One Saturday afternoon in Sunset Park, I was sitting on the cement rim of a drained wading pool, watching elderly Chinese couples foxtrot to staticky melodies playing from a beat-up cassette player.
“My strength is writing about Chinese people and dirtbags, and Chinese dirtbags.”
Same place, different time.
A zesty cocktail of lime juice and water.
A compendium of responses from video store clerks in Jackson Heights.
Do I get hungry? Yes, that’s the point.
How I mourned the loss of #17.
It was art, not bombs.
My comic ode to the neighborhood.
The newest fashion craze in Queens.