Coney Island Baby
When I first moved to New York as a young 22-year-old, I spent countless nights in and out of various establishments across this great city. There were times were I started heading home as the commuters were rushing to get to their offices.
I couldn’t and still can’t hold my liquor so it wasn’t the promise of wild parties and (un)forgettable nights that drew me out. It was and always has been the people. People from all over the world who somehow end up here; people and their unique joys and pains and stories.
I went to an event at a seedy club on the Lower East Side a long time ago to hear sex talkers talk about their lives. All the personal accounts were raw and honest. Sometimes (most of the time?) art doesn’t exist in museums but in unassuming places on a bitter cold night, created by people who live their art, tell it like it is, and aren’t on a high horse about it. That’s when art is powerful and fucking inspires.
I don’t go out as much anymore, but every time I do I am reminded of why I used to love it so much. We went to see a comedy show at Coney Island Baby recently and had an amazing time. No, the performances weren’t all stellar, but who cares?
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An individual who has involuntarily learned the sex schedule of their upstairs neighbors (it’s Saturdays at 9:45 am for about 7 minutes).