Impatient elevator people from places where elevators are not part of everyday life. 
 
"You all must have an appointment," I noticed, "or somewhere important to be." 
 
"No..." the exasperated young one replied, "it just seems to be stopping on EVERY floor!" 
 
She opened her eyes considerably wider than I would have when putting emphasis on the word. 
 
"Yes, they do that." I explained. "For the most part it's how the people get on and off."

The powdery skinhead and the affective bimbette sat within striking distance of my table. We'd been slid in bistro-style and it seemed as if we'd known each other for minutes. 
 
They each ordered a "Magnum MargaRoocha" - their "Welcome to Las Vegas" entertainment guide had encouraged them to do so by way of a two-for-one coupon. 
 
The bimbette fussed and fidgeted and showed the room just how new she was to all of this. 
 
In the end the couple sent their drinks back to the well for being too strong; they'd hoped for something a little more watered-down. 
 
I could not have been more fascinated by this foreign scene had I been a paying customer soaking in the perverse sauce of subtle, subtle performance art. 
 
Brilliant.

I've been told that the touching of armpits by stylists in Kansas is forbidden by law. 
 
I'll need to know how to report the heinous act before I set foot in THAT place, I tell you.

His gloved finger was up in there longer than I might have preferred but I felt good knowing that the insurance company was getting their money's worth. 
  
I was wondering just what he might be doing with the other hand when he asked: 
   
"So are you still able to perform sexually?" 
   
"Oh yeah," I chirped back, "not professionally of course. Mostly rest areas and softball games these days, you know, for tips." 
   
I guess some ice just isn't meant to be broken.

"JESUS IS MY CO-PILOT" is what his bumper offered the commuter tribe. 
 
I could see that he was clearly alone in the car. 
 
Still a part of me wanted to flag him down: 
 
"Jesus is your co-pilot?" I'd ask. "Then why don't you scoot over and let him drive for a while. You obviously suck at this."

"My son is an honour student at Newark Middle School." the sticker said. I wondered if there might not be a child somewhere nearby with a sticker on his bicycle that read: "My Dad is a fucking moron in the real world."  
 
Apples might not fall far from their trees but I fear I've seen them roll a respectable distance after the initial bounce...

She said "I wonder if you might not be the kind of person to lament a day in paradise because of the sand it's left in your shoes." 
 
"You know little about paradise and less about me." I told her. "I can always take my shoes off, can't I?"

From the Cosmo on 48th, walking to the office at 42nd and Park I pass a seemingly homeless man just beyond Beekman’s Liquors. 
 
“You shouldn’t be here.” he says, his eyes tracking mine as I slow but continue walking. At 42nd and Lex a tourist asks for directions to Grand Central. 
 
Their English is broken and they can’t understand my explanation that they’re already where they need to be. 
 
I’m puzzled by both pauses and wonder how many of the nameless faces around me are pestered by the same ghosts.