When we first moved here, my issue of The New Yorker had ended up in my neighbor’s mailbox. So she, a very attractive young woman about my age, brought it over.
“Well,” I mused to my wife, “That’ll save some time trying to impress the neighbors.”
Any given Sunday, I can be found on the porch reading Talk of the Town and smoking a cigar with a glass of wine.
Though those days are behind us, there was a time when DoorDash were frequent visitors here.
Including once when my pizza ended up on the aforementioned neighbor’s porch.
All this to say …
That these young, upper middle class folks that line our street, are beginning to realize that…
Orson Welles has moved in next door.