnik coffee houses I'd heard about in fables. It took less than a minute to get tired of the over-groomed denizens in their fitted t-shirts, and I thought distantly and childishly of detonating myself, of dropping to the floor in a fake seizure, or taking the person in front of me hostage. Everyone in there, except the people stone facedly making the finicky-soy- based-drinks, appeared to be on the catwalk, wearing smug expressions of studied indifference - very, very conscious of being looked at.

Is this why You're pissed?

Vanity cuts both ways, and before I became too precious with my own snide observations, I exited out into SoHo and a street full of paintings and sunshine. One artist said, "it's the most beautiful day of the year, and the Chrisitians say it's The End".

I liked this. The light, the art, the people quietly strolling made me start to relax again. Have I mentioned that
I kept hearing someone call my name? Yes, all day long. Whenever I entered a new scene, I'd hear it. Sometimes the first name and sometimes the first and last, but each time it made me look around for the source. I am not generally prone to hallucinations, and to be honest, it worried me a little.