Which means that there will be no thimble full of tropicana with my breakfast special at the diner. Toomey’s Diner that is, a block and a half away and my local hangout. They make a fantastic plate of short ribs, and somtimes the french toast is all I could ever wish for. And I get to go in and yack with the other locals, which is one of the things that reassures me that I’m a New Yorker at heart. It’s one of the things that I forget about when I’m weaving my elaborate “gonna live in a self built shack in the woods upstate” fantasies: I like being the jovial fat guy in the booth reading Newday and The Sun and bantering with the staff (Iris, Shane and Shanda) and the owner (Chris, who, truth be told, I have a bit of a crush on)
And I have to go pick up the laundry.