Clang!... Clang! Awakened by the unnecessarily boisterous church bells ricocheting throughout my skull, I peel away a Christmas card that spent the night spooning against my cheek. Rolling over, I begin the day by base jumping from my mattress. Although last night's Christmas party was quite the blast, this morning's after affects of wine and merriment has reared its ugly head - mine.

After scarfing down perilous quantities of Tylenol, I begin creating today's ensemble out of elderly faded jeans, a rumpled flannel shirt and a stained red parka. A partially unravelled woolen scarf, revolving around the neck, completes my frightful appearance. Brushing my hands through oil tinged hair I trip my way out the front door. Stumbling through the hallway and down the front stairs I eventually gain a modicum of stability. There is but one goal in mind as I saunter out into a mid afternoon day on Boston's Beacon Hill. Squinting through sunglasses only partially negates the blazingly bright sidewalk as I move on route toward the coffee shop de jour.

With a Grande Supremo Supersized Caramel Brulee Latte secure within my gnarled claw; I track my way over to the corner of Tremont and Park Street for some good natured people gazing. As time wasting localities go this corner of the Boston Common, with its fascinating whirlwind of humanity, would be difficult to trump. Elaborately carved yet dysfunctional water fountains dot the landscape. These arid springs with half naked sculpted women create a focal point around which old men and young lovers occupy wooden benches.

Children chase one another through and around the fountains and over the grassy areas nearby. Shoppers lean into the unrelenting wind, lugging overflowing bags of Christmas surprises. Tiny snowflakes, right on cue, whirl about, ultimately descending upon the sidewalk like bits of dust upon a table. Close-at-hand a saxophonist can be heard playing his heart out for a pittance. The artist's music provides a much needed emotional element to the park and endows it with a cinematic richness. The music morphs all within its reach into cameo roles for a movie titled "A Moment In My Life." It is this feature presentation I've come to view.

In the midst of this chaotic scene sits the historic Park Street subway station entrance, providing a continuous stream of unique characters for analysis.

Planting myself strategically nearby, coffee in hand, I beckon all my senses to consume the nuances of the show. But reality has a way of inserting itself into an otherwise precious moment. The ache within my head will not set me free. Attempting to untangle grievously sore neck muscles, I close my eyes and begin rolling my skull around atop my shoulders. Pressing my thumb and index finger atop my eyelids I try visualizing my headache dissipating throughout my lower body. Snowflakes rain down upon my cheeks as I...

Plop!!! Plop!!!

Plop??? Plop???

Mopping lukewarm latte from my bewildered face, I glimpse a young woman depositing her wallet back within the confines of her purse as she vanishes through the subway station doors. Tipping my nearly empty cup-of-Joe to one side, my suspicions are confirmed. Lo and behold, at cup's low tide rests two rather coffee colored quarters. Not taking this involuntary baptism lightly, I wail after my misguided benefactor, "Lady... Jesus H. Christ!...eh...

...loves you."