Before my parents most recent visit, I went to the nail salon with a picture in my phone.
I took a photo of a painting by my late paternal grandmother to the nail salon and told my favorite technician Joey “anything inspired by this will be wonderful.” She far exceeded my expectations and when my father saw her work, he seemed touched.
Ignore my cuticles. Joey does the best she can with what I give her!
Did you know that I almost moved to my current neighborhood once before? Yep, during Chicklette in New York version 1.0.
1999 to be exact.
Unlike me, Christopher Bollen actually did so. His essay in the Paris Review had me transfixed.
#5A was mine for exactly four years, and that time did not magically evaporate in the expected dissolve of entering a revolving door and stepping out of it older, wiser. It was more like entering a revolving door and, by some failure of equipment, being stuck between two segments of glass, a perfect specimen of a confused young man who couldn’t go forward or back.
I decided I wasn’t ready to be a pioneer. Williamsburg was artsy. I’d have liked to have been artsy, but I wasn’t. I was (am?) corporate.
Instead I got a place in Greenwich Village. No regrets. Those were funtimes.