section and the editor felt it “had nothing to do with culture.” What’s culture then, I yelled, “spending fifty dollars to see Mark Morris dance around?” This exchange did not do wonders for our relationship. From New York magazine 2005. The usual Saturday afternoon merchants lined the sidewalk across 125th Street from the Apollo Theatre: the shaved-ice lady, the roots-and-incense dealers, the Senegalese peddlers of ersatz Rolexes. Also there was the zombie, machete protruding from the side of his bullet-hole gouged head. An invader from Brooklyn, the zombie was in sell mode, lurching toward passersby, product in hand. “Dead Roses! Independent film! Shot in Brooklyn! Not a bootleg! Dead Roses!” the zombie droned, his voice muffled beneath several pounds of latex and stuffed cotton. “Dead Roses! Only ten dollars!” A chunky shopper with headphones slapped on her ears strolled by, blissfully oblivious to the urban tumult. She never saw the bum-rushing zombie. “Dead Roses!”
