In the summer of 1985 our gang opened a nightclub in the old port of Nice, France.
Jacques, Albert, Serge, and I rode along the Corniche in Albert’s Chrysler Imperial. We swam at the rocky beach beneath the Promenade des Anglais and dined on bouillabaisse at the Nautique. The gangsters of Nice wanted to sell heroin in our club. Serge told them no. They said we would change our mind.
The next day we met with some heavy-weight thugs from Paris’ Sentier at Juan-les-Pins. They suggested that we close the club. It was near the end of the season and we agreed. I have my photo taken on the topless beach. One showed two women without tops.
I posted the fotos of Antibes and nice on Facebook.
The computer recognized the breasts and nipples.
My account was closed for three days.
What a bunch of squares.
At least I wasn’t publicly shamed by the Facebook anti-nudity squad, but I imagined a room in a high-tech office, where millenials spend all day searching for other violators of community standards without ever challenging hate-mongers or bullies.
Oh for the the beaches of the Cote d’Azur.
Freedom.
