The inhabitants of Tompkins Square Park are people you could probably find in any large metropolitan area in the world. What makes TSP unique is the high concentration of mentally and/or chemically imbalanced folks, mixed in with some hobos, burnouts, stoners looking to score, scorers looking to stone and locals who're looking for some sun. Everybody and nobody is there, and if you're into people watching, it makes for a good couple of hours.
What ruined my day was the fat lady sitting across from me wearing a jean skirt and no panties. How did I know this?
Cause she was sitting like a dude.
I didn't even mean to look. You just couldn't avoid it because she took up about 1/2 of my field of vision.
When I walk through this park, I'm constantly looking over my shoulder for fear of getting mugged or stabbed.
I have no problem with homeless people finding shelter in the park. I do have a problem with hardcore drug users shooting up and smoking crack. Call me crazy, but that disturbs me.
On my last trip there, this coked up lady took it upon herself to change outfits three times right in the middle of the park. Her version of a fashion show. Another bum sat on a bench by the entrance with blood spewing from his nose. No worries, he was too high on something to notice.
The park is crack-tastic at best.
Errrmmm, maybe I'm just not "getting" this park. I was here for an hour last Sunday and spent my time circling the park looking for a hobo-free zone. The southwest corner, especially, seemed to be packed with a dirt-crusted crowd of semi-homeless people of mixed ages. Several of the younger Tompkins hobos were dressed in clothes that were probably quite fashionable at one point, but now caked in dirt and quite brown in color. I was impressed that they were not just resigning themselves to dirty jeans and ratty t-shirts; maybe they were homeless by choice.
There was a small portable soup kitchen type cart in that corner of the park serving this brown-colored mushy-looking food to these folks who ate with their fingers and licked the plates. When I finally did manage to find an isolated bench to read my book, there were strange smells emanating from the bushes behind me that I tried to ignore. It was probably p00p; the grass didn't seem to stand a chance of making it out of the ground clean. After a few pages of reading, I was interrupted by a comparatively presentable stranger. He commented that I looked "uncomfortable" (undeniable) and proceeded to attempt to read my sign and, I think, ask me on a date. He had weird tics and stared way too intensely at me during all this time. I am not sure why I stuck around long enough to let the conversation progress to that point.
In short, I am TOTALLY one of "those people who finds Tompkins Park gross." It's just not the place for me to have a relaxing Sunday afternoon. I don't want a park with "character" when what I really want is to nap outside without worrying about being pissed on, touched, robbed, etc. So, back to Central Park it is, where I will hazard my chances with the strollers, toddlers and frisbees. Or, Madison Square Park, where I can eat my Shack burgers and hang out with the designer dogs eating frozen custard.
Today the Landmarks Preservation Commission voted unanimously to landmark the 1838 Isaac T. Hopper House at 110 Second Avenue in the East Village, a designation strongly supported by GVSHP. This impressive Greek Revival house located between 6th and 7th Streets is a rare intact vestige of the earliest stages of the East Village’s urban development. Since 1874 it has also served as the home of the Women’s Prison Association (WPA), a reform organization seeking to better the lives of women who have been through the criminal justice system. The house is named for Isaac T. Hopper, the Quaker Abolitionist and reformer who founded the WPA. Hopper’s daughter, Abigail Hopper Gibbons, was the first president of the WPA.
The three neo-Classical business buildings at 211-215 Pearl St. are the last remnant of the Pearl Street dry goods district of the early 19th century, and are a valuable relic of New York and the nation's early commercial history. The city sold a very large portion of what commercializing Americans bought. The combination of overseas commerce and burgeoning domestic trade established New York as the commercial capitol (not just the biggest seaport) of the United States after 1815, and Pearl Street was the center of that trade.
211-215 Pearl Street is also tribute to merchants and manufacturers like William Colgate "who's entrepreneurial daring would set New York on course for becoming the world-class city that it is today".
As soon as I stepped foot into the bar, I instantly wanted to turn around and run as fast as I could in the opposite direction. It was so crowded, and the hodgepodge of people was really just...weird. Ya know in the movie "Clueless" when Cher walks through the school campus with Tai and explains all the different cliques? That's what it felt like (minus the cool kids). Probably the most annoying group of people I witnessed were the Upper East Side frat boys with their faded T-shirts, backwards caps and flip flops. They were totally out of their comfort zone, and this, no doubt, was their first time making it down past 42nd Street. Guys, do a favor for all of us and stay uptown where you belong.
I'm pretty certain that everyone in the bar had just recently moved to New York, and this was their first big night out. It had to be. They were just so gosh darn excited about everything. And there was one guy behind me that was talking extremely loud to a group of people about "having sex all day long." Whoa, cool man. Is that his get-laid tactic? Does he think that's a turn-on? Let's hope for his sake that's not the only Ace up his sleeve, or else he's gonna have one lonely winter.
