The Lights Blinked Through The Smoke: A Filmmakers Hazy Memories of the IFC Center, New York City, and a Dirty Bit of Concrete.

My relationship with the stretch of Sixth Avenue running between West 3rd and West 4th Streets, on one corner of which stands New York Citys legendary IFC Center, mirrors my relationship with cinema, bad tattoos, crushing hangovers, and a whole mess of memories that sit in the back of my brain like luggage stuffed in a collapsing mid-flight Ryan Air jet. The relationship is complicated, messy in an overloaded-Papaya-Dog sort of way, and something I profoundly cherish. Ill back up. I wont recount...