Brrr... It's cold today in New York. Happy Thanksgiving, all! Now off to forage me some tryptophan.

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The city is damp and gray today. Fresh oak leaves wet and shiny from November rains lie scattered on Central Park's walls, green and brown stars against a red brick sky. A little boy holds his mother's hand; they amble through the early morning drizzle and she smiles at his delight as they walk together through a shallow sidewalk puddle.

I took the guys out last night for a few drinks. We're a pretty tight bunch here, my colleagues and I, and group morale is crucial given the number of hours we spend together every day. We bar-hopped through the rain, eventually ending up at the Russian Vodka Room, where we dined on lox and latke and cranberry-infused vodka, laughing and singing over the din of the piano and thick Russian accents around us. The evening's final stop was at an Upper East Side bar where we signed up for a few games of beer-pong. But when three o'clock rolled around and our turn hadn't yet come up, I dragged myself out into the early morning mist and hailed a cab home.

Days like today make me appreciate how just a few Tylenols and caffeine can make all the difference in the world.

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Yesterday, Greg came down with an especially bad case of the blahs. He called me at work. "I'm really down," he said, "and I need you to be nice to me tonight." So when I got home, I played mind games with him. Literally.

"Guess what colour I'm thinking of," I said as we lay in bed. "And remember to concentrate." We scrunched our eyes tight and pressed our heads together as I sent a few brain waves his way. "Clear your mind, and remember to concentrate."

We lay silent and motionless, trying to focus on the task at hand.

"Red," he said.

"Yes," I agreed. "Red."

It's uncanny sometimes how we can get into this psychic oneness where we finish each other's sentences and pick up on each other's thoughts. Just like in the books, we sometimes have our thoughts in sync. And yesterday was one of those days.

"Okay, it's my turn," he said.

"Umm, yellow."

"Wow, that's freaky."

We went back and forth a few times, alternating between sending brain waves and receiving brain waves, each trying to guess the other's colours and letters. Blue, P, R, red, G, brown. We must have gotten seven or eight in a row, and then we began to falter.

"White," he said.

"No, I was thinking black and white," I paused. "Well, I was thinking white first, and then I thought I'd make it harder, and so I was thinking black and white."

He laughed. "Me now."

"V."

"No, W. But I guess it's like a V, just two of them."

But by then, we had begun to be silly. Greg was fanning madly at the air, trying to get rid of the thought-stealing gremlins, and I was furrowing my eyebrows in mock thought-torpedo fashion. We began to guess wildly. Yellow with an orange tint, sorta Mandarin like my bike? Nope. Brownish red with a tint of brick-infused blue? No luck there. We had lost the psychic connection.

But it didn't matter. Greg was laughing. I was laughing. It had worked. The blahs had packed up and gone away for the night and we didn't leave the light on for them to return.

And soon enough, as the clock welcomed midnight, we both slowly began to nod off, silently counting the sheep in each other's head and dreaming of all the colours of the rainbow.

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Okay, we've decided. We're moving back to Queens. We're moving out of the comfortable one-bedroom in the Upper West Side into a comfortable one-bedroom in a charming neighborhood called Forest Hills. Mind you, as charming as it is, there's a lot of sacrifice being made here, a lot I'm going to miss. I'm going to miss living so close to Lincoln Center with her limousined gentry traipsing about after an evening at the opera; I'm going to miss the cheap, ten-minute cab ride home in drunken fashion after a night out on the town; I'm going to miss being able to roll right out of bed and into the arms of a Manhattan bright with lights and shimmering under the city air. I'm going to miss a lot, yes, but there's one thing above all I'm going to miss. I'm going to miss my area code.

There's a bit of telephone number snobbery that exists here in Manhattan, a bit of elitism that's similar to the way Old Money folk turn their noses up at New Money folk. Every Manhattanite worth his salt knows that the world is divided cleanly into two distinct camps: the 212s and the 212-wannabes. I'm not sure how this division came about, but I suspect it has something to do with the Established protecting themselves against the Newcomers.

Before the island's current levels of telephone saturation, Manhattan carried only one area code, the catchy, easy-to-dial 212 that was used as a measuring stick of discrimination against those who dared live in the outer boroughs, and who had been punished by the telephone company for doing so with the more clumsy 718. This simple distinction was enough to separate the haves and the have-nots, but little did I realize how much so when I accepted my 718 fate with a non-Manhattan address during my first year in the city. Soon enough, however, I began to pick up on the subtle discriminatory undertones.

Ring, ring.

"Hello, can I help you?"

"Hello, yes, I'd like to place an order, please."

"Okay, yes, uhm-hmm. Phone number?"

"Yes, 718..."

"Oh, 718? You're not in The City? Let me transfer you to the Department of Lesser People."

Many months and many cancelled orders later, I was presented with the opportunity to move into Manhattan when I met Greg, and it was with great pride that I obtained 212 citizenship when I moved into our current residence in the Upper West Side. No longer would I be the target of area code discrimination, and I dared dream that I had become a member of the telephone number aristocracy. I would proudly recite my phone number when asked, careful to articulate the numbers and lingering on the last digit just long enough to crush the doubts of the skeptical. I remember with fondness the day I placed an order for my computer over the phone. I was in the middle of my well-rehearsed phone number routine when the salesgirl in lackluster monotone said, "Oh, you live in New York City. Must be nice." Validation! I was ecstatic. I had reached the top of the area code food chain, and I was vindicated. It was tough, but I managed to restrain myself from immediately asking her to marry me.

Now that we're moving back to Queens, I'm not sure what will happen. Will my 718 demons come back to haunt me? Will my colleagues shun me in favor of their 212 peers? Will my friends no longer call me for fear of dialing those three extra digits? Sometimes I lie awake at night, tossing and turning and dreaming of winning the lottery, the winnings of which I would immediately forward to the phone company in the hopes that they let me keep my area code. But whatever happens, I had better move fast. The 718s themselves are almost saturated, and the phone company is issuing yet another area code for the outer boroughs. A new pecking order is being set up, and along with it--for me at least--a brand new paranoia.

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For lunch my colleagues and I tried the fare of a new sidewalk vendor. Well, new for me at least. At noon we traipsed down to the corner of 52nd and Park, where Rafiqi was working at breakneck speed to keep the line of hungry regulars moving.

One of my colleagues pointed at me. "New customers for you," he said. "Make sure you give 'em the secret sauce."

Rafiqi paused briefly and gave us a sly wink. "You sure you want to try this?" he said.

It was delicious. Next time you're in Midtown, check out what Rafiqi has to offer and tell him I sent you.

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Racial stereotyping isn't quite what it used to be. Back in the Caribbean, I grew up with kids running up to me singing, "Chinee, Chinee" and pointing their little fingers gleefully into my face. Rastafarians would high-five me as I walked by, calling out to me the same name and with equal delight. My high school classmates oftentimes followed suit, adopting the moniker as a nickname for me as well as my Asian-looking peers. I would feel a modicum of embarrassment for being different, but at the end of the day, I understood it. After all, I was unlike anything they had ever seen, and I was resigned to accept their brutal honesty expressed in the way they knew best. That was my Caribbean for you, a lovely Third World setting basking naïve and innocent under the tropical sun.

Here in New York, things are much more sophisticated. There are no children pointing you in the face, no adult strangers high-fiving you, no peers giving you inappropriate nicknames. Self-respecting parents would not tolerate the thought of a child being so politically incorrect, neighbors would barely manage to eke out a greeting much less a friendly epithet, and you may as well start counting your profits from the ensuing lawsuit at work should a colleague ever utter the unthinkable.

No, that would be much too improper. That would never do for such a cosmopolitan and worldly city such as ours. Leave that for the bourgeois, the unlearned.

What we have instead is a fine mix of subconscious stereotyping and ethnic labeling falling through the cracks of a city that prides itself on global integration and tolerance. My favorite personal experience comes from what I have begun to affectionately call "The Delivery Boy Phenomenon."

The Delivery Boy Phenomenon, or the DBP as I sometimes refer to it, happens when I enter or exit a building with a plastic bag that looks like it could contain food. More specifically, it happens when I am carrying any bag that is not expressly labeled Versace, Armani, Valentino or Cohen's Fashion Optical. Because of my Asian heritage, people often mistake me for the delivery boy.

Yes, the delivery boy.

While there is nothing inherently wrong with being part of the meal distribution proletariat, I find it mildly amusing that so many people would automatically assume that of me. I find it mildly amusing, yes, and I sometimes chuckle on the inside as I explain myself. But in the hours that follow, my anger grows, and by dinnertime I am sufficiently livid that I take it out on Happy Buddha Restaurant, demanding a few extra fortune cookies with my Kung Pao Chicken. Sure, the first dozen times were amusingly funny, but I swear the next time my elderly neighbor tells me to stop leaving menus under her door, I'm going to grease her doorknob.

One Saturday I was leaving work, my gym bag strapped over my shoulder and tucked gingerly under my arm. Now I work in the financial industry, and we have a strict dress code that prohibits you from wearing any item of clothing that makes it look as though you've biked through the pouring rain and heavy smog carrying bags of Vegetable Lo Mein. Yet a tenant in the building asked me what floor I had just delivered to. Yes, a weekend DBP incident at work! Perhaps the revolution has passed me by, or maybe it's that I didn't get the latest Union newsletter, but since when do we deliver General Tso's Chicken in Prada shirts and Gucci shoes?

September 11 brought a strong focus on racial profiling, and there has been much heated discussion on its pros and cons. To be sure, there is much to be said on both sides of the debate coin, and certainly I am all for protecting our country by any means we can. But there's only so much I can take of the front desk asking me if I remembered to bring chopsticks with Apartment 5's Moo Goo Gai Pan.

Yes, it irks me.

Perhaps I am too sensitive, you may say. Maybe I should simply dress better. Possibly get a haircut. Should I refrain from carrying plastic bags until I am well into my golden years? Must I simply grin and bear it, laughing off the Shrimp Fried Rice comments and Egg Foo Young stares? Too many questions, too many possibilities, too many suggestions. I'm sorry, but I've got to run now; it's getting late and I have a few stereotypes to deliver.

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The old man stands over the sidewalk at 70th Street, scratching his head as he surveys his handiwork. His sidewalk is freshly paved, and steam rises sluggishly from the warm concrete as it cures in the early afternoon air. He scratches his head again in bewilderment and gives another look-over. Strange tracks mar his perfect work, and he is confused. Where did these strange prints come from? He had just stepped into the Starbucks to buy himself a cup of coffee, and when he returned, there it was: a curious trail of three-pronged hieroglyphics equally spaced, each symbol perfectly replicated and meandering about in delicate pattern.

Could he have discovered a new phenomenon? Crop circles are so yester-century, he seems to think, as he draws out a long sip on his coffee. These are new, concrete designs. So pretty.

He seems to rethink for half a minute as he puts down his coffee and, hands akimbo, he shakes his head and sighs. As beautiful as they are, they just won't do, and he will have to cover them over with a fresh, new surface. He reaches for his tools and begins the long, arduous task of repaving.

But high above him in the naked tree, the artist observes silently, his protest wordless as his art is erased. Soon enough he will fly away. Yes, he thinks, he will fly away.

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When the Empress means business, she means business, and there ain't better be no motherfucker try messing with her. The Empress is Phillip Cheung, Manager, co-owner and drag performer at Pegasus, a gay Asian lounge and karaoke bar in Midtown. I booked some time to chat with Phillip over the weekend and well, to be honest, wasn't sure at all what to expect. I agreed to meet him at Pegasus.

So Saturday evening rolls around and, bracing against the chilly autumn wind, I head for the bar. As I walk in, Phillip rushes to greet me and I am at once taken with his warm and gracious welcome. He is slender and somewhat on the shorter side, and he is dressed impeccably in black: turtleneck, slacks and sensible, well-polished shoes. There are a few patrons milling about in the front lounge, but the bar at the back isn't yet open for the evening and we head for a comfortable sofa under the swaths of red fabric hanging from the ceilings.

I dig right in. "So how did you get involved in this?" I ask, pointing around at the disco ball, the strobe lights and empty karaoke stage. "How do you decide to open a gay Asian karaoke-themed bar? Isn't that quite a niche market?"

"That's a misconception," he explains. "We didn't purposely advertise ourselves as an Asian bar. It just happened over the years. And up to this day, I still don't know why, what, how it is successful. But it is." Phillip is articulate and well-spoken, and I can just make out an accent over the din of the bar. He left his native Hong Kong when he was eight, and the thirty-two years in America have failed to dampen the occasional Cantonese inflection peppering his English.

"And drag?"

He laughs. "To change is my therapy. I absolutely, absolutely love it." He cups a knee in his hands and gently rocks back. "But," he continues, "but on the outside, I am just opposed to it--being you know, gay, whatever that term means." Phillip convinces me that he is comfortable with his sexuality and with his love for drag, but he seems to struggle with being labeled outside the world of the bar. "There are certain occasions you gotta make special--for yourself," he says wistfully, and his voice drops as his eyes look away. "You gotta be proud of yourself."

"Do you drag every weekend?"

"Yes, most every weekend. Let me tell you something. When I was at the Web (another gay Asian-themed dance club, which competes with Pegasus), I was at a low point in my life," he says. "I didn't have a job, money was short. But, you know, I would always wear a suit." He shrugs his shoulders. "People would think I was the Manager. That's how I ended up here. That eagerness to make a good first impression on someone... At a certain point in life, you just want to gain respect. I wear a tux at work every New Year's Eve. It's important to me."

"And managing the bar, how do you do that while in drag? How do you get the employees to listen to you?"

Phillip smiles and brushes absentmindedly at the golden highlights in his receding hair. "Yes, I am in drag," he says, "and yes I may be sitting in a corner flirting with someone. But you know what?" His voice becomes somber. "You know what? I am still watching you." He shakes a finger at me and his eyebrows furrow. "You either work with me, or you work for me. You choose. And I think working with me is a hell of a lot easier."

Later in the evening, the bar is beginning to pick up, and Phillip heads downstairs to change. Hector is there to help with the first of many dresses and wigs, and Phillip smiles as I chat with him in the dank basement. "I go out a lot," he says. "Not so much to bars, but to plays, to eat, shopping." The tenor in his voice suddenly lifts and he giggles. "Shopping is my favorite. I'm a shopaholic. I have about forty, maybe fifty dresses. And I don't do laundry. Ever. I just throw things out. Underwear, dresses, everything. Do I sit in a laundromat waiting for things to get done?" He stares intently at me and tosses back his head. "You can kiss my ass."

I notice a change in Phillip as he begins to transform. He becomes more colorful, more animated, more flamboyant. He is becoming Empress, the evening's gracious hostess.

Upstairs, the weekend regulars are already there, and the bar is becoming crowded. The Empress rushes around, air kissing the patrons, flirting and whispering lewd jokes into everyone's ear. She is in her element: she is warm and friendly and sociable, and I can see the customers appreciate it. I am impressed.

Many hours later, the Empress is sitting on my lap, her arms wrapped around my shoulders. On one hand is a shot of Southern Comfort and on the other a chaser of Coke. By now she has changed six, maybe seven times, and the lounge act is belting out a ballad. "Will you marry me?" she asks. I laugh out loud because it is all I can do, and she laughs back as she downs her drink. But later on, during a lull in the evening's festivities, I hear a subdued sniffle and notice a renegade tear running down her mascara. She wipes at it angrily and jumps up to greet another customer, arms wide open and flashing a brilliant smile. I think of my last question earlier in the evening. I had asked Phillip if he was happy. "I feel this is the life that I want," he had said. "For now."

"For now?"

"For now," he repeated. "Yeah."

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