I had just finished typing the period at the end of that first sentence when we heard an explosion and the power disappeared. Thank you to El for her hospitality today so that we could all plug in and turn on.
It was Monday. Figuring streets would be quiet and stores closed, we took a walk.
The Open Pantry was open. Why wouldn't it be? was Themis's shrug of an answer. The Pantry had weathered the East Village for the last four decades. It was always open, come rain, come shine, come anything. "Come back and take a picture when Pete is here," Themis said.
Themis and Jose
The Stage was packed, not a seat in the house, everyone storing up on pre-storm pierogi, cutlets and burgers.
So an emergency smoked mozzarella from Russo's was the next best thing, catching up on medical procedures and gossip about customers who were always surprised they could swing by later and pay if they didn't have enough cash on them. Any gluten-free pasta in the future? A sigh, and then "No. Just dried pasta". I stared at the refrigerator case filled with the best ravioli, tortelli, and spaghetti in the world.
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.