Hi all, on a Saturday night where I have forsaken all parties. The city doesn’t look too locked down, or not yet. I expect it’s coming. No one I know if freaked out, more, resigned. Let me know in the comments what’s like where you are.
Earlier this week at Paloma Media, where it was New York Week all week, I posted the following audio, which I’ll likely mention in the Sunday round-up, but wanted to get to you directly, in case you, too, are sitting home on a Saturday. It’s a reading of The Queens of Montague Street, my pocket-size memoir of being a truant teen in late 1970s Brooklyn, which you can buy on Amazon (it’s short!), or read as excerpted in the New York Times Magazine. A clip:
“Most of the time we just hung out, in front of the newly opened Baskin-Robbins, on the corner of Montague and Henry Streets. This corner was the epicenter of Brooklyn Heights, a community unaccustomed to seeing its daughters straddling mailboxes and flicking cigarette butts into the street. Nor were we used to fielding the looks we began to get: wary, unhappy, every father coming home from Wall Street and every mother on her way to Key Food shooting us stern, silent reprimands. It made me squirm, but it also pissed me off: What was I doing that was so horrible? And if they had something to say, why didn’t they say it? While our little petri dish of a neighborhood evidently considered hanging out anathema, I was on the fence; my dad had grown up in Greenwich Village, an Italian kid playing stickball and rolling tires in the Hudson River. Isn’t this what teenagers did?”
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