By way of saying that citing me is okay, I post a story from my personal life here, as previously posted on another, unnamed, website.

...in October of '89 (I think), John D—, Jim N— and I embarked on a pilgrimage to New York for the then freshly-dead Andy Warhol's retrospective.

We picked up Jim in Washington D.C., then took his car up to NYC. We stashed the car in Newark, then took the bus into the city. At the Port Authority, we were greeted by a small, wiry black man who was parading around the waiting room, loudly saying (with a hint of a lisp), "Ten dollarth! I'm looking for a boy wants to earn TEN DOLLARTH!" He then went into the men's room.

John saw where he went and followed. Jim and I looked at each other, raised our eyebrows and settled to wait for a minute.

More than a minute went by. I get hyper-tense in big cities, fearing that everyone knows I'm from out of town and is therefore ready to fleece me, rob me and rape me. Waiting wasn't making me any more calm.

Finally I went in. The bathroom was empty, except for a familiar pair of shoes under the one stall with a closed door.

"John! What's up?" I asked.

"Nuthin," he replied, "Just takin' a crap."