They warn you about the madman. That he wraps himself in scales and chains, fangs and dripping saliva as he prowls arenas of the night. That his shrieks and curses are fearsome to hear, a peril to those who mistakenly perceive the outpourings as mere entertainment. That his acts are foul and loathsome, and his presense is vile. Biting and spitting. Pissing and swaggering. Reprehensible. Far from a productive way to spend a Saturday afternoon, I am direly warned. Consequently, Friday night’s sleep is contorted with a succession of nightmares, and the morning dawn is laced with apprehension.

The man who greets me in a rapidly descending elevator at the plush Parker Meridien Hotel wears an ecstatically beautiful fur coat, as does his outgoing, dark-haired wife. Underneath the wrap he. is dressed simply in a beige button-down oxford cloth shirt and non-designer blue jeans. A heavy gold chain circles his neck and one finger is embellished with a formidable diamond encrusted ring. What an obviously well-to-do couple! How easily they fit into the perfume-clouded ebb and flow of the hotel’s $ 100-plus per-night clientele. The man’s squared, ruddy features are softened somewhat by a cap of silky brown hair. In a strange way, he looks like a younger,* fresher version of that perennial jokester, Benny Hill.