Corona, Queens, New York, New York

There are six barbershops (and gold traders and bodegas and laundromats) in a 10 minute walk. These trades and services are seemingly flourishing, at least along Junction Blvd. The recession did not affect them because everyone needs a clean cut, Downy clothes, a 1a.m. fix of coconut milk, or cash from World War II brooches.

The streets have never not smelled like la basura and pigeon piss.

Contemporary Mexicana pulses from loudspeakers outside of record shops that also sell shoes.

Under techniwarmcolor fabric umbrellas, glass-plastic boxes of fruits (from sweet sun mangos to succulent flamingo watermelon) and corn-on-the-cob-on-a-stick are sold. Thick-spread butter and snowy paprika for savory flavor to grit the sweet crunch of maiz amarillo. Even in these months when we know what "wind chill" means, these umbrellas offer the reminiscence of summer temperatures atop Mayan mountains, lush and green.

Cheekless pantyhose over shameless mannequin budonkadonks and spouseless shoes shrinkwrapped in plastic.

Some random crazy dude yelling craziness in Spanish at the top of his lungs all the fucking time. The same phrase over and over and over and over and over and over and over again. Something about buying cell phones....

Dudes two feet shorter than me handing out cards with beautiful black haired women displaying their curves and the opportunity to talk to them for only $8.00 a minute.

Fifteen hours a day and night of car alarms going off with no one sprinting to be called humanitarians and an ice cream truck with a clap clap clap manifesto rhapsody.

Trash of La Dentista Handbills, Restaurant Sewage, and McDonald's bags line the tiles and curbs and pocks of this urban ground, this gum-tarred and Graffiti pretty streetside. I can't tell you how many infants' socks and shoes, without their significant others, have been been abandoned and left to dampen and spoil in the streets of Corona.