I feel like the floor of a taxicab

Early Saturday evening near Bryant Park, I saw my first menacing New York sky, which immediately made me think of Ghostbusters. As I looked down the block for the Stay Puft marshmallow man, I mentally plotted Ghostbusters III as a fashion week terror-fest ending with ripped hemlines and Karl Lagerfeld's wrinkled, orange body submerged in a pool of green slime.

There was also the botoxed gentleman hosting a garage sale on the stoop of his Village apartment who claimed that Warhol never impressed him much. We bought the diaries from him for a buck anyway, even though he said that Warhol was boring at clubs, and that all he wrote about in his diaries were cab fares. If that is indeed true, I can understand why as I've already gotten into tiffs with several New York cabbies who "forgot" to turn on the meter then proceeded to try and overcharge me, which usually ends in me sputtering obscenities in English and the driver swearing at me in mystery languages.

The burning canine paw smell of New York streets is slowly dying, and this morning I actually smelled something *pleasant* on the streets of New York. Nonetheless hard to identify, the change in smells must mean the leaves will change soon, and flip-flops will be replaced with scrunchy boots and long scarves, and for once, my time will be marked by seasons rather than the ever-present San Francisco fog.

Winter is also when I will faithfully and poetically describe the lives of pedicurists in such a fashion that I will finally be published in the New Yorker for my witty and incisive prose. Or, I may find myself holed up in the tiny apartment armed with whiskey, 80s records and a sewing machine and finally create the lovechild of Cyndi Lauper and E.T. for the good of humankind.