WE ARE BORED. VERY, VERY BORED. ALSO, COLD AND WET. WHEN WE HEAR THE FIRST BARS OF MUSIC EMANATE forth from a nearby boom box, our spirits soar. Thank god someone was resourceful enough to bring a radio. We're too tired to wonder why they haven't employed it before. We're ready to groove to some tunes.

The first song is a remix. In fact, it's a custom remix. The owner of the jukebox has cooked up this diddy all by himself. From the looks of the fellow, we have high expectations. He's clearly very hip. He's wearing a bright orange, Sunkist rain coat. He carries a sign that reads, 'I'm Kurt Loder's love child." Very creative.

The song gets rolling, "One, two, three...one, two, three...one, two, three four...one, two..." For the next seven minutes we listen to audio clips of artists counting to four. When it's over we find ourselves wishing for the sweet hum of New York City traffic. Sunkist boy has other ideas. He punches the repeat button on his box. The counting recommences. For the next three hours it continues uninterrupted.

"One, two, three, four, get your..." orders Coolio. "One, two, three, four, c'mon baby say you..." sings Gloria Estefan. The rest is unrecognizable. "One, two, three...one, two three...one, two, three four...one, two..."

By the fourth rendition of the Sesame Street jam, I am beginning to appreciate the psychological factors that drive people to commit violent crimes--the fatigue, the desperation. I eye Sunkist boy's kneecaps. I envision what it would look like to shatter them with a crow bar into many tiny pieces. I suspect that such an act will harm my chances of successfully becoming a VJ, but at this point I don't give a damn.

Mother Nature saves my sanity. I gaze up through the corridors of skyscrapers and notice a light glow in the charcoal sky. Sunrise. The promise of warmth, of a new day. I am overcome by a wave of serenity. A smile draws across my face.

"One, two, three...one, two, three...one, two, three four...one, two..." The smile fades.