August In New York

I roll out of the apartment to hit the post office, humming a little tune. Some clouds that look like they might do something are gathering off in the east, but the sun is shining bright on Brooklyn.

A shirtless bald man with a Santa Claus beard and a Key West tan is crossing the street with his colorless sweatpants pulled down a full three inches below the crack of an ass as flat as the asphalt.

"So that's what we're doing today," I remark as I pass him, and he ignores me and continues on his way.