We were walking down St. Marks on our way to look at things we could suddenly afford. But you walk down a street for, like, 40 years, a lot of them pretty sucky, it's not walking. More like stepping around unpleasant remains mixed with dog shit. Short and long travels then require a ballet dancer's grace and a lot of professional help.
"Tell me when you see someplace with happy memories," the Mariner said.
"That place!" I said, pointing to the Holiday Cocktail Lounge. Definitely remembered a great night there. Even with the really drunk 90 year old man hitting on all the butch girls. Then I looked. "Oh, it's closed."
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.