I was born in Manhattan in the middle of a snowstorm at New York Hospital on a Friday.

Friday the 13th, January 13th, 1961.

And the doctors kept saying to my mom, oh, don't worry, don't worry, she won't be born

on Friday the 13th.

And my mom said, oh, yes, she will.

She's coming.

And she was right.

I was born on Friday the 13th, like a 1030 at night, which I have always really liked.

It's a lucky 13.

My earliest memory as a child, I think I was probably about three was going to Bonwitt

Teller, the now defunct Bonwitt Teller, the department store, to go shopping for a pillow.

I remember this vividly choosing it.

You know, it had a pink ribbon design.

And oh, God, I love that pillow for many years afterwards.

The old deco, Bonwitt and Teller building got knocked down and they put up that shitty

awful Trump tower on the site on Fifth Avenue, such a shame.

It was a gorgeous architectural masterpiece, a real beauty of a building.

I have very cozy memories of going on the cross town bus with my mother in the rain

and the snow and leaning up against her and sitting on her lap and watching buildings

go by.

He lived at 96 and parked during the big New York blackout of 1965, I'm pretty sure.

And I remember so clearly that my step-dad, because I don't think they were married yet,

...