Every Book For Me Is

I Don't Know Why I Write What I Write.

At Columbus Circle, A Juggler Wearing A Trench Cloak And Top Hat, Who Is Usually At This Location Afternoons And Who Calls Himself Stretch Man, Performs In Front Of A Small, Uninterested Crowd; Though I Smell Prey, And He Seems Worthy Of My Wrath, I Move On In Search Of A Less Dorky Target. Though If He'd Been A Mime, Odds Are He'd Already Be Dead.

Hello, Halberstam," Owen Says, Walking By. Hello, Owen," I Say, Admiring The Way He's Styled And Slicked Back His Hair, With A Part So Even And Sharp It... Devastates Me And I Make A Mental Note To Ask Him Where He Purchases His Hair-care Products, Which Kind Of Mousse He Uses, My Final Guesses After Mulling Over The Possibilities Being Ten-x.

Unless You're The Director On The Movie, Or Putting Up The Money For The Movie, You Really Don't Have A Lot Of Control.

The Seals Stupidly Dive Off Rocks Into Swirling Black Water, Barking Mindlessly. The Zookeepers Feed Them Dead Fish. A Crowd Gathers Around The Tank, Mostly Adults, A Few Accompanied By Children. On The Seals' Tank A Plaque Warns: Coins Can Kill——if Swallowed, Coins Can Lodge In An Animal's Stomach And Cause Ulcers, Infections And Death. Do Not Throw Coins In The Pool. So What Do I Do? Toss A Handful Of Change Into The Tank When None Of The Zookeepers Are Watching. It's Not The Seals I Hate——it's The Audience's Enjoyment Of Them That Bothers Me.