Ray's a much too delicate a cpunk to report what going on with low-flow toilets in NYC. Most of us close the lid, kick the lever fleeing the stench, which jiggles the muck a bit, leaves it for the next hold-breath lid lifter, who figures that's what Guiliani has ordered the lifestyle cops. Trainspotting-type diving for the good stuff is the practice in Manhattan's best clubs, where Brut reigns, and Carl's seasonings show the way to theme prison food franchising, emulating the CEO who Julia Childed the airline food cart. Let me tell later about The Harvard Club of NY's kitchen inability to pass a health inspection since the Depression. Having surveyed it recently DN and me toyed with the DCSNY's lunch there, other swell-suited cpunks wolfed it like CJ had pronounced it A-OK.