One of my favorite New York traditions is planning and then ultimately failing to go to the San Gennaro parade in Little Italy. For the 4th year in a row, as September rolled around, I made a solemn vow to not miss this sausagey powder-sugar-coated extravaganza, as I did the year previous and the year before that, and so on. This year I even put reminders into my iPhone, or as I came to call it, my San Gennaro Feast Day Alert Device. But all to no end. The official parade was yesterday, and I was at home packing a bag to go to Nashville, visions of a roof hopping Don Corleone dancing in my head. I swear when I woke up this morning, I caught the faint smell of zeppole as it wafted from Mulberry street, but all I tasted was the salt of my own tears. Maybe next year, but probably not. Perdonimi, San Gennaro! Perdonimi, per favore!