“You’re hedgin’ on the vulgar up there,” Mamma told me some time ago. I can’t pinpoint how many months or years ago she said this because, as Didion might reflect, much feels to be the same in New York after you can name the bridges, tunnels and rivers. Yes, things are better when you’re just a touch ignorant…

My big city life was negotiating good and bad taste, or so I’ll claim for Mamma’s sake. My precarious employment and dating situation had her worried that my magnolia had not only lost its bloom, but that its petals were browning, decomposing under the Yankee sun.

What’s a newly minted New Yorker to do? Date American Royalty, of course.

Land of the free, home of the brave—there is no aristocracy, you say. Oh, really? Tell that to the maitre d’, the bouncer, the seasoned bartender at “Bemelman’s.” A new world lays itself at your feet when you date a Groton and Princeton grad that just happens to be directly related to the ex Commander-in-Chief…

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