It's so freaking cold today you need to shove lit cigarettes in your ears just to keep your brains from solidifying. Your lung butter flash freezes as you suck in that next drag, but the smokers are out in force anyway, of course.
Our houseguest, the wild and personable Sas� from S�o Paulo, must be freaking out: She and the Foca are doing the whirlwind tour of the town today. It doesn't GET below zero in the tropics, you know.
Freaking Nextel: They list a service center at 59 Maiden Lane, but you arrive at the building and there's no sign saying there's a Nextel service center within. The doorman gets a kick out of reading my body language and telling me, "Nextel is on 21" before I ask him. It's a usability isssue.
I hate having my time wasted. Death approaches inexorably, after all. Why else would I pay a bit more for this service than for some others if not to rescue precious minutes from BS like this, to be spent on something fun like sex, television, imagining revenge or enjoying the music of Johnny Cash?
News item of the day: The famous bronze Wall Street bull sculpture (which actually lives at the forking of Broadway into Whitehall and State) is for sale to the highest bidder. Appropriate in a way, indicative of a potential tragedy of the commons in another.
I always like to suggest to tourists snapping photos with the taurine colossus that they take a photo with the more interesting end, just for a larf: The beast has boldly dangling brass dingleberries and is pointing his ass at the Museum of the American Indian.