MY BASEMENT

Welcome to my basement. There is no bar. No ping-pong table. Just a lot of people. Millions actually, most of whom I don't know. They're not here to fold their laundry, or to do keg stands. They're going somewhere. Eastside. Westside. Uptown. Downtown. Brooklyn. Queens. The Bronx.

It gets crowded down here. People rub shoulders, and sometimes other body parts. My basement is an icebox in the winter, and a steam room in the summer. But that doesn't keep folks from coming back.

People come downstairs to read the paper, listen to their iPods, people-watch, sleep, play Sodoku, space out, panhandle. They look lost in euphoria coming back from the perfect date. They look pissed off like hell coming back from another bad day at the office. They look pissed off like hell because somebody just got in their way.

That's my basement. We don't know each other. But we keep holding on.