1. Two police officers are riding the train with me between Union Square and 6th Avenue. I'm sitting down; one cop, standing next to me, keeps her radio on her belt, right next to me ear. While we’re waiting to leave the station, it squaks ‘Anonymous caller reports a bomb in the station.’ Crrrchchhch. There’s a long pause. I look up, but she doesn’t seem to have listened, or cared, and neither does anyone else. It goes off again: ‘Anonymous caller reports a bomb in the station…Crrrchchchhch…of the Empire State Building.’

Relieved, I resume scanning The Onion.



2. The butcher at Ottomanelli & Sons Meat Market, after selling me 3 lbs. of beef and a pound of venison sausages they make onsite and are relatively notorious for, asks me how old I am. ‘25,’ I say. ‘Why?’

‘Well, there’s some liquor in these sausages; I thought I’d have to card you.’

A few minutes later, Murray’s Cheese Shop is happy to sell me two illegal (raw milk) French cheeses (1, 2.) Union Square Wine & Spirits rings up three bottles of Barbera wine and never asks for my I.D.

My plan tonight is to get boozed up on sausages and wreck my grill into a bus full of children.