Blogcritics

Welcome to New York City (Sort Of)

Elvira Black — Sun, 30 Sep 2007 14:08:04 EDT

You can still fulfill your wildest dreams in New York City, but if you're a newcomer, you would best tread lightly.
"Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,...

Announcement: Short-content feeds

Phillip Winn — Sun, 26 Aug 2007 12:00:00 EDT

Sunday, August 26, 2007, marks the switch of all Blogcritics.org article feeds from full-content to short-content. This is the result of several converging factors, and is unfortunately a permanent decision (as permanent as any decision can be on the web, that is). We are aware of all of the reasons that this is a Bad Idea, and we are aware that some of you will be quite upset about having to click on something to read the free content, and we're sorry. Unfortunately, despite great effort, full-content feeds are not currently economically viable. Two other factors are involved: full-content feeds have resulted in an unprecedented level of content theft, with BC content appearing on many websites, usually spam sites, without attribution or permission. This duplicate content causes a cascading set of problems, not the least of which is that search engines generally aren't favorable to duplicate content, and don't always guess correctly. Finally, our RSS advertising partner is strongly in favor of short-content feeds. We hope that you'll continue to subscribe to BC via RSS, and when an article grabs your eye, it's only a click away, still free on the BC website. Thank you for your understanding.

Adventures in Real Estate, Part 2: The Lawyer Who "Phoned It In"

Elvira Black — Sat, 3 Mar 2007 19:36:07 EST

Selling and/or buying a home can be an aggravating, time consuming, and expensive endeavor which typically involves working with a team of “professionals,” all with their hands out for their cut. There are real estate brokers, mortgage brokers, and real estate lawyers to contend with, just for starters. As in all professions, some are good, some are bad, and some are just plain evil, greedy bastards. For the past seven years, I've known where I wanted to move as soon as my ex-boyfriend and I could finally agree to sell our old place. It’s a great coop complex in the Bronx near my current boyfriend BG. I’d first seen it advertised when I picked up one of those free “real estate books” they had in a kiosk on Fordham Road. The two page ad blew me away right then and there.A few years passed, and I became manic and almost bought a place there — even put down a hefty deposit and signed a contract. But I realized that paying a mortgage as well as maintenance, though do-able, would be more of a stretch than I’d feel comfortable about, and I was able to get my deposit back.But S, the guy I dealt with at the coop’s management company, remembered me when I called him again after we’d finally put our Manhattan coop on the market last fall. He told me to call back when we went into contract, and call I did.Soon enough S showed me the home of my dreams. I got all my paperwork in order. I was paying cash, so no mortgage hassle was involved. He did a credit check, and informed me that I had an A-plus score. S had a list of several lawyers he worked with on contracts and closings, and gave me two names to choose from. I called B and we got down to business, or so I thought. B’s fee was relatively modest, especially compared to the lawyer we retained for the closing of our place downtown. But that lawyer met with us in his office and sat down with us for at least an hour and went over the contract line by line. He was friendly, courteous, and a pleasure to work with. No so with B. He, too, was pleasant enough at first, but seemed to need to justify his fees by exaggerating the importance of his role. In any case, I expected contracts to be sent to me in short order. Unlike our lawyer for the sale of our place, B did not meet with clients for contract review. Rather, he would messenger me my copy, I would review it, we would discuss any questions I had by phone, and I would messenger it back to him. Nevertheless, quite a bit of time went by with no contract in sight. When I finally called back S after a week or more to tell him that I hadn’t received the paperwork yet, he was, and I quote, “shocked.” Though B had told me that the seller’s attorney hadn’t sent him anything yet, according to S he just hadn’t bothered to send a messenger to pick the papers up from the seller’s lawyer.Another problem was that B seemed to have some vested interest in convincing me that I could not have the speedy closing S had assured me of from day one. Since S obviously had clout with the coop board, he'd assured me from the get go that he could arrange for them to meet with me for my board approval asap after the contracts were signed. But during every conversation I had with B — which involved numerous calls and messages to him, all in an effort to find out where my contract was — he insisted on telling me that there was no way I would close that quickly. Although coop boards often meet only once a month or even less frequently, during which they review potential buyers' financials and schedule the requisite board interview prior to closing, this situation was different. S had been working there for years, and could get deals done in record time by surrounding himself with a competent network of lawyers and mortgage brokers who knew the process for this particular building backwards and forwards and could close a deal in weeks rather than months. And he had enough clout with the board to get a meeting set up for me to be interviewed within a week’s time or so. After two more phone messages and one e-mail to B, I finally reached him late that week and he once again took pains to assure me that I would likely not close any time soon. I again explained that S had said I would, and he then advised me to “reach out” to S about the matter. In turn, I told him I had last spoken to S shortly before I called B and that he had once again assured me that all would go as planned. He gave me the usual tired "professional" schpiel about having been in the business for years, etc. etc. but finally grudgingly said fine, if you’re ready to close, it’ll happen.Meanwhile, the contract was still not in my hands. Though S told me B definitely had it at this point, B said he wouldn’t get it till Monday. He needed time to “review it,” so he would send it Monday and we could probably go over it on Tuesday.When I first spoke with B, he told me upfront that he had to review all contracts before sending them out. This gave me considerable pause, since most real estate contracts are pretty standard as far as I know. In fact, I’m pretty sure he could recite the while thing in his sleep. When I talked to S again after this convo, I asked him what possible motive this man would have for trying to throw a monkey wrench into the works on what should have been a no-brainer transaction. S couldn’t imagine why, and we both noted that how soon I closed was really none of B’s concern. I had to conclude that in an effort to prove to me that he was worth his fee, he had to try to make me believe that he was all-knowing and that the process was fraught with red tape and mystery. In point of fact, he was simply lazy all the way around: too lazy to meet with me and go over the contract in person; too lazy to schedule a messenger to pick up the contract; and too lazy, dishonest, and deceptive to send me the crucial papers in a timely fashion. After e-mailing B as S then suggested, I sent this e-mail to S:Hey S:Thanks for getting back to me. Just to reiterate, if I don't get the contract Monday as expected, I wish to terminate my non-professional non-relationship with Mr. C, and have you recommend another more competent attorney for this very simple job. S, as I said, he is too lazy and lackadaisical to even meet with me in person. He's also pretending that he needs time to "review the papers" before he sends them to me. Excuse me? This is not some exotic contract, is it? He could recite it in his sleep!So my patience has worn thin. I'll give it til Monday, and then I'm out. PS -- Since he was too lazy to send me a written retainer agreement to sign, I don't owe him a penny, do I? He should be paying me for the aggravation. Sorry -- just had to vent and make my feelings very clear on the matter.I don’t know if B actually bought his own bullshit, but I don’t really care. I called S back later that day and said I didn't want to wait till Monday after all -- I wanted another lawyer now. I met with my new lawyer in S’s office that Tuesday since Monday was a Federal holiday, went over the contracts with him, had my questions and concerns addressed with courtesy and dispatch, and signed the papers, which were promptly sent back to the seller's attorney.When I returned to my boyfriend BG’s place that evening, there was a Fedex package waiting for me. It was the contracts from B — a day late and a dollar short. S believes in working with others who can get the job done efficiently, but any endeavor can only be done as efficiently only if other the key players cooperate and do their share as part of the team. One of my most fervent wishes -- aside from a speedy board approval -- is that S will think twice before offering B’s “services” to any more hapless buyers down the line.

Elvira Black is a "retired" New York writer blogging for her own amusement here on BC and at Shithouse rat. Elvira's real estate obsessed doppelganger, Elvira Dark, can be found at All things New York--designed for anyone moving to or visiting this one of a kind, kickass city.

Adventures in Real Estate, Part One: The Broker from Hell

Elvira Black — Tue, 13 Feb 2007 03:42:48 EST

Having resided in an 800 square foot Lower East Side Manhattan coop for 15 years, my ex-boyfriend G and I have at long last decided to sell, split the proceeds, and each get a place in one of the outer boroughs, since Manhattan would be out of the question based on what we'd each have left to work with after a 17 1/2 percent flip tax and broker's and attorney's fees.After about two months on the market, we found a buyer who agreed to pay 450K--30K less than our asking price, but a fair deal nonetheless, especially since we'd purchased it for a whopping eight thousand dollars free and clear. Though our particular building only dated from the early sixties, the older buildings in the complex were originally designed, if memory serves, in the 1930s or '40s and were specifically tailor-made for working and middle class folks longing to own a little slice of the American dream pie via a spacious Manhattan apartment at a modest cost. A few years after we bought in, the Board of Directors elected to go "private," and prices were soon brought up to market rate - steep, but still a bargain for Manhattan. This, by the way, is happening all over the borough - to the point where lower and middle class housing in Manhattan and even Brooklyn is rapidly becoming as extinct as the T-Rex. We will close on the downtown place on March 1st. I've already picked out a new one-bedroom Bronx coop, and hope to close on that a day or two after. G is still looking around and experiencing a bit of frustration, since if he doesn't get a place within the next three weeks or so, he'll have to stay with his sister indefinitely,Perhaps a little more backstory is in order here. After working in the same office for 15 years, G became ill and now receives a modest income from social security disability. Nevertheless, his credit score is decent enough and he could cover his expenses with some left over each month, if his monthly maintenance was 500 dollars or less. He's already received two pre-approvals from two mortgage brokers -- the only hurdle would be to convince the coop board of the apartment he chose that he would never default on his maintenance payments.G and his sister had met a month earlier with their financial adviser, who devised a plan to augment G's modest disability income. He would take out a 100K mortgage, and take 100K cash from the sales proceeds of our old place and dump it in a high yield (10 percent or more) Fidelity trust fund. His monthly mortgage would be paid from the trust automatically. This would leave him with ample funds to cover his monthly expenses with a few hundred left over. In emergencies, he could draw interest from the trust, which would count as additional income in any case. Although the trust plan was theoretical until he closed on a place, his sister could co-sign as a guarantor for the mortgage and/or maintenance payments if need be. We had a letter from our management company to the effect that we had paid our maintenance on time for the past 15 years without fail, and G's financial advisor could put together a report on the prior ten year's performance on the Fidelity trust they selected. With his $160,000 proceeds from the sale of our place, he would put down a maximum of 40K as down payment and take out a 100K mortgage. His price range would be 100K-140K, and he was looking for a place at least as large as our old one.This past year, G was diagnosed with myotonic dystrophy -- a rare, congenital form of adult muscular dystrophy. His doctor told him he would probably not live past 65 and, in all likelihood, would eventually be confined to a wheelchair. His condition is already starting to deteriorate -- his manual dexterity is very bad and he has fallen many times because the disease affects his gait.I've been scouring Bronx coop apartment listings for G for the past few months, as well as helping him prepare materials for mortgage brokers. Since I know the 'hood well, it seemed like a wise idea, and I wanted to give him the opportunity of a second opinion. So far, I've accompanied him to one showing in the Bronx. That one got screwed up because it took G two and a half hours to find the place and take a bus and one or two trains to get there. I was late too due to a snafu at the ATM machine. Nevertheless, we chatted with the super (who told us the unit was overpriced) and a friendly resident who gave us the lowdown on the building and neighborhood. The super gave us his number and offered to arrange for us to see the place at a later time. Although I'd left several voice mails for the broker -- courtesy of the super's wife, since I didn't then have a cell phone at the time -- we never heard from him again, save for one message on G's machine when he returned home saying that he'd been waiting for us for ten minutes.Meanwhile, I'd continued to send G new listings as I saw them online, and came upon an ad for a 900 square foot one bedroom in Yonkers for 139K, supposedly with a large balcony and pool. Yonkers, NY lies on the northern border of the Bronx, and is part of the wealthy suburb of Westchester. Though it was near the maximum of G's price range, and was not in New York City proper, it looked like a fabulous deal on paper (or rather, on screen). Here, take a look: NOTE: HOLY SHIT! As I was adding the URL for this listing, I took a good look and noticed that part of the URL actually said "teaser." Here's part of the URL, with teasers (my edit) in all caps: http://www.century21.com/buy/property_detail.aspx?TEASERS=property-detail-pic+Property+DetailAlthough we both think the 'burbs are a nice place to visit, we're both city people to the core. However, the photos looked great, the size was larger than our old place by 100 square feet, and the maintenance was reasonable. Moreover, the ad proclaimed easy access to local shops as well as Manhattan via express bus, so I contacted the broker, one Debby Frankat, Century 21 Woolf of Yonkers, NY (yes, I'm outing her here in the interests of justice and moral decency) for a showing. She told me that at least one bid was already coming in, so we'd best see it ASAP. When I explained the wheelchair access factor, she said it wouldn't be right for G since it was on a hill. Later, looking again at the ad, I saw no evidence of any stairs, obstructions, or hills - and with a power chair, G would probably be able to maneuver this just fine anyway. Nevertheless, she assured me she had lots of others similar in size and price range to show me in a number of coop complexes nearby. Although she seemed very proactive and responsive -- good signs in a profession where some brokers are deadbeats just sitting back and waiting for the commissions to roll in, which plenty did during the recent real-estate boom -- I soon found she was rather condescending and not all that bright.In any case, we met up with her yesterday. G had to take a two-hour subway ride to get there, which is tough on him because stairs are already posing problems. (While trying to find the first place we saw the week before, it took him two and a half hours by subway, followed by a long walk during which he fell several times.) The woman looked to be thirty-something - what I would classify as a typical suburban JAP, or Jewish American Princess. (Since I'm Jewish, I'm allowed to say that.) She'd lived in Westchester with her husband and their teenage children for the past 20 years. I'd imagined she took up real estate to supplement her hubby's undoubtedly substantial income, which many a bored housewife tends to gravitate to once the kids get older. For one thing, as the Geico commercial goes, it's so simple even a caveman could do it - and passing the license exam is not terribly challenging. There's been a recent push to add more requirements for obtaining a real estate license, since in its present form it's rather poorly regulated and prerequisites are minimal. We met up at 1:15 and she started driving us around. My first hint that the woman wasn't too bright was when, after commenting on the proximity of the complex to such fast food places as Dunkin' Donuts, she expressed surprise that pizza was high in fat and admitted that she and her family practically lived off the stuff. So much for informed motherhood.Things just got progressively worse as we drove down the highway and I quickly realized that we weren't in Kansas -- or rather New York City -- anymore. The 'hood was exactly the kind of strip mall monstrosity we both thoroughly loathed, but the real fun began when she showed us the first place: the ground floor of a two-unit garden apartment which had several steps leading up to the front door. This, after I told her over and over that G had to have wheelchair access in case he was chair-bound down the road. It was small and depressing, and the toilet didn't work. The second prospect was a high rise, but when we realized this involved steps to the front door as well as some in the lobby, she shit-canned that idea and we went on to the third place. This was also a high rise complex. No steps this time, but the one and only elevator bank was out (most better coops have two). They were in the midst of repairing it. Though I'd specified repeatedly that G both wanted and needed 750-800 square feet or larger -- in other words, at least the size of our old place or close to it -- this looked to be 650, tops. G got out his tape measurer and realized there was no way this was gonna work. The broker then tried to bamboozle us, suggesting he could always put some of his living room furniture into the bedroom, and implying that the size was only off by fifty square feet at the most - a total lie, and she knew it, or else she was as stupid as she looked.G joked that he could always suspend his sofa from the ceiling, but she didn't seem to enjoy his good-natured attempt at a bit of real-estate humor. She also kept asking when G's doctor had said he might need a wheelchair. This mystified me until I figured out her angle, which I've mentioned in the e-mail below. In short, the meeting was a total time-waster for all involved and left a bitter taste in my mouth about the moral bankruptcy of bad real estate brokers, in particular, and humanity and its endless greed and dishonesty in general. I'm a big believer in karma, and when she prattled on about how she was going to give her car to her oldest after he got his license -- stressing that he would have lots of lessons -- I couldn't help but envision her precious son in a DWI down the road. Not that I'd want it to happen, but I've found that sooner or later, bad things do happen to bad people.She also had no clue about the Lower East Side of Manhattan, but said her parents (and thus, I assume, she) used to live in Coop City in the Bronx before moving to Florida. In other words, she was probably one of those folk who live an hour's ride or less from the "city" (or, as the ad said, 40 minutes, or was it twenty?), but never goes there. She's probably deathly afraid of having any contact with "colored folk," and when I asked about the safety of the 'hood, she reassured me by saying: "But of course, this is Westchester!" Never mind, Debby darling. You couldn't pay me enough to live in your allegedly lily-white, strip mall-infested, gilded suburban ghetto. So I decided to dash off an email to her and forwarded it to G as well. It's pretty self-explanatory. To: G From: Elvira Forward: RE: Our meeting yesterday. "I just sent this to Debby the Ditz. I just couldn't resist. I know it's unwise to burn one's bridges, but hers is one bridge I never intend to cross again - unless we go through with our plan to go back someday to run her down and power-chair her sorry ass to oblivion." (Just a joke, folks.) To: Debby at Century 21 From: Elvira RE: Our meeting yesterday. "After our meet-up yesterday, I feel compelled to tell you that I was extremely disappointed. It was a total waste of time for you, me, and G, and involved a two-plus hour subway ride, which is bad enough considering he already has problems maneuvering stairs. I'll try to be mercifully brief: After giving G and I very little notice -- and after I'd tried to contact you at least once earlier in the day to confirm time and place -- you were miffed at the fact that I did not arrive at 1 pm sharp when you yourself could not seem to commit to a definite time, but instead insisted on saying 1-1:30. Is your time so much more valuable than ours? After going over G's financials again and again with you in painstaking detail, I thought we were on the same page. Basically, G would be able to afford his monthly expenses without touching the trust, and if not, all sorts of fail-safe measures would be in place so he could always pay his maintenance. After all that, you still kvetched about 'stupid' members of the board who just wouldn't 'get it.' All I can say is if the board members are that clueless, I wouldn't want to live in their development in the first place. It doesn't bode well for their management style. After chastising me for reminding you that G needed wheelchair access, the very first place you showed us had steps leading up to the building. In general, your condescending attitude and reluctance to listen instead of talk over me was disconcerting to say the least. Why did you so tactlessly inquire as to when exactly G would be confined to a wheelchair? Was it perhaps to try to convince us that this could be a 'starter home' for G, and that if and when he needed wheelchair access he could always move again? After leading me to believe that the apts you would be showing me would be 800 square feet and up, I quickly found that this was not at all true. Aside from the fact that G would like more space (just because who wouldn't), he would have considerable difficulty maneuvering around in such a cramped space in a wheelchair. He would likely not be able to access the kitchen, and the hallways and foyers were narrow as well. I'm sure that with all your years of experience, you knew good and well that the square footage was much less. Looked to be 650 at most - certainly more than a foot or two off, or even 50. The apt I am buying was advertised as 750 square feet right up front, to avoid wasting everyone's time -- and I didn't need a measuring tape to confirm this. We've lived in an 800 square foot space for 15 years, and we're not blind -- nor were we born yesterday. The neighborhood and complex were also drab and depressing. We are city folk, and we were not interested in a low-rent version of the 'burbs. Asking G if he had a car after all I'd told you -- including the fact that we don't -- seemed a tad bizarre to me. I know you've been in the business awhile, but I also know that there are all levels of real estate brokers. Some put the bottom line first at all costs, and some have compassion and insight. Tell me: would you live there? Would you want your parents to? Was the ad I originally saw just a come-on? If so, that's reprehensible. I'm sure you're very successful and you certainly don't need to make another sale based on dishonesty. As I said, it was a total waste of everyone's time. In a word: what were you thinking? No reply is expected or desired; just food for thought." They say revenge is a dish best served cold. However, in this case, I'll take mine piping hot and still steaming. I will be sending out emails to snarky NYC real estate websites and blogs such as Curbed, who eat this kind of stuff for breakfast, to see if they'd like to post a link. Though my two personal blogs have only a modest amount of visitors, Blogcritics has millions, and Curbed has many as well. Who knows; maybe Debby will get fired, go back home to her doubtless two-mil mansion, and learn how to cook her kids a decent meal in the interest of their cholesterol levels at the very least.Let the unscrupulous, greedy, money grubbing, dishonest broker beware: Hell hath no fury like a native New Yorker taken for a chump.

Is New York "Over?" - Part Two

Elvira Black — Thu, 4 Jan 2007 10:03:41 EST

For those who missed it, take a look at "Is New York 'Over'?" - Part One."It often seems to me that the typical New Yorker is never satisfied. No matter how well off they have it, and despite living in what is (to me at least) the greatest city in the world, their complaints are legion. One of the ways this perpetual dissatisfaction manifests itself is via the ever-changing state of the neighborhoods residents live in or once lived in. The long-ago metamorphosis of SoHo is one prime example. The typical scenario goes something like this:Young urbanite finds that s/he is priced out of a "desirable" area of Manhattan - or later, even Manhattan itself. A few brave souls, often artists, decide to explore "uncharted territory." Many decades ago, artists began moving into formerly industrial areas such as SoHo to avail themselves of still cheap and generous amounts of space. The area was dark and unwelcoming, with virtually no residential amenities. After the artists had given it their stamp of approval, others became drawn to the now-hip ambiance of the area. Soon SoHo became a mecca of the new arts scene, and restaurants and bars sprung up to accommodate the residents and myriad tourists who came to visit what had become a charming enclave of converted loft spaces and world-class galleries. The beginning of the end of the SoHo "scene" commenced when its main drag, West Broadway, became clogged with retail outlets. My friend D used to say everything on West Broadway was a "gallery" -- a clothing gallery, a shoe gallery, a jewelry gallery. Eventually the area became too expensive for all but the most successful artists, and the more monied non-artists who could afford to bask in their reflected glory. The main art scene and the biggest storefront galleries such as Mary Boone moved from SoHo to Chelsea, and other struggling artists looked elsewhere for sufficient space in which to live and work.My boyfriend BG, who first came to the city in the summer of '69, often reminisces about how accessible and affordable Manhattan used to be. After returning from his periodic "sabbaticals" at his brother's or parent's places in Louisiana or Wisconsin, he could get off the bus and within an hour or so be set up in a cheap hotel. The per-day rate at the Bowery flophouse BG used to frequent when he was too poor to get an apartment is now too steep for him to ever return to. The Bowery has been renovated and now harbors, in part, tourists who are looking for cheap accommodations, since a typical Manhattan hotel can run into hundreds a day. Down the block, the legendary club CBGB has closed its doors for good. Pricey bars and restaurants now abound, and a new museum is scheduled to be erected here. So as Manhattan became out of bounds for artists and the hipsters who followed them -- as well as ordinary folks who didn't have much money to begin with -- Brooklyn started to become the next big thing. Park Slope, which as I recall used to be rather dangerous, is now chiefly home to yuppie families with young children. Brooklyn Heights, a hairsbreadth away from Manhattan, is now just as pricey, though more spacious and grand. As I mentioned in Part One, Williamsburg, Brooklyn -- once an enclave for the ethnic poor and Orthodox Jews -- became a true hipster haven within a few years' time. Artists began to discover it, and soon young people looking for cheap rents followed. At first, the new residents had to endure the same lack of amenities and crime as the old-timers in the area, but when things started to take off, businesses sprung up to accommodate the culture and lifestyle of the mostly young, mostly white new residents. Bars, restaurants, and other necessities of bourgeois New York life began to emerge rapidly. As neighborhood rents inevitably started to rise, would-be hipsters and scenesters ventured further into the depths of Williamsburg, starting the whole cycle again. The irony was that those who came there to experience the grittiness of a semi-gentrified 'hood began to complain that the rapid commercial growth of the area had leeched all the original "character" from it. Though these folks' presence was the primary reason for this change, they now complained bitterly that the Williamsburg scene was officially "over." A recent New York Times piece entitled "The Duel Over Cool" illustrates the insecurity of nouveau outer-borough residents. Since deep in the heart and soul of most New Yorkers is an enduring envy of Manhattan, those who leave the "island proper" compensate by declaring their neighborhood to be as good, if not better, than the city's epicenter. This article described the rivalry between residents of Long Island City in Queens and Williamsburg over which was the most happening place to live. When I was in the process of putting my Lower East Side coop up for sale, I eagerly scanned all the real estate websites and blogs I could find. One of the best is Curbed. Updated several times daily, Curbed is the place to learn about real estate and housing trends all over the city. It is here, in the comments section, that one can find the snarky, even downright nasty grumblings and comment feuds of the perpetually dissatisfied and/or insecure New Yorker. Here readers guess the asking price of glam Manhattan coops while declaring that only an idiot would pay those outrageous amounts, especially after the recent housing slowdown. Some praise their neighborhood as the best there is, while others quickly counter that that area sucks for one reason or another. Things can get downright vicious on the hot comment threads.Recently, Curbed had a short blurb called "The Half-Life of a Trendy Neighborhood". It linked to an audacious article in New York Magazine entitled "If You Lived Here, You'd Be Cool by Now" and it started off like this: "Hot Neighborhood Entropy Red Hook? Already over. Lower East Side? It's hot -- no, wait, it's not. No, wait, it is again! The life span of a trendy neighborhood used to be measured in decades. Now it might not last long enough for you to make the subway ride out there."The gist of the article was that gentrification had accelerated so rapidly that a neighborhood could go from hellhole to cool to "over" in the blink of an eye. Furthermore, the author claimed that Jersey City, which seemed to be showing signs of rapid gentrification, would become the next hot thing -- despite the fact that it wasn't even part of New York City.This provocative post set off an avalanche of comments at Curbed, with various folks sounding off on what neighborhood was cool and not cool. The comment string is well worth a look, but here are a few typical examples:"The real estate boom and rags like NYMag have created the impression that you can take any poor non-white neighborhood, sprinkle in a few artists, add a yoga studio and a "brunch place" and blammo - the next cool neighborhood! It used to be (I THINK, anyway) that artists and musicians moved to a neighborhood because it was cheap and they wanted to create their own scene, and it was only later that the cool vultures came. Now people think they can make it all happen at once. But I guess the definition of what's "cool" has changed too - turn your lifestyle into a brand, etc.""Greenpoint and Astoria aren't on that graph, so that dude doesn't know what he's talking about. I think those two neighborhoods trump the South Bronx (SoBro? fck you) as far as the h*pster thing goes.""new york magazine is for recent transplants and brief reading at the gyno office. by transplants, i mean nonnative new yorkers (not necessarily from the midwest)."Even though, as a typical New Yorker, I can sometimes be under the delusion that the rest of the country is nothing but an arid "wasteland" of cookie-cutter suburbs, I know other urban areas around the country have seen the same trend emerge. It's just that as with everything else about New York, the trends seem to emerge earlier and be more spectacular in scope. In point of fact, however, American suburbs are far from "arid, cookie cutter wastelands," and their beauty and variety can put any urban area to shame in terms of space and leafiness and grandeur. Though New Jersey is often looked down upon by some New Yorkers as the antithesis of chic, some very wealthy and even famous people live in its posh, luxe suburbs. As for New York State, it boasts vast expanses of lush greenery and wide-open spaces in its suburban and rural areas. Moreover, though it may seem to some that New Yorkers are insufferably status conscious and elitist, the fact is the status markers of real estate are a big, big deal in America, especially amongst the perpetually insecure middle class. The signs of status in the suburbs revolve more around space, while New York City's are more about location. When my ex-boyfriend and I put our downtown Manhattan coop up for sale, I started to watch the "real estate porn" on HGTV -- the cable channel that features shows on buying, selling, and renovating properties all over the country and even abroad. I experienced a certain amount of culture shock when I realized the monetary value of our 800 square foot coop could buy a virtual "mansion" in other parts of the country. For suburbanites, location certainly counts in terms of "good" neighborhoods with good schools, but in some cases this may also mean a longer commute into the urban areas where many go to work each day. The kind of car they drive, the size of their house, the condition of their lawns and gardens, and other accoutrements of the good life unknown to many urban dwellers (such as backyard pools and huge, state of the art kitchens and master baths) can proclaim status as well. Many folks are walking a narrow financial tightrope trying to showcase their status by keeping up with or surpassing the Joneses or by taking on second mortgages rather than move to a more modest neighborhood they might be able to more comfortably afford. The value of urban vs. suburban amenities is often in the eye of the beholder. Some ex-Manhattanites who wax poetic about the extra square footage and cushier quality of life to be had outside of the city limits will leave hard-core Manhattan dwellers cold. Some who move to greener (and larger) pastures never look back - and wonder how they ever lived with almost non-existent kitchens and views of brick walls. Often the move out of the city is a function of "maturity." As one gets older, marries, and has children, the glitz of city living loses its allure. What value is there in living next to the hottest clubs when one needs separate bedrooms for the kids? How does one prepare a proper "adult" meal in a kitchen the size of a tiny closet, or worse? Another point to consider is that not long ago, living in Manhattan was not a status symbol. When I told college friends in the '70s that I used to live in Queens but now lived in Manhattan, they were puzzled and asked: "Why would you do that? Usually it's the other way around." Indeed, in the '70s the city was a mess -- dirty and dangerous -- and most who could afford to escape did so. In recent decades, of course, the pendulum has swung the other way. New York is now the safest big city in America, and a major national and international tourist destination. Thanks to Mayors Giuliani and Bloomberg, the quality of life in New York has done a total 360, morphing from dismal to desirable. New York magazine's almost-heretical notion that the city's erstwhile hipness factor may have moved beyond the five boroughs and onto a neighboring state is, although semi-tongue in cheek, also telling evidence that Manhattan's "status" continues to evolve, and even devolve over time. Fresh faced kids just discovering the city are blissfully unaware of what it meant to be a resident during the '70s. Back then, the graffiti strewn subways were akin to dangerous cattle cars; parks were the domain of drug dealers; crime was rampant; and most out-of-towners had no wish to visit a city that had become synonymous with dirt and danger. A few nights ago, my boyfriend BG decided on a whim to go bar hopping in Manhattan, as we sometimes do, but as usual, the desire to capture the magic that was Manhattan had become a long-lost dream. Walking around Thompkin's Square Park in the East Village, where the homeless used to dwell in cardboard boxes and one could readily purchase the illegal drug of one's choice, he observed with some disappointment that the park was clean, "wholesome," and mostly deserted - save for a few young yuppies walking their poodles. He came upon a bar that had miraculously survived the decades, which used to be a rowdy place with sawdust on the floor. Now it was frequented by hopelessly young hipsters chatting in little cliques. It was painfully obvious he was old enough to be their father, if not their grandfather. He told me he remarked to the 20-something bartender that beers there used to be 50 cents, which didn't seem to impress anyone. I told him, far from being awed by the fact that he had resided in Manhattan when it was "cutting edge," they probably viewed him as they would someone's old gramps, endlessly droning on about the old days before they had moving pictures and automobiles. So he returned home to the Bronx, defeated and depressed, as he realized once again that for him, Manhattan was indeed "over." The New York of his youth had been dangerous, but also exciting and colorful. It was a place where one could live and party cheaply. Back then, Central Park had fallen into serious disrepair, but in the days before it was restored to its former glory, one could come to the park with a six-pack and a few joints and hang out with impunity. The sleazy Times Square where he used to be able to see a double feature for a pittance has morphed from a virtual red light district of XXX theatres and peep shows into a family friendly haven for out-of-towners who can afford to pay hundreds a night for a hotel and hundreds more for Broadway shows. New Year's Eve in Times Square was once a chaotic, no-holds-barred scene of drunken revelry; now it is a tightly organized, alcohol free, multimedia affair.I will miss Manhattan, but like BG, I realize that the Manhattan I once knew is, in large part, gone. And so, with surprisingly few regrets, I will soon be moving to the Bronx as well - an area that, until recently, was considered a national symbol of the hells of urban living. Having lived in Manhattan through good and bad times, I can clearly see the Bronx is on an upswing, albeit a slow one. Meanwhile, the gritty Manhattan of yore where "only the strong survived" has reached such a tipping point of chic that it is rapidly becoming the sole bastion of the wealthy and privileged. One might even say the very things that made New York so attractive to young folks escaping the bourgeois "blandness" of the suburbs is rapidly ebbing away. The amenities of big-city life in the Bronx may still be lacking, but the cost of living is very appealing. So it's on to the Bronx for me - in all it's gritty, unhip, semi-pre-gentrified glory.

Is New York "Over?" - Part One

Elvira Black — Mon, 1 Jan 2007 14:47:45 EST

After graduating from college in the New York suburb of Long Island in 1979, I returned to New York City and got an apartment on the Upper East Side of Manhattan with my then-boyfriend. Every now and again I'd make the trip down to the Lower East Side to visit my aunt and uncle, who had raised me after my parents died when I was 15. Though I took the subway there, by the time I left it was dark and my aunt insisted that I take the bus across the street rather than walk to the subway. They'd watch anxiously from the window to make sure I was okay as I waited for the crosstown bus that would first take me to 14th Street and 1st Avenue, where I'd transfer to the second bus that would transport me on the long but pleasant ride back home to the East 80s. At the time, my aunt had a subscription to New York magazine, which came out weekly. She'd save up the old issues and present the bundle to me when I came to visit, along with jars of homemade chicken soup, to take home to my cramped one-bedroom fifth floor walk-up. From perusing the magazines and observing the street scene on the bus, I learned a lot about how neighborhoods can change over the years -- in a gradual but inexorable metamorphosis from seedy to trendy to unaffordable. Manhattan was a somewhat different city back then. Though the "hellhole" days of Manhattan (think Taxi Driver or Midnight Cowboy) and the concomitant dirt-cheap rents had started to wane, by the time the '80s hit it was still possible to emerge fresh out of college and get an apartment in the city. And indeed, the Upper East Side (or the far East side of it, at any rate) was a kind of ghetto for young singles back in the day. It was reasonably safe, and had all the city amenities I craved -- bars, restaurants, bookstores, and all-night delis where you could grab the Sunday Times on Saturday night on your way back from dinner or a neighborhood movie. The Lower East Side, however, was a different story. It seemed to have been suspended in time, its roots as the starting point for countless 19th and early 20th century European immigrants still very much apparent with its ancient tenements and unhip demeanor. To me, the Lower East Side didn't even seem to be part of Manhattan at all, but a dowdy enclave where many working and middle class predominantly Jewish families, my aunt and uncle included, had settled in the big apartment complexes on Grand Street that offered affordable coop living. But after dark, when the local shops closed, if one ventured down the nearby tenement side streets, one's only purpose (or so it seemed at the time) would have been to risk life and limb to buy drugs. There were numerous other Manhattan areas that were still "sketchy" as well. In those days, the Bowery was still "The Bowery" -- complete with winos and flophouses. No one was doing real estate speculation in Harlem. Alphabet City -- the southeasternmost stretch of the East Village that ran from Avenues A through D -- was still largely a no-man's land to the more monied class. When the Manhattan housing boom began in earnest and once-crumbling areas became desirable, the scope of its course took some folks by surprise. But there are a certain subset of New Yorkers -- especially the New York magazine-reading contingent -- who are forever searching for the next big thing, months or even years before others catch on, whether it be the hottest new restaurant or the next big neighborhood. And if one had the wherewithal to invest in real estate, this foresight would pay off richly in the decades to come. Unfortunately, it would also mean that many poor and even middle class residents would be pushed out, little by little. Meanwhile, on my periodic sojourns home on the Avenue A crosstown bus, I began to see gradual signs of my aunt's Lower East Side 'hood's inevitable transformation. Avenue A in the adjoining East Village had already become safer and more "accessible," especially after Tompkins Square -- the local park -- had been cleaned out by the city and totally renovated. Previously a site where homeless would literally set up camp, it was transformed into a kid- and family-friendly space. The same had been done with other parks including Union Square -- which now hosts a thriving farmer's market several days a week and has a tony outdoor cafe -- and Bryant Park, which went from druggie hellhole to a midtown oasis with cafe tables and chairs for lunching and relaxing, films in the summer, and runway shows during New York Fashion Week. In any case, the trendy ambiance of the East Village eventually traveled further south 'til it finally landed in the Lower East Side proper. More and more neon bar signs glowed and beckoned as my bus traversed Essex Street, which transformed into Avenue A at Houston. At some magical tipping point, bars, boutiques, and restaurants sprung up like mushrooms on the once-desolate adjoining streets as well, 'til young people from all over the metro area turned the burgeoning scene into a bona fide party space. Along with this came rapidly rising rents, and those who could not afford a space alone might double or triple up with like-minded young hipsters so they could afford to live in the center of the action. Fifteen years ago, my ex-boyfriend and I bought a coop near my aunt on Grand Street, when it was dirt cheap and before the hipster contingent had arrived. Over the past several years, the area has developed even more, with expensive new condos and luxurious rentals and hotels adorning the landscape. Moreover, since I'd been trying to sell my apartment for the past several months, I was elated when New York magazine published some pieces on the allure of the Lower East Side and the real estate "bargains" still to be had on Grand Street.Eventually, as neighborhood after neighborhood in Manhattan gentrified and became more and more unaffordable to the average resident, the outer boroughs (Brooklyn, Queens, the Bronx, and Staten Island) gradually experienced their own renaissance. As a result, most of Brooklyn can now be almost as pricey as Manhattan, with amenities to match. Queens, for many years considered an unhip Archie Bunkerland, started to develop hip enclaves as well. The boundaries of well-heeled -- or at least more "desirable" -- New York living had extended to the adjoining boroughs of the city in earnest. Perhaps the biggest shocker was when the press started reporting on development in the South Bronx (nicknamed SoBro by real estate brokers). In the '70s, the area was a national symbol for the most extreme urban blight. But the combination of significantly lower crime citywide, an infusion of funds to improve parks and other amenities in all five boroughs, and real estate mania had finally started to hit one of the most unlikely of neighborhoods. To be honest though, SoBro -- as well as most of the Bronx with the exception of the perpetually tony enclave of Riverdale to the north -- is still pretty much Wild West territory to many New Yorkers who can afford not to live there. But whenever I now visited my boyfriend BG -- who lived in Manhattan for decades but moved to the Northwest Bronx eight years ago -- I began to witness subtle yet gradual changes as the months and years went by. The day BG was shown the apartment, the first thing the super told him was, "I'm not a policeman. If you have trouble, don't call me. Call the police." BG's soon-to-be new abode had a second entrance which led out into a back hall/stairway which was basically used as a fire exit. When the super showed it to him, there were chunks of tobacco and cigar stubs strewn all over -- remnants from the spliffs that local kids used to create, I believe, mammoth joints, or perhaps pot mixed with crack. Not long after moving in, BG opened his front door and found blood smeared all over the floor in front of his apartment, with more in the elevator. Loud and boisterous weekend revelry on the street below used to be the norm -- when his brother visited he liked to say come Saturday night that it was "getting real Bronx." The parks were not particularly well-tended, and folks would routinely park their SUVs on the street in front of them and turn the volume on their radio to 11 for a kind of urban version of a rowdy tailgate party. Still and all, it didn't seem that much different to me than the Lower East Side of yore, and I felt pretty safe on the streets, all things considered. And over the next several years, as the real estate market continued to jump upwards in leaps and bounds, I saw a 'hood that already had a lot going for it become even more so.Increased police presence had something to do with it, as did a fresh influx of funding from the city. Though there were few coops in the area, the one development that I had had my eye on for years has now doubled in price, though it's still dirt cheap by New York standards. The local parks are being revamped, and the nearby Kingsbridge Armory is at long last poised for commercial development after sitting almost vacant for years on end. Work is underway to develop the waterfront, and the old Yankee Stadium is being replaced with a new one (though for the life of me I can't quite see why). BG's building, now under new ownership, has become harder for interlopers to use as a drug den. And the streets are now almost eerily quiet on the weekends. In addition, this part of the northern Bronx was pretty darn fancy long ago. After the IRT subway system expanded to include access from Manhattan to the Bronx in the early decades of the 20th century, a lot of people who wanted to escape the cramped tenements of Manhattan, including the Lower East Side, moved here, and developers took the opportunity to create buildings with amenities which were novel at the time. All up and down the Grand Concourse -- designed after Paris's Champs Elysees and referred to at the time, I believe, as the Park Avenue of the Bronx -- elegant buildings, many with elaborate art deco features, sprung up to accommodate the Manhattan refugees. As a result, this now "economically challenged" area still has pre-war buildings in good condition, rife for conversion to coops. But already the ugly side of "progress" has become apparent, as some ruthless real estate investors are trying to force old tenants of a few buildings out by any means necessary. In any case, the Bronx is still far from "hip," but I see it headed in the inexorable direction of eventual gentrification, for better and worse. And as soon as I get the money for the sale of the LES coop which I co-own with my ex-boyfriend in my desperate, grasping hands, I plan to get a place near BG in the coop development I've coveted for years. Though still the ultimate "promised land" for millions, Manhattan has become increasingly unaffordable and even bourgeois over the past several decades. Though it eventually became "hip" to live in other boroughs, the initial "pioneers" selected only some parts, starting with the areas closest to Manhattan and gradually moving further "inland" as rents climbed upward. Williamsburg, Brooklyn, is a great case in point, and New York magazine did a brilliant, snarky piece charting its rapid development a while back. The author rode the entire route of the L train in Williamsburg, noting that the hipster contingent was slowly making its way further and further into the wilds of the borough. He used a legend with cute little illustrations to note the transformation of each area, with the first stop having all the hipster accoutrements -- yoga studios, wine shops, bars, sushi joints, soy milk, New York Times, lattes, and bakeries -- while the "newer," "sketchier" areas had fewer. But a few weeks back, New York magazine once again came out with a rather outrageously ingenious article, claiming that the hipness factor has accelerated so quickly that now the upcoming "scene" is no longer even within the city proper. In a word, they have proclaimed that Jersey City -- which is part of the neighboring state of New Jersey, of course -- is poised to be the next anointed neighborhood. TO BE CONTINUED.

Hearing Poe's Christmas Bells in the Bronx

Elvira Black — Mon, 25 Dec 2006 16:39:42 EST

Hear the sledges with the bells - Silver bells! What a world of merriment their melody foretells! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night! While the stars that oversprinkle All the heavens, seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells - From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.-- From "The Bells," Edgar Allen Poe, 1849 Eight years ago, my boyfriend BG left Manhattan for a small studio apartment in the Bronx. Being a tad on the paranoid side, he does not like to keep all his windows wide open, and the apartment can get rather dark. However, the one room in the place with a great view is the bathroom, and the window is left unshaded for the entertainment of BG's cat, who can observe the pigeons who love to vex her from the safety of the outside windowsill. Here, the sun streams in all day, and looking out one can see some of the buildings of Fordham University in the distance - including, I believe, the spires of its church. Since most buildings here are no higher than six stories, I've often remarked to BG that looking out the window and seeing the low rooftops makes me feel like I might be in a garret in Paris. Near BG's apartment lies Poe Park. Within it sits Poe Cottage, where Edgar Allen Poe lived from 1846-1849. Poe moved there with his ailing wife in an attempt to escape the crowded city for the then-bucolic atmosphere and fresh air of the Bronx. During these years, one of the poems Poe composed was "The Bells." In 1845 the University Church -- located within what is now known as Fordham University -- was constructed. It is possible that the chiming of these church bells inspired this famous poem. At least, I like to think so. I believe it was last Christmas when I first heard the bells that I assume were originating from Fordham's church - it seemed as if the University had decided to bring them back into play. In addition to chiming the hour, they pealed out the "Star Spangled Banner" and Christmas songs. I thought about the fact that in the days before everyone had a Rolex or even a humble Timex, the church bells might have been the only way for the common man to keep track of the hours. So on this Christmas day, it seems appropriate to hear the chiming of the church bells through the window of BG's humble abode, and to feel the spirit of Poe still present, somehow, from his former humble cottage down the road. Merry Christmas everyone!

Single Review: Talking Heads - "Life During Wartime"

Elvira Black — Tue, 8 Aug 2006 08:28:11 EDT

Although the jury may still be out on this, I fervently believe we are in the stifling death grip of global warming. I remember a time when summers in New York City were mostly bearable, at least until August, but this year the heat wave started in June and shows no signs of dissipating. But what really struck fear in my heart was when the neighboring borough of Queens had a blackout that lasted over a week, and started, as I recall, on a day when the temp rose to over 100 degrees. Businesses lost thousands of dollars and residents were left with no lights, no elevators, no refrigeration, and no air conditioning during a period of virtually unrelenting heat and humidity. Somehow people survived, but I am left with a feeling of fear and dread about how the rest of the summer may play out. I spend most of my time indoors in air-conditioned comfort, and going out at all makes me feel like I'm going to collapse in a heap. The A/C, the computer, and the TV are my lifelines, and without them I would be lost. Reading, writing, thinking, and sleeping would be a thing of the past for me if the power blew out, and I'd be reduced to a miserable, animal-like condition where sheer survival would be the order of the day. If a power outage can turn normal life upside down, the specter of another terrorist attack and how radically it might affect everyday life is even more - well -- terrifying. Although New York City is mostly exempt from hurricanes, tornadoes, mudslides, and devastating floods, since 9/11 it is impossible to deny the city is vulnerable to another man-made disaster. The vision of what might be is always in the back of my consciousness. It's the kind of realization that makes it hard for me to plan too far in advance or to take for granted things will not fall apart in the future -- perhaps even the near future. And then there's the rest of the war-torn world. If you talk to Newt Gingrich, for example, you will find that he -- and undoubtedly others -- maintain that we are already in the midst of World War III. And it's not hard to fathom that we are major players -- and targets -- in this horrific game.It's at times like these the Talking Heads' 1979 single "Life During Wartime," from their album Fear of Music, provides the ultimate in irony-tinged musical enjoyment. If memory serves, we were not at war with anyone back then, except perhaps ourselves if one counts the war on crime and the war on drugs. But at the time, the Heads' irresistibly danceable song, with its famous refrain of "This ain't no party/this ain't no disco/this ain't no foolin' around" provided a quintessentially hip soundtrack at countless New York City clubs and parties during an era when the last thing on anyone's mind was the specter of a terrorist attack. But nowadays, the Heads' rendition of the virtual collapse of life and civilization as we know it seems all too ominous.Taken out of context of its grim lyrics, "Life During Wartime" is an exhilarating masterpiece culled from one of the chief denizens of the sophisticated, inventive, but mostly apolitical post punk era. The relentless, adrenaline fueled beat that makes it so danceable is tempered with a cheesy, off-kilter organ riff, David Byrne's signature whooping yet oddly deadpan vocal style, and bongos and bass which provide a funky counterpoint. But the sobering lyrics, which were once doubtless interpreted as a throwaway, tongue in cheek vignette about an improbable invasion -- or perhaps the ranting of a deluded paranoid -- hit much closer to home 27 years after the fact. The lyrics describe a desperate life and death scenario in which the US has been invaded by some malevolent force -- either from without or within -- and the battle is raging close to home ("The sound of gunfire, off in the distance, I'm getting used to it now.") The singer is apparently a member of a clandestine resistance movement compelled to operate incognito and at perpetual risk of being discovered ("You oughta know not to stand by the window/Someone might see you up there.") But what resonates most strongly with me is the Heads' vision of how the "us versus them" dictates of war can erode individuality and culture -- by compromising all the material and "frivolous" things that give our lives their essential context and meaning. Byrne depicts a scenario in which his original identity has become so materially compromised that it's vanished altogether ("We dress like students, we dress like housewives/Or in a suit and a tie/I changed my hairstyle so many times now/I don't know what I look like") Moreover, the cultural touchstones that define us have withered away, becoming superfluous, even disadvantageous ("Why stay in college? Why go to night school?... Burned all my notebooks, what good are notebooks?/They won't help me survive.") Even the beloved clubs that defined late '70s New York hipsterdom have been swept away in the chaos ("This ain't no party, this ain't no disco/This ain't no fooling around/This ain't no Mudd Club or CBGB/I ain't got time for that now") Of course, the Heads played CBGB and Bryne frequented the ultra cool Mudd Club back in the day. In a presciently ironic twist on current concerns about privacy issues, Byrne's desperate protagonist finds himself on the other side of the equation ("We got computer, we're tapping phone lines/I know that that ain't allowed.") In this context, the song's unrelentingly frenetic tempo conjures up the frantic flight of a refugee in his own land ("Trouble in transit, got through the roadblock/We blended in with the crowd.")As a coddled American, my concern about power outages may seem laughable compared to the horrors that have overtaken other parts of the world as the result of war and its resultant chaos and oppression. But the Islamic jihad against the Western way of life is a cultural and ideological war as much as anything else -- a disgust with and rejection of our unfettered expression of individuality. Totalitarian and terrorist regimes cannot tolerate the free flowering of culture -- as Hitler's war on "degenerate art" made plain. To wit, tyranny can not only destroy life, but everything that makes life worth living.Of course, it's easy for me to sit at my computer in air conditioned splendor and mull over lyrics to a song from a more carefree time when the specter of war in our own country could only have been perceived as a playful fantasy. In that more peaceful era, Byrne's lament that he "ain't got no speakers, ain't got no headphones/Ain't got no records to play" could be viewed as nothing more than an artful turn of phrase. Indeed, on the surface, "Life During Wartime" is still eminently danceable and joyous, but the underlying message it conveys seems deadly serious decades after the Heads' quirky, seemingly absurd vision was brought to life.

New York Story: The Crackhead Next Door

Elvira Black — Tue, 25 Apr 2006 08:30:40 EDT

Out of the five boroughs of New York City, the Bronx is the one that many folks still consider "beyond the pale." The area did indeed become very dangerous starting in about the 1960s or '70s. But from roughly the 1920s through the '50s, the Northwest Bronx area where my boyfriend BG now lives was a very fancy place to reside. People who had endured cramped Manhattan quarters flocked to the area where spacious Art Deco buildings were readily available. Though many others moved to the 'burbs as soon as they could afford to leave the city, other folks settled in the north Bronx or the already-tony section of Riverdale or affluent Westchester County, both located slightly further to the north. But as time went on, the Bronx fell on hard times, and those who could afford it soon moved elsewhere. Though today the Bronx is experiencing a mini-Renaissance, the area still can't quite shake its rep as the city's baddest, toughest, and poorest borough. Today, BG's northern Bronx neighborhood is similar to what the Lower East Side of Manhattan was like when I first lived there - lots of new immigrants and struggling working-class people. Though the neighborhood still has some drug activity, BG's building had always seemed safe and perfectly hospitable. (The south Bronx, which for decades was a hellish wasteland, is seeing the beginnings of a slow influx of artists, museums, galleries, cafes featuring poetry readings, and other cultural developments.) BG's neighbors were unflaggingly courteous and friendly, and we experienced virtually no hostility or discomfort of any kind. The cost of living -- not just rent but groceries, appliances, and toiletries -- is a lot cheaper too, since the local shops didn't have to pay the horrifyingly high commercial rents that Manhattan stores are forced to. Plus the area encompasses several universities, a major shopping area, the New York Botanical Gardens, and the Bronx Zoo -- and is an easy commute into Manhattan (about 40 minutes to midtown by subway). At the time of the "crackhead incident" described below, BG had been in the Bronx going on seven years. Although he'd occasionally hear a fracas on the street late at night or see some drug paraphernalia in the back hallways, things were mostly mellow. When I visited there, I was quickly lulled into complacency by the apparent safety of it all.But about a year ago, things suddenly took an alarming turn for the worse.In order to fully explain the situation, I have to talk a little bit about BG's next-door neighbor - I'll call her Shirley. She's youngish (probably mid-30s), single, and fairly attractive. When BG moved in, she made it a point to introduce herself, and sometimes accepted packages and such for BG when he was out, and vice versa. So far, so good.Soon, strange and disturbing happenings were in the offing (insert Twilight Zone theme here). One night several years ago we heard a late-night commotion in the hallway, followed by a woman yelling: "Get out of here, you crackhead," followed by the sound of shattering glass. We found out later that Shirley's boyfriend had been abusive to her and had broken the hall windows for extra emphasis. But that was basically the end of that. The boyfriend disappeared, and things got quiet and mellow again. Then a year ago came the deluge. We'd been noticing that, over the last month or two prior, there'd been a lot of strange people and iffy activity on BG's floor. Lots of sleazy-looking people wandering around in a daze, coming in and out of various apartments, and "exchanging" items with each other. Lots of loud fights out in the hallway in the wee hours; banging, slamming, and screaming. Shirley seemed to have disappeared altogether and left the apartment in the dubious care of two guys who seemed, from their demeanor and behavior, to be running a crack cartel from her apartment. But we had nothing substantial to go on. We did note, however, that whenever BG would leave the apartment and push the elevator button, one of the guys in Shirley's crib would open the door, peer out suspiciously, and close the door again. One night, BG went to take out the garbage at around 4 am because we sometimes keep weird hours. I often stay up late when I'm visiting. BG gets up and paints, and I go back to bed and so on.So BG went to the door to take the trash out and I warned him to be careful because I'd heard a ruckus going on out in the hall a few minutes before. He started to open the door, but closed it again quickly because he saw someone lurking in the hallway.About half a minute later, there was a loud banging on the door. BG said:"Who is it?" "Hey, man. I want to talk to you." "Who is it?" "Come on out here. I want to talk to you face to face." "Who is it?" "Your neighbor." "Yeah, what do you want?" "I want you to stay out of my business." "But I was just going to take out the garba---" "Stay out of my BUSINESS. I heard you open and close your door." (This was, mind you, after the continual opening and closing of this guy's door and assorted mayhem going on in the hallway all night). "Just stay out of my damn business. Punk motherf#cker."I urged BG to call the cops right away. He thought about it and decided against it because it somehow seemed unwise to tangle with a crazed paranoid crackhead with a bad attitude and a vengeful nature - especially at 4 in the morning.Two days later, the bell rang. It was the police. They asked BG if he knew anything about the incident "last night" with the guy next door. BG said he hadn't heard anything last night, but told them about his brief encounter from the night before last.They then said: "Know anything about her?"BG said that she was his neighbor; hadn't seen her in a dog's age.Then the cops said (get this): "Well, if you see the guy, tell him we were looking for him."Yeah, RIGHT. "Hey guy, the cops are after you. No, I swear, I'm not the dirty rat that told them about you...wait..don't throw me out the window, you'll break the glass again...c'mon guy...AARRRRRRRRRHHHHHHH!!!!!!!"The very next day, BG went to the locksmith and purchased a brand new $50 chain for the door -- the kind you use if you have to open your door at 4 am when someone says it's the police but it's really a drug lord intending to kick your door in and eviscerate you. I'd never thought about carrying around anything much for protection except my keys, which I guess I could try to use to poke a perpetrator's eye out, but I asked the locksmith if they had anything available for self-protection. I didn't want to go so far as a Saturday Night Special in my garter belt, but I thought maybe a can of mace might be in order.He told me mace was now illegal, but sold me a whistle on a chain.A whistle? With my loud mouth, I could probably yell and scream so loud I'd break my attacker's eardrums. But I tried it out, and it was pretty piercing. So now I've got the latest must-have urban fashion accessory to hang around my neck every day.BG asked his super for the scoop, and he said that his new neighbor was indeed the ex-boyfriend who had previously assaulted Shirley. However, we hadn't seen hide nor hair of him since the police showed up, though for a while there were still a lot of unsavory people wandering around the floor, apparently headed toward another popular hot spot around the corner. What was pretty amazing was that I'd been so clueless to the drug activity in the neighborhood at large. I started reading the local community paper and realized how insidious the problem really was. Dealers a block or two away did their business as blatantly as a sausage vendor at a street fair or a bauble hawker at an open-air bazaar. There had been efforts in the past to employ beat cops who would get to know the neighborhood, as well as undercover teams, but dealers would just move down to the next block and threaten and intimidate any residents they thought had ratted on them, just for good measure. The city's police force had now been diverted in part to anti-terrorism squads on the heels of 9/11 and, from what I'd gathered, they were cutting police funds for new cops in general.Nowadays, the building is once again mercifully quiet. But if the crackheads ever decide to cozy up in BG's hallway again, the only thing left to do will be to have eyes in the back of my head, wear my whistle, carry a baseball bat when I take out the garbage, and wait for the cool artists to start moving in and make the neighborhood unaffordable for BG and everyone else who resides here. That's city living for you.

New York Story: Dysfunctional Family Reunion

Elvira Black — Mon, 17 Apr 2006 06:06:54 EDT

About two years ago, my boyfriend BG received a strange letter from "Smith Family Reunion Headquarters." Who were they, what did they stand for, and what did they want?BG's last name is not Smith. His dad, who also received a copy of the missive, vaguely recalled that the Smiths were some cousin's uncle's dog's brother's half-sister or some such thing. He'd never met them either, but here they were, sending an invite from out of the blue to come visit for the day at a church site in Spiro, Oklahoma. Although BG and his dad are both native Okies, he and his immediate family haven't set foot there in at least 40 years. And lest anyone think I'm a hopeless snob, let me hasten to add that my dad was born in Ft. Smith, Arkansas - mere spitting distance from where BG's dad originally hailed. BG, being rather unsentimental, promptly discarded that year's letter. The most memorable part, as I recall, was the entreaty to "bring a covered dish" to this apparent potluck get-together. BG and I imagined getting stopped by guards at JFK airport because of some bizarre concoction we'd tried to smuggle on to the plane. Plus which, we're both hard-core New Yorkers: I was born in Queens, and BG has lived here for the most part since the summer of '69. Why would we want to take a train (which would take days) or spend the money on airfare (not to mention the cost of preparing the covered dish) to visit a bunch of bowleggers* with dubious and obscure connections to the BG clan?Last June, BG received the second such letter announcing that year's annual reunion bash. Just for fun, I decided to deconstruct this one. Its overweening flaw seemed to be "too little information," combined in part with the dreaded "too much information," resulting in a generalized feeling of total bewilderment on the part of this hapless reader.First and foremost, the letter (or more accurately, "The Smith Family Newsletter") was so impersonal somehow in its generically folksy, familiar tone that one couldn't help wondering what the writer could have been thinking -- or not. Why, at the very least, wasn't there a little sticky note attached saying: "BG - I'm Laura Nell Smith, your long lost second cousin thrice removed. I would love to see you at our annual bash." Instead, Laura Nell assumed that her long-lost city slicker cuz somehow knew everyone involved from previous wild and wacky Okie wing dings. Here is the newsletter. My comments are in brackets. All typos and other lapses in grammar, syntax, and common sense are reproduced verbatim. I think it adequately demonstrates why, even if we were, for some untold reason planning to swing by that neck of the woods, wild woodchucks couldn't drag us to this meeting of the "Deliverance" clan -- even if BG's DNA is somehow remotely connected to his Gooberville "relatives."SMITH FAMILY NEWSLETTER 6/7/05GREETINGS TO ALL FAMILY MEMBERS!This is our reminder to come & gather as a family on July 16th. [Well, greetings yourself! And who the f*ck are you?]Next month, that's a Saturday morning, at the Spiro United Methodist Church, located at 109 East Broadway, as it has since 1920, we are hopeful that first time family we be joining this gathering or some that haven't been this way in many years. [109 East Broadway -- isn't that in Chinatown? Oh, I guess not, since the return address on the envelope says Spiro, Oklahoma. What's wrong with us; aren't we psychic, seeing as we're family members and all?]Staying connected is a great energizer. Do you need a little more "GET-UP-GO!" to your days? [Hey, babe -- you'd never make it as an Madison Avenue copywriter, ok? Don't even try the hard sell for this gathering of the aberrant.]Sure it is a stretch & that is understood, but please try real hard, after all, there is food & great stories & lots of laughter & someone is really counting on seeing you, especially you! [What? The guest of honor? We had no idea! Well, let's see here: in order to partake of all this food & stories & laughter stuff, I'm figuring airfare & cab fare & hotel to some abject hole in the outskirts of Gomer Pyle-ville -- but hell, well worth it for one day in paradise!]Who knows, you might learn something new or even meet a new cousin or several cousins, surely you get it by now!YOU ARE NEEDED!There will be a short business meeting before lunch. [See? That's why we should have attended last year. They would surely have had a business meeting then, letting us know that there would also be a business meeting this year, and doubtless explaining why a family reunion would require a business meeting - and maybe even provide some clue as to what sort of business they're into. Moonshine, perhaps?]Bring your favorite thing to make & don't worry about having a balanced meal, just come for the fun of it! [Favorite thing to make? Hmm..anything? Play-Doh sculptures of the NYC skyline? Cheap, and not hard to pack. Next!]Someone will be at the church [The church? Who knew? Will they allow Jew-girls like me to attend?] by 9:00 AM or close to that time, at least. [Those country folk and their laid-back ways; so charming! I guess if they're late we'll just go chat with the pastor or something.] Jimmy & my home phone number is X XXX XXX XXXX [Sorry all; family only!].We will have a "White Elephant" bingo & for those of you that want to bring the REAL thing, don't, at least, not those live ones that make really BIG memories! [Ah, looks like they have that old BG family brand of dry humor down pat!] Just something from all stuff we collect that we really don't want to pass on to the next generation or maybe you do, but without them knowing it is from YOU, so wrap it up & no one will even suspect you would ever possess any such item, the more unusual, the better. Bring one item per person. [That old triple-action mega-bong that's been gathering dust in the hall closet might be nice.]Remember wonderful Glen's "Award-Deserving" ice cream? [Ah, yes, wonderful old Glen...shame that he only had award-deserving ice cream. Couldn't he have had the award-winning ice cream and perhaps received an extra "White Elephant" memento?]The table centerpieces will be photographs, older & some more recent. These are going to be door prizes [More giveaways!] Please sign in as you arrive & get a ticket for the drawing. [Sign in where? Is the reunion in the church? On the grounds outside? Oh, well, I love surprises. Details -- so anal!]Don't worry if you haven't sent Judy a recipe. [Ah, good old Judy, cooking away in the old country kitchen...] Just bring one with you & some reason why it's special to you. [Let's see, where did I put that recipe for homemade magic mushroom stew? I think that would be a big...um...hit.] These projects [huh?] require time to complete, but will be a treasure when they are all ready. If you think I may have missed an invitation to someone you really want to see, call me, and please leave a message on the recorder, if you can't speak to me directly. [Wow, so that's how it works! Goll-ee, those new-fangled recording devices sure are convenient.] I am not working these days which means I am home even less, go figure!You all are invited to stay over Saturday night [Oh, how sweet! At least we'll save on the hotel bill] & visit our worship service the next morning. And should you be interested in doing that, I am listing the following overnight accomodations [Oh, f*uck. Thought we were gonna experience some down home family hospitality.] Both are less than 30 minutes from Spiro. Guest House International (Ft. Smith) OrHoliday Inn Express (Ft. Smith)Please enter through the east side door facing parking lot. Look for the church sign with "SMITH REUNION" [No map, no directions, no nothing? Ah, we'll find it. Let's book now!]Ya'll come!!Love, Laura NellLest anyone think I am a New York snob, well... I probably am. But from what BG and I have experienced, a lot of folks who live out of the city -- even some as close by as Long Island or New Jersey -- would sooner have knitting needles inserted in their eyes than set foot within the five bawdy boroughs of NYC. Nevertheless, this year I plan to send out a big-ass invite to the whole BG extended clan to come on down and visit BG's beautiful digs in the Bronx. If they bring their sleeping bags, they can save on hotels by camping out in the hallway with the crack heads. We'll order up some Chinese or some real New York pizza, and I just know a good time will be had by all. But we're keeping it simple: no raffles, no door prizes, no church services. The only thing they have to bring is themselves -- and maybe a nice covered dish. *BOWLEGGER: In BG family parlance, a bowlegger is a country bumpkin or otherwise out of touch rube.Online, I affectionately refer to my boyfriend as BG, or Bowleg Guy. Despite having long ago earned his stripes as a real New Yorker by surviving the roughest possible periods in this city before the current "Renaissance," BG still retains some of that wide-eyed down home country innocence that is part of his considerable charm. Bowleg is also used to describe a certain herbal supplement, which is generally smoked or sometimes baked in brownies. Now THAT would have made for an interesting "covered dish" for the big Oklahoma blowout!

New York Story: Washington Square, Greenwich Village

Elvira Black — Thu, 23 Mar 2006 16:47:51 EST

"Washington Square was a place where people you knew or met congregated every Sunday, and it was like a world of music... bongo drums, conga drums, saxophone players, xylophone players, drummers of all nations and nationalities, poets who would rant and rave from the statues. You know, those things don't happen any more, but back then, that was what was happening. It was all street. . ." ---Bob Dylan; quoted in Maps and Legends: Positively Fourth Street RevisitedFrom the day I was born, my father was forever taking pictures of me and the city. The photo you see here was taken in August 1957, a month after my birth -- in the heart of Manhattan's Greenwich Village, at the fountain in Washington Square Park. Although my mom was born and bred in Manhattan -- she grew up on the Lower East Side, which at the time was home to countless poor and struggling immigrants packed into tenements -- my dad was born in Arkansas and came to the city in the '50s. I can only imagine what a culture shock it must have been for him. Greenwich Village is on the West Side of downtown Manhattan. Its layout is unique to the city, with narrow winding streets that diverge from the rest of Manhattan's orderly grid. For well over a century (or two), Greenwich Village was a haven for avant garde artists, writers, musicians, and bohemians of all stripes. It thrived for generations as an apex for progressive, alternative culture and political rebellion. Early feminists, socialists, intellectuals, beat poets, folk and jazz musicians, hippies, and gay rights activists all found a home in Greenwich Village. It is here that the Beats of the '50s and '60s hung out in the coffeehouses and held poetry readings, and where Lenny Bruce got arrested for obscenity at the Cafe Au Go Go.The Village atmosphere suffused the writings of such notables as Allen Ginsberg, William S. Burroughs, and Jack Keroac in the 50s, as well as generations of writers before them. At the Cedar Tavern, on 8th Street, some of the great abstract expressionists of the '50s such as Jackson Pollack, Willem de Kooning, and Mark Rothko hung out. In the '60s and '70s, countless performers, including Barbra Striesand, Joan Baez, Richard Pryor, Lenny Bruce, Bill Cosby, Paul Simon, Joni Mitchell, Maya Angelou, and Bette Midler got their start in the Village's nightclubs and coffeehouses. At the time my dad took this picture, folk singers played in Washington Square Park to hordes of like-minded hipsters and beatniks. When Bob Dylan arrived in the city four years later, this is the the kind of scene he likely encountered at the park's fountain. In the summer of '69, twelve years after this photo was taken, my boyfriend BG hitchhiked with a friend from Louisiana and arrived in the Village for the first time, with nothing but two rolls of dimes and his guitar. He was 18 -- a year younger than Dylan was when he arrived in 1961 -- and the flower power/hippie summer of love was in full bloom. He hung out in the exact same spot where my dad had taken this picture of Washington Square Park. BG, too, was from another world -- born in Oklahoma, though he'd also lived in Omaha and Louisiana -- and the Village was like nothing he'd ever encountered before. Unlike my dad, who just took pictures of the Washington Square Park oddities, in the Village of the '60s BG dropped acid, consumed countless other drugs, and made love to hippie chicks.Although the Village is no longer affordable to most struggling artists and bohemians, there are still plenty of jazz and comedy clubs, off Broadway theaters, bars, cafes, restaurants, coffeehouses, (tattoo parlors), and other gems to visit. The Village Halloween Parade, the largest Halloween event in the country, draws two million spectators.