What Makes Us Tick?
July, 1984
'T was a hot and fetid night in downtown Manhattan. Rita and I sat drinking in the humid darkness of the Lion's Head, a bar known for its hard-bitten reporters, colorful literary failures and drunken Irishmen. Cleo was late, so we waited and watched a woman in an appalling turquoise dress sashay through the bar."Don't you wish," I said to Rita, "that you could just pull certain people to one side and say, 'Can we discuss your outfit for a moment, please? I think you should reconsi...
