I need to start carrying a camera. Tuesday morning I took Ella for a morning walk down to the East River. The bare edge of the rising sun was reflecting from the windows of high-rises in Manhattan and on Roosevelt Island as if bright red lanterns were burning in apartments and offices everywhere. And the water was filled with big chunks of sheet ice flowing upriver as the tide came in. Man.

Despite its reputation, I'm constantly delighted by what a friendly town New York City. But take one little tumble down the subways stairs and no one will look you in the eye.

Do you ever see someone applying makeup on the subway platform and feel the temptation to say "You missed a spot"?

I'm sure Ella's not the only dog in the world who loves to stick her whole face into snowbanks, but I wouldn't feel as happy watching any other dog do it.

A remarkably reflexive comment culled from a very loud cell phone conversation on this morning's subway: "Amazing the number of petty annoyances that keep distracting me."

Then a few minutes later, startlingly loudly: "How many bathrooms do two people need?"

When I transferred to the 6 this morning, I sat across from a man who was doing the Daily News crossword puzzle in pen. He was bent over the paper so I was looking straight at the top of his head—on which was a livid red wound the color of raw meat (well, that's what it was), about the size of half a slice of spam in area. It wasn't bleeding, but it looked as if someone with minimal competence with a tomahawk had tried to scalp him but had only gotten about the top eighth of an inch. I'm afraid I couldn't look away.