When cell phones didn't exist and home answering machines had cassette tapes, when there was no such thing as voice mail, and texting meant typing a letter on a typewriter, this bar's telephone booth was my starship of an attempt to reach out and touch someone. The third martini was my fuel and with a finger swirling I took flight, drunk dialing Florence or my father or errant lovers across the country to tell them all how much I loved them.
*I Call Your Name (The Beatles)
...Oh I can't sleep at night, but just the same I never weep at Night I call your name, I call your name...
MY PRIVATE CONEY presents IT WAS HER NEW YORK, the short stories that accompany the work-in-progress video and photo collection of the same name (myprivateconey.com - media link - IT WAS HER NEW YORK). The stories and the media explore the tender rubble that holds both my mother, Florence's and New York's soul as one disappears into old age and the other into gentrification. All are real observations and/or experiences with very little tall-tale telling.
Except when it makes the story better.
Please visit myprivateconey.com for additional information and sample works.