Suspicious Package

I discovered last night that the terrorists have eroded my right to leave a sack of old clothes by the dumpster outside the old East Village Max Brenner without getting weirdly paranoid that the police will view the package as suspicious and call in the bomb squad. So on my way out I toted such a sack past the Astor Place Cube Thing and several other lazy-man's Goodwill sweet spots until I hit Washington Square, at which point I offered the goods to a 6'4”, 320lb man who'd been hoping to sell me weed-smoke. He was pretty happy to get a True Grit sweater, among other things. I was pretty happy to get rid of a True Grit sweater, among other things. When we shook hands, I could feel his bottom two fingers still curled around what I assume was weed-smoke.

So, the terrorists haven't won, and Giuliani hasn't won. Weed-smoke Guy and I must have won something, but probably only on the community-relations front, because despite my assurances that I was also “hefty”, he's still got 100lbs on me, and there's no way those clothes will fit.