There used to be this great little, practically hidden-away café/bar/intimate performance space on St. Marks Place, in the early-to-mid `90s, called Sin-é, which was run by this eccentric Irish gent named Shane. In very short order, it became a very hip spot, and it was not at all uncommon to run into suitably cool celebs hanging in or around it. From local scenesters to rising stars and established luminaries, everyone seemed to mix and mingle at Sin-é without a great deal of fuss. It was just that type of place.
My favorite memory, though, was giving some out-of-town friends a sort of ersatz East Village tour, one drizzly evening. As we were walking west on St. Marks Place out of Tompkins Square Park, I started unspooling the backstory of Sin-é, and explaining that it was not at all unlikely to run into Irish rockstars like Bono, Gavin Friday and … as I pulled open the door, who came walking out as if on cue but … “ladies and gentlemen, Sinead O’Connor.”
She flashed a quick smile our way and walked out into the rain.
Sinead O'Connor was troubled, but absolutely preternaturally gifted. May she finally find peace.
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