So it was that Ms. B decided the nearest thing to driving a bus would be riding around in one. And what better venue to see and be seen by her loving public than as a tour guide shouting from the roof of a Big Apple double-decker bus, with radiant chrome handrails and spiral staircase.

Big Apple's sleazy manager was speedily convinced to grant the lovely Ms. B an opportunity to train under the tutelage of Tony, a nineteen-year old from the projects who reputedly delighted giggling Midwestern ladies and stone-faced Japanese businessmen alike with his intimate knowledge of the city's theme restaurants. Perhaps she too could bring home $200 a day in tips, if she had the right "work ethic." You understand that money was not what what Ms. B was after. But as tips are often the only means available for the rank and file to express their adulation to the multi-talented, Ms. B thought she might be able to accept a few.

Once aboard, she tried to focus her attention on Tony, who was attempting to indicate the third-floor office of Regis and Joy Philbin's veterinarian for his glassy-eyed captives. But instead Ms. B imagined herself ripping the mike from Tony's grubby hands, taking the helm (crimson Big Apple pants stylishly shortened to capri length), and demanding that the bus be turned around AT ONCE to proceed down Seventh Avenue. Hell, it could go UP Seventh Avenue if she deemed it necessary! Oh, it was glorious! At Fashion Avenue she and her band of cheering passengers could disembark and conquer the sample sales one by one, scattering random detritus in their wake (there was no time to locate a trash can when there were bargains to be had!). . .