They rush by in blur of flesh and iPod headphones and officious sex appeal, the shirtless joggers who parade down 17th Street like it's some sort of racetrack-cum-runway. Tramps, each and every one, but the real tarts are those who return your stare. Such flirts - such teases! That brief exchange with the unattainable leaves you drained of vanity and worth, whereas it has the opposite effect on the driveby strumpet. The attention energizes him, like some sort of hormone or steroid. Except I'd be willing to bet it makes his balls only grow larger.

Destiny dictates that I will become one of these joggers. In fact, this is a long-term goal of mine. I already have the requisite nipple ring - an accoutrement that adds just a touch of apple-cheeked kink to an otherwise boring ensemble of running shorts and New Balances. Of course, whenever I see someone with a nipple ring I always roll my eyes, but the standards are totally different in my case, I mean, obviously.

But you know what's worse than a nipple ring, as far as attention-seeking devices go? You'll never even guess: rollerblades with light-up wheels. And don't even try to tell me he wore them for road safety - the guy wasn't even wearing a helmet. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't intrigued by his epilepsy-causing skates, but each time he rounded the corner of R and Connecticut (he did this three - ! - times), he raced onward in a flash. Sigh - another day, another missed connection.