In the 1980s, when I was a kid, the section of Court Street where it meets Atlantic Avenue was broken-down and unhappy and full of crazy old men stumbling out of bars and nothing shined and you could get a plate of yellow rice with a half-chicken on the rotisserie for three dollars with a forty of St. Ides for a dollar more. I have a real nostalgie de la boue for it, which is unhealthy and self-deluding and I admit this freely.
Much of official New Yorks present-day confidence rests on a tidy but triumphant narrative of its recent political past. It goes like this:
The first time I celebrated Eid was in a house beside one of Srinagar’s lakes, in the summer capital of The Kashmir Valley, up in the Himalayas of North India.
In September 2006, Bolivian President Evo Morales went before the United Nations, asking the General Assembly to reverse the UN ban on international trade of coca-products, which has been in place for nearly half a century.
Jeff Mullins walked quickly along 44th Street towards Times Square, just a few yards in front of the combat squad. A coordinator with Iraq Veterans Against the War (IVAW), he admitted never imagining that “it’d be this good.”
It’s 1998 and I’m sitting on the long front porch at Kate Simpson’s house on Cora Street in Portland, Oregon. Freshman year is over.
Given the onslaught of new films in recent years, festivals have become more important as a siphoning tool for the public and the media.