My brother and I both left our respective cities at 4:30am to go to Minnesota when my mom had her heart attack. I took two trains to JFK. The first of which, my train, the F, I got on and was heading for a seat when I detected a whiff of feces. I looked around and saw a couple of workmen at either end of the car, and in the middle, screaming at them, was a guy, naked from the waist down, with his diarrhea-soaked pants on the floor next to him. I sat down as far away as possible and he started yelling at me, "What are you avoiding me for? Don't you want to hear what happened to me?" At the next stop, I scooted to the next car down, which was packed. Downtown in Brooklyn, I transferred to the A train to the airport. Well, by then it was 5am, which I guess is quittin' time for the local gay hookers. The one doing jettes was dressed in this: cropped jeans the waist of which was completely below his buttocks (as was, mysteriously, a fanny pack) which were covered by his pink tights; a white long-sleeved Lycra shirt, a pink cropped top over that, and a pink "working for the weekend" bandanna headband to cap it off. "There's not much going on in Salt Lake City at 4:30," Leo said, "but now that I think about it, there were three guys in suits outside the temple waiting for it to open." So there's something in a nutshell, eh?