Banana Sales, Red Sox Fails and Veteran Tales

One of the great joys of living in the same neighborhood for over a decade is that you start to build genuine relationships with the people around you. I love that the Dry Cleaner knows my name when I walk in. I like that the guy at the “Discount Depot,” remembers what I bought last time. I like waving hello to the owners of the frame shop and the nail salon on the ground floor of my building. I’m a little iffy on the lady at the Italian Restaurant recognizing my voice when I call to place an order, referring to me as the Snapple Man (obviously because I order Snapple every time, not because I am a male version of the Snapple Lady) and telling me she was expecting my call.  That makes me feel like a fatty boombalattie. But, for some reason, the one dude that really bothers me is the guy at Banana Republic. First of all, it’s a chain store. There should be no neighborhood feel there. It’s faceless and anonymous. Secondly, I don’t go there all that much, maybe once a month.  And final...