On Clinton Street near Rivington on the LES.
Previously on EV Grieve:
A short history of subtle butt-in-the-air billboards downtown
Saving the iconic neighborhood from what one performer describes as “yuppie scum,” the HOWL! Festival’s organizers vow to temporarily return the East Village to its humble beginnings: Before streets became “crowded with people drinking,” as [artist Riki] Colon says, and before the upper middle class invested in housing while anxiously awaiting graffiti-free streets. HOWL! seeks to revive the beat poetry shouted from street corners and the days when artists were viewed as visionaries. This year’s festival has an additional endeavor: to make HOWL! relevant to a new generation, thereby passing along the East Village’s explosive, controversial and irreplaceable legacy.
2 by 4 used to be the gay cruising spot The Bar, but the large metal mud-flap girls on the wall sum up the sexual reorientation. Straight college dudes now come here looking for sauce and sass that follows a tried-and-true Coyote Ugly formula of cheap booze and choreographed bar-top theatrics. A center rail splits the action: At the billiards table, young Ronnie Wood look-alikes get hustled by neighborhood bike messengers; at the bar, scantly-clad barmaids navigate spins on the in-house stripper pole.
Take the case of American Apparel . . . It has opened two stores in New York City in 2008 and plans to open four more before year end, according to Adrian Kowalewski, the company’s director of corporate finance and development.
“We haven’t seen anything but an increase in our business, despite the slowdown in the overall economy,” Mr. Kowalewski said. “Many of our customers are young, urban dwellers, and so are not as exposed directly to increases in fuel prices or the meltdown in the housing market."
“I’ll tell you why I need to live in Manhattan,” he trilled while thrusting his martini shaker into the air. “An Englishman must live on an island!”
“I’ll tell you why I need to live in a penthouse,” she replied with her
signature deadpan. “I’m only happy when I’m on top.”
“And the reason you live with me?” he asked while refilling her
glass. “You own the penthouse.”
"Hi-my-name-is-Garth-and-I'm-from-Children-International-and-we're-trying-to-help-children-in-poverty. Children-in-abject-poverty. There-are-kids-dying-every-day- because-they-don't-have-something-as-silly-as-food-and-water. I-mean-even-a-bum-in-New-York-can-have-two-meals-a-day!"
Despite the fact that his breathless spiel is all monologue, Garth's job title is "dialoguer." It's a term coined by an Austrian company known as the Dialogue Group, which helped to develop this brand of street confrontation and brought it to U.S. cities a few years ago with a subsidiary called Dialogue Direct.
Garth pauses to catch his breath and then whips out a laminated picture of his own sponsored child, an innocent-looking boy sitting in a hut thatched with palm fronds. The location, he says, is the Dominican Republic. He checks to see whether he still has the attention of the woman in front of him. He does, but then realizes he's talking to a reporter.
"Children are dying and you're wasting my time!" he says, scowling. Mramor drops the laminated photograph back into his duffel bag. He doesn't apologize for seeming rude. "Being nice doesn't work," says the irritated college student. "I signed up two people today by being an asshole, and I'll continue to do that. Have a nice day."
The residents charge that the buyout bid by Icon Realty Management, owned by Terrence Lowenberg and Todd Cohen, would destroy the building's sense of community.
"They offered me $120,000," said Carolyn Chamberlain, 65, a secretary who pays $400 for her two-bedroom apartment in the six-story, prewar building.
"I told them I would only be interested if it was middle-six-figure offer. It's outright harassment," she said.
Alexander Camu, a bartender, said he turned down a $125,000 offer.
"I moved here when the neighborhood was crap," he said. "I turned down the offer because I'm being paid to leave my life."
Alphabet City Dive-y-est Element: Gunk-covered floor and bathrooms tinier than airplane stalls — all presided over by the toothless but friendly day-shift bartender, Tommy.
Celebrity Customers: While the former speakeasy hasn’t changed — or perhaps been mopped — since owners Joe and Dot (who refuse to give their last names) took over in the ’60s, stars have made Joe’s their dirty little secret. “Drew Barrymore comes here and so does Matt Dillion,” reports barfly Magda. “Keanu Reeves was just in last month, playing pool,” she adds. “Celebs are sick of getting their covers blown and want a taste of reality,” says Tracy Westmoreland, owner of legendary but now-closed dive Siberia. That “shipwrecks” like Joe’s are more popular than ever signals “the new golden age for dive bars,” he adds.
A job for the mattress police on 10th Street.
The disapearance of the rickety fan in front of the bodega on Avenue B next to 7B.