I am never buying anything again.
Unless it's closet space. Which I don't think is sold in New York. Or bourbon. Which is sold in New York.
There are some cute local bars in this area--and a neat-O Episcopalian church--not that those two things are related. In the cute bars, I met some nice folks. Jeannie and Rich were at the first bar. Both of them are crazy Yankees fans. Also met a bartender named Danny who is, of all things, a U of Miami fan. What the hell? Danny, the incongrous Miami fan, tells me that he does not have a good feeling about Alabama football this year. Bastard.
I also met some nice Irish men last night. One is named Rocky, one is named John. John is a chef--we chatted about the merits of Southern food. Mmmmm, fried green tomatoes and chicken fried steak. Rocky is not a chef--I don't really know what he does except wear shirts with the sleeves cut out and flirt with women. He did tell me, though, that since I moved into the neighborhood, I am part of the family. So, he said, anybody who fucks with me will be "taken care of."
So watch out, people. Just watch out.