’m still getting used to my neighborhood, with its parade of twentysomethings disembarking the L train as if it were high school passing period. Everyone is so young, and attractive, and carefree, it’s as if they all have part-time jobs drinking beer and espresso.

Now that the rain finally stopped, I’ve been able to crawl out of bed and explore. Last night, I went to a quaint little Mexican restaurant with killer sangria, fresh guacamole, and a waiter we decided wasn’t so much stuck-up as handsome and exceedingly stupid. This afternoon, I noticed a recurring piece of graffiti along the brick walls, sidewalks and post office boxes surrounding my apartment building. It reads: “Val Kilmer.” (I like to think Val Kilmer did this.) At the coffee shop where I spent most of the afternoon, stuttering out a story due in less than 24 hours, I sat near a group of men with piercing blue eyes, three-day beards, and scripts in their hand. They spent two hours discussing the merits of Tom Stoppard, Tim Burton, and a new experimental work debuting in town. I felt certain I was the only person there dressed in 100% Target clothing. But around here, that makes me kinda punk rock.