Maybe I’m losing my edge, though, because it took an astrologer friend to point out the hole big enough to drive a truck through in the elegy for a dying Jefferson Market. At a time when rent greed is running rampant, why no mention of a landlord? Do they own the space? The finger was pointed directly at the bloodsuckers in the NYPost’s piece on the end of the line for the Emerald Inn, but then that piece had a fatal flaw, too. In the mid-Eighties, I can attest, Columbus Avenue was far from “a rough stretch” of bodegas etc. It was so overrun with wannabe trendy bars and cafes and shops that it was impossible to retrieve my dry-cleaning on a Saturday; the sidewalks were mobbed. We were constantly tempted to dump buckets of water onto the sots carousing below our second-floor apartment at 72d Street. Memory is a tricky thing. But, as with Mama, you could look it up.