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Culture on the Cheap
The Word On The Street: Presenting “Fuck You” Friday
Filed under: 10002, 10003, 11222, East Village, East Village Manhattan, Greenpoint, Greenpoint Brooklyn, Greenpoint Magic, Lower East Side, Lower East Side Manhattan, The Word On The Street
It’s been a pretty busy week for yours truly. Today, however, I was able to take a day off to do a few things I wanted to do (versus stuff I have to do). I have had a lot of “have to dos” lately.
Upon disembarking the L at First Avenue in the East Village I, courtesy of LinkNYC, was presented with this self-care “tip”: call a friend.
“No, no sir (or madam) this is simply not how it works here”, I thought to myself. “Telling someone to fuck off IS self-care.”
Believe you me, I want to tell quite a few folks to do just that nowadays. However, “punching up” could get me in (more) trouble. “Punching down” is not my style. “Punching laterally”, however, is fair game in my opinion.
If you need it— “it” being anything imaginable and beyond— New York City not only has it but will deliver it.
Right.
To.
Your.
Proverbial.
Fucking.
Doorstep.
We pay top dollar for this amenity. This is something outsiders do not understand. The freedom, the mental health benefits, which come with letting it all out in public. Fellow New Yorkers let you do it. We take it in turns. It’s an understood thing.
Sure enough, I was presented with such an opportunity today. Here’s how I put it on Twitter:
Then it occurred to me:
Why not roll out a compendium of “Fuck Yous” in their manifold forms as I see them?
There’s no more replenishable, locally-sourced resource as “Fuck You” in New York City.
So here we go!
And last, but hardly least, this contender from none other than Clay Street, Greenpoint, U.S.A. While “Fuck You” is not explicitly stated, the sentiment is there.
That’s the whole trouble. You can’t ever find a place that’s nice and peaceful, because there isn’t any. You may think there is, but once you get there, when you’re not looking, somebody’ll sneak up and write “Fuck you” right under your nose. Try it sometime. I think, even, if I ever die, and they stick me in a cemetery, and I have a tombstone and all, it’ll say “Holden Caulfield” on it, and then what year I was born and what year I died, and then right under that it’ll say “Fuck you.” I’m positive, in fact.*
— J.D. Salinger, “Catcher in the Rye”
*I am totally amenable to “Fuck You” being inscribed on my tombstone. The more the merrier. A person is defined by his— or her— enemies.
New York Shitty Feral Mattress Watch: Peretz Square
Filed under: 10002, East Village, East Village Manhattan, Feral Furniture, Lower East Side, Lower East Side Manhattan, New York City
Taken August 3, 2015.
New York Shitty Pay Phone Du Jour: First Avenue
Filed under: 10003, 10009, East Village, East Village Manhattan, The Word On The Street
Taken February 4, 2015.
Urban Fur: Special East Village Edition
Filed under: 10003, East Village, East Village Manhattan, New York City, Urban Fur
Today yours truly saw a great many festively fettled furkids in the East Village. The above fellow garnered a great deal of attention and commentary. This is of course because he is cute as hell.
I like cute. Cute is good. But I have a rather idiosyncratic sense of what constitutes awesome— and this is what I saw on Stuyvesant Place.
His name is Xerxes.
I was a mite bit confused by the name: Xerxes. For those of you who are not in the know (and you can thank a very enthusiastic college professor for this), Xerxes was a ruler of Persia.
Persia is allotted its very own breed. They are called (imaginatively enough) Persians and are quite hairy. As you can see Xerxes is not so encumbered. Such are the occasional absurdities which remind me why I (still) live in this town. Not only is Xerxes a rescue cat, but per his person he loves to strut his stuff alongside dogs. And today he did just that at a local Halloween parade. Wait, that sounds familiar.
The New York Shitty Checklist to the Upcoming Ghostbusters Apocalypse:
- Human Sacrifice: Not yet— but I would not rule out these folks suggesting that homeless people be
renderedre-purposed into dog food. - Mass Hysteria (via the Internets): “Ebowla-gate”.* Check.
- Dogs and cats living together: Check. It is actually much worse. There was a hairless pussy in a bee suit marching alongside dogs. In a parade.
Where is Bill Murray when you need him?
*What seems to have been and is lost on a great many people here is Doctor Spencer actually bothered to go to Guinea and help Ebola patients. Before we tender judgement (about how/where Mr. Spencer went) maybe we should ask ourselves the following question:
Would I have done this?
I am guessing the answer is “No”.
New York Shitty Pay Phone Du Jour: Phone Home
From First Avenue.
The Word On The Street: Thank You
Filed under: 10009, East Village, East Village Manhattan, Subway, The Word On The Street
From L train train at First Avenue.
New York Shitty Day Ender: Mitt
Filed under: 10003, 10009, East Village, East Village Manhattan, Lower East Side, Lower East Side Manhattan
Alas, by the time I got around to documenting this most entertaining missive it had greatly deteriorated. However, some of the added commentary makes up for this in some part. Yours truly is rather fond of the following (which was added to the rear window):
I hate wimins.
Nice.
East Village Pay Phone Watch: Imitation of Mortality
Filed under: 10003, 10009, 11101, 11222, East Village, East Village Manhattan, Greenpoint, Greenpoint Brooklyn, Greenpoint Magic, Long Island City, Long Island City Queens, Urban Artifact
I have had public pay phones on my mind a great lately.
This is undoubtedly due to the fact that after experiencing a drought of phones of note I have encountered a fair number of them recently. But I will go into more detail about this momentarily.
Still I have been wondering to myself:
Why the fascination?
Well, for starters it has been my observation that these public facilities are often facilitators for what most would consider private activities. I have seen men masturbate in these on occasion and, as the item at right (which hails from Queensboro Plaza) attests, they can be and are pressed into service as lavatories. Mind you, I do not pass judgement on this variety of re-purposing. Being a disciple of depravity to do so strikes me as being hypocritical.
The previous having been established, if I had to cite one such phone as being the inspiration for my fixation it is the one at left: the Norman Avenue Monologue Machine. Sadly, it is no longer with us. (However I am pleased to note that the owners of the bodega it once graced noted a great many people came to pay it homage.). Nonetheless, Monologue Machines are endemic in our city. I have spotted (and documented them) in a number of places (which can be seen here). What fascinates me about them? Very simple: the anger which has been directed at them. Anger undoubtedly fomented by the person on the other end.
In this respect I found the East Village Pay Phone of Death an interesting (and gruesome) change of pace. So much so I felt compelled to revisit it. This week I did.
As you can see this communication device has not only gotten a thorough cleaning, but is in working order. Whether or not the person whose blood graced it in the first place is in a similar such state is anyone’s guess.
On that note, I encountered a pay phone on First Avenue whose resemblance to this dubious item is rather stunning. At least enough so to merit a mention on this site.
The similarities are rather striking (pun completely intended).
Here’s a side-by-side comparison from the top.
Spatter to the right was also noted.
Upon closer examination I ascertained the red matter gracing the First Avenue phone is paint, not blood. This begs a number of questions. I’ll keep it to two:
- What exactly happened here?
- If this an attempt to impart old-school, gritty flavor to a public phone in an increasingly affluent neighborhood without the usual inconveniences (READ: violence)?
I’ll leave it to you, gentle readers, to make the call.
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