An award-winning news site covering the East Village of NYC.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Piece of cake: July 11, 8 p.m.
[I've been away, so in case this has already been covered...]
1 comment:
Anonymous
said...
New York landlord Alistair Economakis's fight to rid the five-story tenement on 47 East Third Street of its tenants has disturbed me, but it hasn't surprised me. That's because I have known Alistair's family for many years now. You see, I have the misfortune of being his first—and eldest—cousin.
Alistair was always a rich brat. I remember once, in some village in southern Greece, he stuck his five-year-old head out of his father's—my uncle's—car, and, encouraged by his guffawing dad, shouted insults at elderly women, calling them "hags". I nearly slapped my little cousin's face for that. I regret now I didn't.
The apple doesn't usually fall far from the tree. My uncle Alexander (Alistair's father) is a philandering old playboy who idolizes the worst in America—including the robber barons of the 19th century. Back in 2005, when I first learned of the scandal brewing in New York around the Economakis name, I asked my uncle if it was true Alistair was trying to evict people from the building in the East Village. His answer, word-for-word, was: "Yes, and good for him—most of the tenants are Jews anyway. He'll make a killing when he sells the building."
Shocked? You shouldn't be. It's almost impossible to be filthy rich and not be a rotten scoundrel inside. After all, behind most great fortunes lies a crime. But Alistair and his wife Catherine Economakis (who is much wealthier than my cousin, and is the real force behind the scenes) will reap what they've sown. Their crime will come back—again and again, for as long as they live—to haunt them. Of this I haven't the slightest doubt.
My cousin, who grew up in Greece and England, wraps himself in the American flag and evokes the U.S. Constitution to "justify" his family's need to live in 60 rooms, in a 11,000-square-foot home. I've read the popular outcry, the indignant outrage. Yet what do people expect from the likes of my cousin and his wife? Crying "shame!" or noting the irony in the fact that Alistair's mother-in-law is a Columbia University dean who teaches urban studies, of all things, is an exercise in futility. I can assure you they aren't at all fazed by such criticism.
So many good people bemoan the legal ruling allowing the eviction to take place. This is naïve. Who makes the laws, after all? The government does. And what is the government but the representative of a country's ruling class? What do low-income tenants expect from the enemy, after all?
Yet what goes around tends to come around. You can spit on the collective—as Alistair and Cathy Economakis have done, but it's quite another thing when the collective turns around and spits on you!
Low income tenants of New York! Run the Economakises—and all human lice like them—out of town! Turn their "American dream"—a dream at your expense—into a real nightmare! Give them no quarter! Make it physically and psychologically impossible for them to evict you! Send THEM packing!
1 comment:
New York landlord Alistair Economakis's fight to rid the five-story tenement on 47 East Third Street of its tenants has disturbed me, but it hasn't surprised me. That's because I have known Alistair's family for many years now. You see, I have the misfortune of being his first—and eldest—cousin.
Alistair was always a rich brat. I remember once, in some village in southern Greece, he stuck his five-year-old head out of his father's—my uncle's—car, and, encouraged by his guffawing dad, shouted insults at elderly women, calling them "hags". I nearly slapped my little cousin's face for that. I regret now I didn't.
The apple doesn't usually fall far from the tree. My uncle Alexander (Alistair's father) is a philandering old playboy who idolizes the worst in America—including the robber barons of the 19th century. Back in 2005, when I first learned of the scandal brewing in New York around the Economakis name, I asked my uncle if it was true Alistair was trying to evict people from the building in the East Village. His answer, word-for-word, was: "Yes, and good for him—most of the tenants are Jews anyway. He'll make a killing when he sells the building."
Shocked? You shouldn't be. It's almost impossible to be filthy rich and not be a rotten scoundrel inside. After all, behind most great fortunes lies a crime. But Alistair and his wife Catherine Economakis (who is much wealthier than my cousin, and is the real force behind the scenes) will reap what they've sown. Their crime will come back—again and again, for as long as they live—to haunt them. Of this I haven't the slightest doubt.
My cousin, who grew up in Greece and England, wraps himself in the American flag and evokes the U.S. Constitution to "justify" his family's need to live in 60 rooms, in a 11,000-square-foot home. I've read the popular outcry, the indignant outrage. Yet what do people expect from the likes of my cousin and his wife? Crying "shame!" or noting the irony in the fact that Alistair's mother-in-law is a Columbia University dean who teaches urban studies, of all things, is an exercise in futility. I can assure you they aren't at all fazed by such criticism.
So many good people bemoan the legal ruling allowing the eviction to take place. This is naïve. Who makes the laws, after all? The government does. And what is the government but the representative of a country's ruling class? What do low-income tenants expect from the enemy, after all?
Yet what goes around tends to come around. You can spit on the collective—as Alistair and Cathy Economakis have done, but it's quite another thing when the collective turns around and spits on you!
Low income tenants of New York! Run the Economakises—and all human lice like them—out of town! Turn their "American dream"—a dream at your expense—into a real nightmare! Give them no quarter! Make it physically and psychologically impossible for them to evict you! Send THEM packing!
Evel G. Economakis,
Athens, Greece
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