Greg was off on a disquisition on all the bourgeois elements who were now attracted to the artists' quarter. Why didn't he start with himself? Look at him. A wavy red beard as big as the King of Hearts's hiding his receding chin ... a blackish-green tweed jacket with enormous shoulders and lapels with notches down around his ribs ... a black T-shirt with the logo of the Pus Casserole, the band, across the chest . . . black pegged pants ... the Greasy Black look that was so ... so Post-Punk, so Downtown, so ... of the moment . . . And in fact he was a nice little Jewish boy from Riverdale, which was the Short Hills of the New York City limits, and his parents had a nice big Colonial house, or Tudor, or whatever it was ... A middle-class twerp ... a writer for The Village Voice, a know-it-all, possessor of Mary Lou Downy Shanks . . . Greg had started living with Mary Lou when she enrolled in the Investigative Journalism seminar he was teaching at N.Y.U. two years ago. She had a fantastic body, outstanding breasts, and classic Wasp looks. She stood out on the N.Y.U. campus like somebody from another planet. Kramer called her Mary Lou Love-Greg, which was a way of saying she had given up her actual identity to live with Greg. She bothered them. She bothered Kramer most of all. He found her dense, distant— -- intensely desirable. She reminded him of the girl with brown lipstick. And for this he envied Greg most of all. He had taken this gorgeous creature and possessed her, without assuming any obligations, without getting stuck in an ant colony on the West Side, without having an English nanny sitting on his neck, without having a wife he had to watch turning into her shtetl mama . . . Kramer cut a look at Rhoda and her beaming puffy face and immediately felt guilty. He loved his new son, he was bound to Rhoda, forever, in a sacred way . . . and yet . . . This is New York! And I'm young!