He wore sunglasses, a black puffy jacket, brown pants, and a pair of deck shoes. He was smoking, something with a brown filter – ruling out Parliaments – and his hair came down to his chin. He was walking slowly East with a FedEx package under his arm. His face was wider than you’d think.

R: That’s David Bowie. A: You’re right.

We followed him for two blocks on Prince St., staring at him. No one noticed him and he didn’t notice anyone; he just walked, purposefully.

A: Are we just going to follow him? R: You have any better fucking ideas?

We only lasted another block until we got sucked into a photo exhibit showing famous pictures of the Sept. 11th attacks, all proceeds going to the Children’s Aid Society. We came out and he was gone. David Fucking Bowie.

Prior to that we had BLTs from the M&O deli on Prince, with the special sauce. Those were some good BLTs. Even better when you consider we saw DAVID FUCKING BOWIE afterwards.

We’re gradually adjusting to SoHo.