Peering thru the shutters at the light from the sunrise, the flicker created by the up and down motion of the Gazelle makes me see a downtown neon sign. I immediately go to Mike Hammer and words like dame and hangover and restlessness start stringing together in my head. I really don't feel like going all Guy Noir so I switch instead to the song on TV, Stockholm Syndrome. Mind races to Patty Hearst and he SLA. Who said we didn't have fabricated national dramas before 911? The courage of all the downtrodden who stared down the molesters never got a syndrome named after them. They're like the .5 million vets waiting for the VA to get to their battle-related claims. Shell shocked - who came up with that one? The guy who called NFLers with concussions "had their bell rung"? I admitted "cry for my women . . . " was probably coming clean about some enduring guilt but so what? I get from here to there without a walker - eww, you lucky stiff, you countenance-free lottery winner. When my fan gets fecal laden I promise not to whine too loudly.