Greenwich Village, 1958.
What are the odds, eh? Marrying a woman named Blu when your
name is Sky. How could we not have a store called Blue Skies?
That’s what I always wanted as a kid. A candy store with
comics and magazines and everything else your heart could desire. I had to go
round and round with everything else until I got it.
My parents were both teachers—one at college and the other at a
preppy high school in Connecticut. My father was the prof; not at Yale but UConn. Both
were diehard academics, so they were ecstatic when I started teaching too.
But after five, six years I thought, why? Teaching English in
a private high school is fine, if that’s what you want.
I wanted to be down here. In the thick of it, with guys
like Allen Ginsberg, Gregory Corso, bebop
man Bob Kaufman and William
Burroughs reinventing language.
Wanted a store with the kind of candy
I'd get if I was a kid—root beer barrels, Atomic fireballs, bubble gum candy
cigarettes, Tootsie pops, Babe Ruth bars, Mounds and Almond Joys, Mary Janes, peppermint sticks, Pez. Taffy. When somebody
comes in and they don’t have any money, they at least get a piece of candy.
Because I want people to feel welcome here.
I wanted posters and comics and books by real writers. I got lucky enough to meet a woman who wanted the same
things.
And when Ruby’s Nell-mom and Gary Daddy-o asked me about teaching their
kids, and then Mrs. T and Gordy’s parents asked too, I thought, why not?
Ruby’s crazy for the poets, her friend Sophie wants to be
the next Lucille Ball and Gordy wants, I don’t know—to invent a new star, or
maybe a galaxy. Stuffing them into a traditional school will knock the stuffing
out of them. It won’t let them dream and it won’t let them play.
Life is an experiment; too short to waste on tradition and
convention. And too long to live without being a member of the Beat Generation.
Ruby’s right when she says poetry isn’t good for anything
except making you feel better. But I say, what more do you need?
Skylar M.
Blue Skies Owner
NYC
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