A party boy – you know the type – came in from the suburbs to "get naked."

"Hey, are you guys here to get NAKED?"

He looks a little shocked by the lack of party atmosphere.

There's another guy who looks like he spent the night before in Atlantic City. Shirt unbuttoned to the middle, yellow patent leather loafers, gold Italian horn hovering just beyond the border of a frontier of chest hair.

"We're awl supahmoduls," he yells out, "we're awl moduls heah."

Who brought this guy?

At the count of three, we're streaking down Broadway – it's only 5:45am, but the taxis slow, horns honk, and the huge Marriott sends it staff running out onto the streets. I expect to see a crew of Japanese tourists any second now, recording devices in hand, but from the position I'm in (on the ground crumpled in a ball), I can only hear the whoops and hollers of bystanders.

With a yell from Spencer Tunick, we reposition ourselves, lying flat on our backs, facing downtown.