On it!

Well, at least when we get this darn truck working again...

OTBs will stay open

Good news, as the Times reports:

Confusion and discord gave way to handshakes on Sunday as Gov. David A. Paterson and Mayor Michael R. Bloomberg agreed on a deal authorizing the state to take over the city’s Off-Track Betting Corporation while still granting the city a share of gambling revenues.
The agreement allows the city’s 68 OTB parlors to open on Monday, averting a shutdown the mayor had threatened for Sunday that would have put hundreds of people out of work.

More Yunnies out to destroy the past

Catching up on some reading...saw this discouraging item in Scoopy's Notebook in The Villager this week:

Sign of the times: A decades-old mural of the neighborhood in the Brevoort East’s lobby at 20 E. Ninth St. will be removed if the building’s co-op board has its way. Word is that the building’s board is made up of “a group of young people who are focused on modernizing the lobby.” Yet, we hear there’s “considerable opposition among shareholders,” a core of whom would like to keep the artwork. The mural was created in the early 1960s and is a depiction of Village life at the turn of the century, featuring the Washington Square Arch and lower Fifth Ave. “Since this mural is clearly visible from the street, I believe that its removal should be of interest to the general Village community,” one co-op owner e-mailed us. “I have lived in the Village my entire life and know that residents of this community oppose unnecessary changes that diminish the historic nature of this unique community.”

[FYI -- The artwork above is not the mural in question...just the flier for the musical from 1924]

New to the Yunnies?

Post scribe thinks turmoil in Africa is so trendy in the news right now!

Page Six Magazine, which is FREE every Sunday in the New York Post -- you just have to pay $1 for the paper! -- has several doozies today. First, there's a "trends" piece titled "The Sex Effect." You see, there's a recent release called Sex and the City that seems to be very popular. More than that, "anything Carrie Bradshaw touches turns to gold." Indeed! For instance, the $885 Hangisi shoe that Big used to propose to Carrie has sold out from New York stores! (Sixty pairs were sold the day the film opened on May 30; there is now a 400-name waiting list for them!) Also, the New York Public Library, where Carrie planned her dream wedding, is apparently the new Perry Street townhouse. According to the article, "throngs of tourists have made a pilgramage to the steps where Carrie was" [EV Grieve edited out the last word so not to ruin the movie for anyone who may actually want to see it, but you really shouldn't].

Then there's the column called "The Socializer" by "woman-about-town" Kelly Killoren Bensimon. She wants to be a real-life Angelina Jolie (or something) and see Africa. You just have to read her column for yourself. (Click on the image for a better view.) Content from the magazine is not online.

At the Bowery Wine Co. protest Friday night -- in pictures

Here are a few photos from last night's protest that started in front of the Bowery Wine Co. I was only able to stay for the first leg of the protest, which, as Jeremiah reports, continued on to CBGB/Varvatos, the Bowery Hotel, 47 E. 3rd St., then down to Avenue A, through Tompkins Square Park, and finished at the Christodora House. His Flickr pool is here. Bob Arihood was also with the group the entire time. He took many compelling photos, as usual. (Check out my videos from the Bowery Wine Co. here.)

A little back story here.

At the Bowery Wine Co. protest Friday night

Here are a few videos from the Bowery Wine Company protest tonight. (Apologies if they look as shaky and grainy as Cloverfield. Still learning the ways of the camera.) Not sure how much narrative you need, though I'll likely add some later...The fellow in the first and third video was the lone dissenter. He kept yelling "pussies go home." He also repeated, "We're republicans, and we're here to stay!" No word yet whether he was an official representative of the New York Young Republican Club.













As I note in the post above this, I was only able to stay for the first leg of the protest, which, as Jeremiah reports, continued on to CBGB/Varvatos, the Bowery Hotel, 47 E. 3rd St., then down to Avenue A, through Tompkins Square Park, and finished at the Christodora House. His Flickr pool is here. Bob Arihood was also with the group the entire time. He took many compelling photos, as usual.

For the weekend: Seven songs

Alex at Flaming Pablum passed along this music meme to, uh, me. Here's the deal:

"List seven songs you are into right now. No matter what the genre, whether they have words, or even if they're not any good, but they must be songs you're really enjoying now, shaping your spring. Post these instructions in your blog along with your 7 songs. Then tag 7 other people to see what they're listening to."

My list seemed fitting to include here. For starters, I just entertained my 21-year-old nephew for a few days here. He's really into Britpop now, and wanted to know more about great New York bands. Of course, I quickly got out the album that started it all here: Vampire Weekend!

[Ducking beer bottles being thrown my way...]

For real though, I went about trying to give him a variety of New York bands. Yes, some are obvious. But it's a good place to start with a 21-year-old whose mother's favorite band is the Monkees.

In any event, since we played these songs the other day, I've continued to listen to them -- making these my favorite songs right now. (Ask me tomorrow, and...)

Lou Reed, Coney Island Baby


New York Dolls, Trash


James Chance and the Contortions, I Can't Stand Myself


Sonic Youth, Teenage Riot


Unsane, Body Bomb


Pussy Galore, Dick Johnson


Sugar Hill Gang, Apache


[Cheating] Bonus, for the summer season:
The Ramones, Surfin' Bird


Now for my seven tags...I don't have that many friends...this may take some effort!

Believe Me

Hmm...

Fire trucks on St. Mark's Place

Someone said something about a gas leak. Didn't seem too serious.

Appreciating the classics

Friday The 13th Part VIII: Jason Takes Manhattan is, of course, the most realistic film ever made about New York City. As the review on AllMovie.com notes, "Screenwriter Paul Schrader and director Martin Scorsese place this isolated, potentially volatile man in New York City, depicted as a grimly stylized hell on Earth, where noise, filth, directionless rage, and dirty sex (both morally and literally) surround him at all turns. When Jason attempts to transform himself into an avenging angel who will "wash some of the real scum off the street," his murder spree follows a terrible and inevitable logic: he is a bomb built to explode, like the proverbial machete which, when produced in the first act, must go off in the third."

[Hey...wait a minute here! C'mon, it has been a long week...In all seriousness, there are some unintentionally hilarious moments in Part 8...You get the idea just be watching the opening...]

"The neighborhood was desolate, so underpopulated that landlords would give you a month's free rent just for signing a lease"

[Photo of 216 E. 7th St. in 1979 by Marlis Momber]

My obsession with the East Village in the 1970s and early 1980s continues.

In November 2003, new editions of the bible, Luc Sante's "Low Life: Lures and Snares of Old New York" (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1991), included an afterword, which was also published in The New York Review of Books on Nov. 6, 2003. (I have an old copy of the book, and was unaware of the essay. By the way, the essay also appears in the booklet that accompanies the Stranger Than Paradise Criterion Collection.)

Here are a few of the many compelling passages from My Lost City:

I drifted down from the Upper West Side to the Lower East Side in 1978. Most of my friends made the transition around the same time. You could have an apartment all to yourself for less than $150 a month. In addition, the place was happening. It was happening, that is, in two or at most three dingy bars that doubled as clubs, a bookstore or record store or two, and a bunch of individual apartments and individual imaginations. All of us were in that stage of youth when your star may not yet have risen, but your moment is the only one on the clock. We had the temerity to laugh at the hippies, shamefully backdated by half a decade. In our arrogance we were barely conscious of the much deeper past that lay all around. We didn't ask ourselves why the name carved above the door of the public library on Second Avenue was in German, or why busts of nineteenth-century composers could be seen on a second-story lintel on Fourth Street. Our neighborhood was so chockablock with ruins we didn't question the existence of vast bulks of shuttered theaters, or wonder when they had been new. Our apartments were furnished exclusively through scavenging, but we didn't find it notable that nearly all our living rooms featured sewing-machine tables with cast-iron bases.

The neighborhood was desolate, so underpopulated that landlords would give you a month's free rent just for signing a lease, many buildings being less than half-full, but it was far from tranquil. We might feel smug about being robbed on the street, since none of us had any money, and we looked it, and junkies—as distinct from the crackheads of a decade later—would generally not stab you for chump change. Nevertheless, if you did not have the wherewithal to install gates on your windows you would be burglarized repeatedly, and where would you be without your stereo? In the blocks east of Avenue A the situation was dramatically worse. In 1978 I got used to seeing large fires in that direction every night, usually set by arsonists hired by landlords of empty buildings who found it an easy choice to make, between paying property taxes and collecting insurance. By 1980 Avenue C was a lunar landscape of vacant blocks and hollow tenement shells. Over there, commerce—in food or clothing, say—was often conducted out of car trunks, but the most thriving industry was junk, and it alone made use of marginally viable specimens of the building stock. The charred stairwells, the gaping floorboards, the lack of lighting, the entryways consisting of holes torn in ground-floor walls—all served the psychological imperatives of the heroin trade. . . .

Now, more than a decade after I finally finished my book Low Life, the city has changed in ways I could not have pictured. The tenements are mostly still standing, but I could not afford to live in any of my former apartments, including the ones I found desperately shabby when I was much more inured to shabbiness.

[For more amazing photos by Marlis Momber like the one above, please visit her Web site.]