I'm going outside in search of lunch. What this really means is I'm going outside to join the crowd.

I hate people. I don't trust them. I hate how they walk too slow when they're in front of me, I hate how they walk too fast behind me. They all want something. They won't get out of your way. They will bump into you. Don't come to New York. We've got enough humans clogging the sidewalks.

I jump into the current flowing northward and walk, trying to get around the tourists who have travelled hundreds of miles to gawk at a McDonald's. There's a similar crowd by the Starbucks just across the street. There's always a Starbucks just across the street.

In the park without grass, the street magician has a large crowd. I like him. He looks like John Oates. He has a cigarette in his mouth, but it isn't lit. He always has a cigarette, but he never smokes. It's a prop. It gives the audience something to look at. Misdirection.

I wonder how many pickpockets are in the crowd.

I swim north to the intersection where someone actually stopped when the light went to "Don't Walk". It's a tourist. The sign is only a suggestion, so we cross, parting around the Iowan.

Over on the other shore, I pass under the scaffolding. There is scaffolding every other block in Manhattan. I think it's a law. I ignore yet another person trying to hand me a VIP Pass to some strip club. I don't understand strip clubs. Men go to these places to watch women gyrate, and then leave. I don't understand the fascination.

I pass by a homeless person asking for change. I hate them too. I don't know if the person is really poor and will go to sleep tonight hungry or if the person is a junkie or a wino who will go to sleep tonight hungry anyway. They always disturb you when you're on the subway, or getting in the way when you're trying to get through a door, or hassle you when you're trying to walk somewhere. I ignore the homeless person, just like everyone else on the street does. Don't make eye contact. You'll feel regret.

I pass the other vendors with their cheap folding tables and their stolen merchandise, ready to be covered up with a blanket in case a cop walks by. All purses are five dollars. All pirated CDs are only five dollars. All pirated movies are only ten dollars, two for fifteen. Need a belt? Need a tie? Need a book on C++ Programming? Whatever fell off the truck today, only five dollars. Tax included.

Over here is the comic book store I wanted to stop at. It also is a baseball card/sports collectable shop. Bobbing Head Derek Jeters, only $39.95. Who buys that crap? I purchase two twenty-two page periodicals featuring drawings of spandex-clad people punching each other and leave.

I'm swimming back downstream, wondering where to eat today. There's nothing around. I pass by the Ranch*1 with their tasteless food and the Pizza Hut/Dunkin Donuts franchise and the McDonald's, thinking I could try Cosi, but they're really expensive -- eight dollars for a sandwich. Subway is two blocks north. Blimpies is out -- we have one by our house and eat there at least once a week. Zamz always messes up my order. The other Zamz is about a block out of my way. Perhaps Trinity Deli, or one of the other delis? No, I'll probably wind up back at Burger King, but I don't want another chicken sandwich.

The park is on my left. I'd like some doner kabob, but no -- all the carts there are vegetarian. I find that amazing. There's about five carts there, three of which do falafel, and they're ALL vegetarian.

Trinity Deli is also packed. I like that place. It's really small, it can just barely fit ten people. The customers line the wall by the street, the staff is behind a huge counter with a glass display of the different rolls and chips they have. You enter over here and eventually get over there by the cash registers where the guy yells your order over to the grill and they cook it, wrap your sandwich in tin foil, and throw it over everyone in the way to the cash register guy who bags it and hands it to you. After you've paid, of course. Food and entertainment for under five dollars. The line is out the deli and down the block, past the pizza place.

I decide to head over to the Chicago-style pizza place back at the building where I work. They've got a new pizza called the Gambino that I like. I don't know how to pronounce that. Gahmbeeno? Jambeeno? I usually call it "the chicken". Luckily, the person in front of me also orders a slice of Gahmbeeno. When I get to the cash register, I tell the guy I had a slice of Gahmbeeno. He rings it up. "One chicken. Two-fifty, guy."

I sneak out the secret door in the back of the pizza place that leads to the elevators to take me back to my desk and now I'm typing this out. In just a few moments, I'll close this off by writing my name with a proper in-line quote in the middle of it, per tradition, then hit the Preview Message button, then the Post Message button.

-Faux "I didn't come up with a proper in-line quote this time." Pas