...or whatever that phrase is (don't watch football, could care less--me likey baseball).
Anyhoo. As some of you may remember, Brady and I went to McManus last week or so and it was yet another hellish experience. So, because we were both in sour moods and were in the mood for a pint, it was time to try a new place.
We stopped upon "Henry Street Ale House" or something of that ilk and decided to give it a go. It was a dream. Quiet, clean, refreshing new menu items--although oddly they ran out of dessert on SATURDAY, it was lovely.
We had a great bartender and were in business.
Brady was having some issues with this apartment hunt. We New Yorkers use the term "hunt" quite literally around here. You all, wherever you are, may use it loosely or you may even not really understand how the terms are related.
Let me break it down for ya...in this city and its lovely surrounding boroughs, it is about as rare to find an honest, attentive broker as it is to find a bucket full of chocolate-covered plutonium at the 14th street station.
Not likely* my friends.
So long story short she was having issues getting her money back from a broker that was misleading/A LYING COW and we were discussing what to do. I sent her to my good friend "A" who is a big wig Realtor so that he could asses the sitch and give her advice.
Fingers are still crossed.
*this might not be factually accurate, technically speaking. Just that EVERYONE I KNOW has a story like this. EVERYONE.
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