The other day I came plodding through the rubble on Sixth Avenue, a colorful sordid concrete gash that splits the underbelly of Manhattan like the Yangtze River carves up China, wading through beer cans, c cigar butts and split-open bags of garbage to the corner of 14th Street. Ah, Sixth and 14th, the crossroads of Hades, where vice meets chicanery, where avarice meets greed, where George Plimpton and Gloria Steinem never tread. The light for me was red and the big neon sign flickered DON'T WALK. Being basically part of that now tiny minority who believes that when the sign says DON'T WALK, you don't, I clumped to a halt. I love to walk in Manhattan. I have never once been bored, although I'll admit I have felt many other emotions. At times stark fear has gripped my vitals, sometimes total amazement at yet another bizarre revelation. Occasionally complete mystification at some passing enigma, but never, I repeat never, boredom. . .