Don't Call Me A Journalist;

The Auditorium, Named After A Dead Queens Politician Is Windowless In Honor Of The Secrecy In Which He Lived And, Probably, The Bank Vaults He Frequented.

Out In The Ocean, A Rope Is Put Around The Man's Neck. The Other End Of The Rope Is Attached To An Old Jukebox And It Is Thrown Overboard. The Man Invariably Follows.

If You Gather A Lot Of Stuff, Then You Write It, Write In Scenes With Dialogue. Somewhere In The Middle, Rising From All This Research Like Strong Metal Towers, Is Your Opinions.

Why Something In The Public Interest Such As Television News Can Be Fought Over, Like A Chain Of Hamburger Stands, Eludes Me.

People Born In Queens, Raised To Say That Each Morning They Get On The Subway And "go To The City," Have A Resentment Of Manhattan, Of The Swiftness Of Its Life And Success Of The People Who Live There.