If you go dancing without first putting on deoderant, I will go on Yelp and write about how everyone in the club smells like ass , and how fair is that to the club, really? I mean it's not like Baraza washed the deoderant off all these dudes as they were coming in the front door...at least, I don't think.
Let me explain something. There are a few things that I do without fail when I go out dancing. Actually, scratch that. When I leave the house. I brush my teeth. I put on clothes. I put on deoderant. Why, patrons of Baraza, do you not do the same? I was lucky enough to receive several offers to Latin dance throughout my evening there and it was good to know that I didn't need the cash-only bar to end the night passed out, since I was sure to pass out on the stench of body odor alone coming off my potential suitors. If you see someone tackling dudes as they come inside and rubbing them down with speedstick, that might be me. Watch out. Or wear deoderant. Your choice.
East Village residential development opportunity, with a curb cut. Currently a vacant, one story garage on East 10th street between C and D. This site has plans for a seven story, 18 unit, residential building, w/ a total of 16,793 gross SF above grade which includes a 3,679 SF parking garage. Prior to the June 30th 421-a deadline, the plans were submitted to DOB enabling the full property tax exemption benefits. Another option is to file an ?alt plan? and develop the property to custom specifications while still maintaining the 421-a tax benefits. This is a unique project for a developer or user and is ready to go.
It’s the Cooper Square Hotel, a whimsical glass sliver that doesn’t just stick out among the nearby tenements but more or less taunts them, declaring them holdovers from a frumpier East Village past. The hotel tries to claim the neighborhood around it as a party zone on a homogenously slick, glossy par with South Beach or West Hollywood.
Not all the neighbors are amused. Some have responded to the din of chatter and generic lounge music coming from the hotel’s second-floor terrace by hanging dirty briefs and the like from a clothesline readily visible to the revelers. It’s a campaign of undermining by underwear.
I spotted only one sad, fluttering garment on the evening when I ate on Table 8’s street-level patio. And it did less to ruffle my serenity — the patio is a pretty, breezy treat — than the door that crashed into the back of my chair when someone decided to step outside. Placing a table for diners smack in the door’s way exemplifies the curious planning at which Table 8 excels.
