When I was a kid, I delivered the New York Daily News. That was 76-77, the Summer of Sam, and Jimmy Breslin was the Prince of the City.

I used to read his column before setting out on my bike with the rickety front basket. Oh, to be like him one day.

Lately, though, he's been tired and rambly. Disappointing.

But today, the old lion summoned up his old ferocity for the cause of journalism, if only to let the over-educated cubs know he's still prowling the veldt. Read the story!

I have two Breslin stories of my own.

One day, while working on a political campaign in 1984[?], I was delivering something to the NYDN building, and Jimmy and his gut ambled over to a hot dog vendor, got a dog, bullshitted with the guy and wolfed it down like a champ. This was before he got sick and when he still looked like the tough city newsman. It was an iconic moment.

Another day, inside the NYDN building, after I walked past a giant poster of his Jimmy-ness, I approached the elevator. The doors opened. There was Jimmy, with a collection of Damon Runyan characters including a hooker, a midget and a pimp dressed like Huggy Bear.

It was as surreal a moment as the scene in Rio Bravo where John Wayne, Ricky Nelson, Dean Martin and Walter Brennan do a sing-along in the jail.