Seeing this prompted me to revisit Jeremiah's shopping essay from July. Maybe we should be encouraged to save some money.
Spotted on Avenue C near 8th Street. Note the "this is light pollution" graffiti.
The relocation will mean more than just swapping one space for another, or reconfiguring furniture into new surroundings. What will happen, in fact, is the death of the marriage bureau as Manhattan has known it for generations: a storied but shabby place, long on protocol but short on charm and comfort..
The move, an idea that Mayor Michael R. Bloomberg has nursed for almost as long as he has been in office, was inspired in part by concerns about dignity. The bureau’s appearance has not changed much over its 92 years, and despite periodic renovations, Room 257 — which houses the wedding chapel — looks as bureaucratically stiff as all the other Municipal Building offices. The chapel itself has no adornment except a pulpit used by the handful of officiants who perform the ceremonies.
The other reason for the switch is purely strategic. City officials see in the revamped marriage bureau an opportunity to market the city as a wedding destination, offering it as a more tasteful alternative to Las Vegas.
[T]here will be are doors coated in bronze, heating-unit covers fashioned by a Brooklyn artisan to match the building’s Art Deco style, and ornate columns throughout the 5,000-square-foot space
The only way to learn the city is to get lost a few times, people tell you. Learning your way around a space happens negatively. It is when you take a wrong turn that you really begin interacting with the world around you. You discover the city when you stumble.
Cellphone tracking services like Loopt and Buddy Beacon are increasingly popular, making us all more “connected” with the hundred “friends” in our digital phonebook.
This network of satellites and screens quickly becomes part of our sensory apparatus, replacing eyes, ears, nose and feet, as if these devices are natural extensions of our bodies. We tell ourselves that they will maximize efficiency and minimize the unknown. There’s no time to get lost.
In the back seat of a newly equipped taxi, we watch the two-dimensional map as the three-dimensional world zooms by outside: “Wow! Look at this wonderful touch screen! I can see exactly where I’m at and where I want to go! Latest updates on sports and real estate included!”
Every business day, as he has done for the past 49 years, Paul Schweitzer, 69, travels the streets and skyscrapers of Manhattan making "house" calls, carrying his black leather tool bag by his side. Schweitzer, who insists on wearing a suit and tie while on his rounds, is one of the last of his kind: the typewriter repairman.
If the Dow Jones Closes 100 Points Lower...
HALF PRICE DRINKS AT THE BAR ALL EVENING
Receive Instant Savings When You Show This Message to the Bartender on Your Phone or on a Printed Copy.
Valid Only On Beverage Purchases at the Bar.
New Yorkers will be waiting another year for East River Park to be complete — and maybe more if a state agency succeeds in halting the project.
The Department of Environmental Conservation is worried that workers repairing the East River bulkhead are allowing the shoreline to erode into the water, so D.E.C. tried to revoke the construction permit, D.E.C. spokesperson Arturo Garcia-Costas said.
For those of us who have hated this period — the wealth worship, the wealth gap, the elevation of everything suspiciously shiny and irrationally bubbly and stupidly ebullient, there should be some feeling of vindication. But it just isn’t coming. A great emptiness — and a gnawing kind of fear — has taken its place.
Schadenfreude is impossible because the fat cats — the ones who bent the rules, the ones who pushed the envelopes, the ones who paid lower taxes because capital gains were most of their income, the ones who opposed regulations on the banking and mortgage industries — are taking us down with them.
Today Montague Street is home to Joe Coleman, an artist who moved there in 1994 after 20 years in the East Village. A painter known for his meticulously detailed portraits of serial killers and other nightmarish imagery, Mr. Coleman and his wife, Whitney Ward, live in an apartment that he calls the Odditorium. Wax figures of Charles Manson and the serial killer Richard Speck, John Dillinger’s death mask, a bullet from Jack Ruby’s pistol and a letter from the cannibal Albert Fish share the Ripleyesque space with some of Mr. Coleman’s paintings.
“The East Village that I came to know and love doesn’t exist anymore,” Mr. Coleman said. “I like it much better here. In the East Village they’re destroying all the beautiful old buildings. So escaping here seemed comforting.”