We had to go to Best Buy today to buy some shit. I hate it there. The blue-shirted khaki-clad workers are like a poor mercenary brand of brigands gussied up to look like regulars. When they ask, "Can I help you?" they really aren't sure and most times they can't. Anyway! On the second floor in those mockups of entertainment centers, a group of 30 men and women had gathered around one screen where a fierce game of Guitarhero was taking place.

Like Wordsworth, William Eville appears to be a Billy rather appropriately surnamed. In a "New York Observed" column for the Times yesterday, Mr. Eville recounts the time "in the early '90s" when he found a homeless person living in his car, which was parked by TriBeCa's "Duane Park...a park in name only." But why would said Mr. Eville be in possession of an internal-combustion engine? Oh, you know, "being from the New Jersey suburbs, I felt that a car was like an essential organ. It was not something I was prepared to give up." But knowing he felt such feelings about giving up said personal-mobility device and the fact that "a garage cost almost as much as rent," why had Mr. Evil come to New York? "I had come to New York to work as a banker. I didn't like the job but at the time I thought it was something I was supposed to do." Hmm, sounds like somebody was ripe for a moral lesson!