The Box

I don't do scenes. I don't do crowds. When I go out socially (which has been rarely as of late, as I've been studying my ass off), I strongly prefer to go somewhere I can sit and relax and talk without having to shout over the din of bad music and screaming Jersey girls. Socializing, for me, isn't about seeing, or being seen. It's about having a decent conversation amended by a goodly amount of the drink.

Which is why, in the summer, the Pizza Box on Bleecker Street is one of the best places on earth. Because, one, almost nobody knows about the large patio in the back, where you can sit on plastic lawn furniture and enjoy a peace that's incredibly rare in the city proper; and two, you can get bottles of Budweiser for two dollars a pop and slices of pizza for a buck seventy-five. So, if you and a mate decide to go have a slice or two and polish off a six-pack each while debating the relative merits of Mexican and domestic low-budget horror films, you can walk (or stagger) out having forked over a mere twenty.

Life is good at the Pizza Box. Just don't tell anyone about it, or I'll have to find you and kill you.

Now, I have to watch THE DEVIL'S BACKBONE again...