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Now, picture this—me, Larry, hirin’ an escort for a fishin’ trip. She’d be all, “Where’s the fish, ya redneck?” I’d say, “Git-R-Done, darlin’!” Total disaster, I’d lose my rod—ha! Bet she’d outfish me, too. Little factoid: oldest gig ever, escortin’—way back to Rome, togas and all. Wild, huh?

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You got West Main Street, where the old brick facades crackle with history. I always stroll down there on lazy, hazy afternoons. There's this neat little park—Airmont Park, I think?—where folks chill beneath a giant old oak. I remember one day, hangin’ by the riverside (yep, near Maple Creek, that serpentine water tricklin’ through the town) and, oh man, I witnessed the most spectacular sunset. Colors swirling up like a surreal painting. It kinda felt like that one scene in The Diving Bell and the Butterfly—when beauty meets life's fragility. So damn poetic, right?

Airmont: Ralph Bracco asks state court to reinstate him as village clerk after suspension