Posts Tagged ‘Astoria’
leaden jars
Failure is often the only option, in today’s post.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
One has been on a holy tear of late on the real estate development and gentrification situation here in Western Queens. I’ve been pissing off a bunch of people I know in government by doing so, and have received the usual “who do you think you are?” accusations and chides. My standard response is “I’m a citizen, and how dare you act like some sort of landed gentry towards me when ultimately all you’ve got is a government job.” It was common sense when I was growing up that taking a government job (as opposed to working for a corporation) was all about the security and pension benefits. What you didn’t get in terms of annual salary today, you’d get back in the long term during retirement. In my neighborhood – DSNY was considered a good career bet, as well as becoming a teacher, as they had the strongest Unions with the best “bennys.” My pal “Special Ed”‘s dad told us all that we should seriously consider becoming court bailiffs.
Of course, that’s my “working class” outlook at work, and back then the gub’mint wasn’t the pathway one took in pursuance of eventually securing a high paid corporate consultancy job.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Something happened during the Bloomberg era, however. “Gubmint” jobs suddenly accrued a new status and the suits from corporate America began to talk about “service.” They took the pay cut, accepted a position at this agency or that, and began applying the rules of business to government policy. Now, don’t get me wrong, these are pretty clever folks and the amount of brain (and Rolodex) power they brought with them to lower Manhattan is impressive. Problem being, they have an inherently profit based modus operandi due to their experiences in the “real world.” The “Gubmint” ain’t supposed to turn a profit.
Thing is, most of these “Gubmint” people aren’t from “here,” and they seem to regard New York City with a thinly veiled disgust.
For example – remember when Dan Doctoroff described the Sunnyside Yards as “a scar” he saw from his office window in Manhattan a couple of years ago? Mr. Doctoroff was born in Newark, but grew up in Birmingham, Michigan and then attended Harvard University. A suburb of Detroit, the demographics of Birmingham are 96% Caucasian (according to the 2000 census), and a mere 1.6% of the population of Birmingham lives below the poverty line. The median income for a household in that city in 2000 was $80,861, and the median income for a family was $110,627. Not exactly East New York, or the South Bronx, or Astoria. Mr. Doctoroff is famously Michael Bloomberg’s right hand man and the fellow who ran Bloomberg LLC while his boss was Mayor, and is accordingly quite affluent. He’s the very definition of the “one percent” and a leading member of the “elite.” I don’t imagine Mr. Doctoroff goes fishing in his penny jar for bagel money when it’s the Thursday before payday, has never had to “borrow from Peter to pay Paul,” or lived in financial fear that the City DOB might impoverish him with an unexpected order to repair or replace his concrete sidewalk.
In other words, what in hell does Dan Doctoroff know about life in working class Queens?
Doctoroff and his cohorts created the term “affordable housing” which the current Mayor has made his own. The question often asked is “affordable by who”? The Citizens Budget Commission boiled that down in this post from last year. The upshot of it is that in order to create this so called “affordable” apartment stock, which is unaffordable to the low income people it’s meant to serve, the rent on “market” rate apartments actually has to go up to cover the cost. This redistribution of wealth hits the middle and working class on two fronts – higher monthly rents, and the application of their tax dollars to subsidize the real estate development which reluctantly includes the so called “affordable” units.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Personal experience from having actually grown up in NYC suggests that whomever the politicians and planners set out to “help” end up getting hurt.
Having grown up in what would be considered a “low income” family under modern terms, we members of the Waxman clan migrated to the outer edges of the City (Brooklyn’s Canarsie section) where housing was found that we could afford. That’s where relative affluence and dire poverty comingled, and created a culture. This was possible due to a preexisting infrastructure of subways and highways that allowed egress to and from the commercial center in Manhattan, but there were still plenty of jobs to be had locally. Manufacturing, commercial, shops. If you played your cards right, you could earn a living and never once have to go into the City. That’s changed, and the ongoing loss of this manufacturing and commercial side of the working class economy is excaberated by this affordable housing craze which perceives any large footprint lot as being a potential development site.
If a building went up in the 1970’s or 80’s, which included low income housing, that had a separate entrance or “poor door” there would have been bloody riots.
The reason for that is the City planners and “Gubmint” officialdom were mostly native New Yorkers who lived in and were loyal to the neighborhoods they oversaw, and who understood that “it’s not all about Manhattan.” Doctoroff and his acolytes see the City as the solution and not the problem. The looming infrastructure crisis this rapid development is causing will impoverish the City. A century ago, when the newly consolidated City of Greater New York was being similarly developed – the politicians built the subways and sewers first, then they sold off or awarded the adjoining properties at bargain prices to their cronies like Cord Meyer and Fred Trump.
The infrastructure investments made between 1898 and 1940 allowed NYC to grow beyond anyone’s wildest dreams. Unfortunately, these days we are doing the opposite, and allowing the buildings to be erected first. The bill for all of the municipal machinery will come after the population loading is finished.
“follow” me on Twitter- @newtownpentacle
philosophic resignation
Happy Halloween, y’all.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
This year, I didn’t carve a pumpkin. That’s a Jack O’ Lemon above.
Before I delve into the folderol, as mentioned last week – I’m going to be in front of Doyle’s Corner Bar on the corner of Broadway and 42nd street here in Astoria after three tomorrow if you’re in the neighborhood. I’ll be taking pix of the Halloween costumes, and if you want to get yourself photographed, that’s where I’ll be. I’m planning on staying there through the evening, until I get drunk or cold.
So, the Halloween post is here, and despite my best efforts I couldn’t find a new ghost story this time around, so it was decided to explore some genuine NYC mythology. Remember when you were a kid and went trick or treating? Remember that Mom had to “check” your loot before you could dive into it?
– photo by Mitch Waxman
In my neighborhood back in Brooklyn, the suspicion was that a “crazy lady” was sticking pins into the candy bars. There’s also a variant of the “crazy lady” story that involved ground glass, or straight up rat poison. The tainted candy mythology isn’t limited to the big city, either.
As is the case with all things “urban myth” related, a visit to snopes.com is recommended.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
The “common sense,” as presented by my mother, thing to do was to avoid anything that wasn’t commercially packaged that had found its way into my Halloween bag. You didn’t want to take any loose candy as they were likely illegal drugs, for instance. This sort of giveaway, by the way, is nothing that any drug dealer I’ve ever met indulged in. They generally don’t give things away for free. Drug dealers are pure capitalists.
A giant red flag was always a piece of fruit, which the crazy old lady would have adulterated.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
You didn’t want to run into a razor blade secreted inside of a crunchy Apple, for instance. There’s an adult version of this razor blade story that the Viet Nam Vet guys used to tell us about enemy prostitutes, but that’s kind of a racy story, and the instant reaction of every male teenager whom they told their tale to was an instinctive and protective grabbing of the crotch.
The Viet Nam guys always liked to mess with people, btw. My buddy Frank the postman used to start stories with “don’t make me talk about Nam…” at which point we would heartily tell him not to, and then he’d launch into one gory tale or another designed to make every one of his listeners squirm. Frank would laugh, and laugh.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
In addition to the Jack O’ Lemon at the top of the post, I also carved a Jack O’ Range.
Happy Halloween, back tomorrow, and remember to let your Mom check your candy. Lots of crazy old ladies out there.
“follow” me on Twitter- @newtownpentacle
loathsome laughing
Anxiety is my anti-drug, as is malingering.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Ever drink too much coffee? Caffeine-induced anxiety disorder is a subclass of the DSM-5 diagnosis of substance/medication-induced anxiety disorder (DSM-5 is the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, Fifth Edition, which is the bible of mental health providers in the United States, and our associates). It manifests in the form of panic attacks and generalized anxiety. Caffeine will be absorbed almost entirely into the blood stream in about forty five minutes, and it has a half life of two and a half to four and half hours in normal adults. It generally makes people somewhat antagonistic, which explains a lot about the morning rush hour, by my reckoning.
It’s a vasoconstrictor, which is why it wakes people up and also causes them to poop. If you drink enough coffee, you can develop a cardiac arrhythmia, insomnia, and experience mood fluctuations. If you’re on medications like Xanax, or have anti-anxiety prescriptions for drugs such as benzodiazepines, caffeine can chemically interact with them in bad ways.
I’ve always been positively paranoid about cell necrosis and cytotoxicity, as a note.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Full of shame, living in squalor, hoarding animals, and generally feeling apathetic about the whole shebang? You might suffer from Diogenes syndrome, therefore. Named for a minimalist Greek scholar who lived in a jar and masturbated in public, it’s also known as “senior squalor syndrome.” Diogenes was a cynic, which also used to be a “thing,” but I’m not sure how the masturbation figured into things. Yuck.
The world is a scary place, so much so that some people suffer from Encopresis – a psychological and physical condition wherein you hold onto your poop until the inevitable occurs and you need a new pair of pants. A common remedy for being in an excited state would be to pour out an alcoholic drink and “get a hold of yourself,” but then you’re dancing with Korsakoff’s syndrome as well. Even a waking life lived poorly is preferable to those unavoidable spells which come upon me wherein I pass out and hallucinate.
I like to read the DSM-5 at the witching hour, around three o’clock in the morning, whilst standing wet and naked with my feet immersed in a tub of iced salt water, staring at myself in the bathroom mirror. Sometimes, I’ll quaff a glass of boiling hot gin while doing so. You gotta do what you gotta do.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Often, one wonders if he is lost in some Oneirophrenic trance, but I’ve never abused Ibogaine, at least to my knowledge. As mentioned earlier in the week, two gentlemen of the street were having a conversation about some blood drinking reptilian specie whom the Bush family are a part of which I overheard – which made me wonder if perhaps the DEP is adding Ibogaine in the water, and we’re all just collectively dreaming all of this distopia of ours. What is real? Personally, I’ve never been much for the screaming type of madness, as I’m more of a whimperer, but I have been pricing out “the end is nigh” sandwich boards. So far, Amazon has the best price, but I’m trying to spend money locally and support the small businesses of Queens rather than national retailers.
Back to my tub of ice water and the glass of scalding hot gin…
“follow” me on Twitter- @newtownpentacle
shapeless nemesis
It’s all a plot, I tell you, nothing is accidental and the whole world is “on purpose.”
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Feeling particularly powerless, depressed, and isolated of late – the only solution for one such as myself is to kick his feet about and scuttle around. Persecution and possible prosecution of a humble narrator is always in the forefront of my mind, as it were, so it’s best to just keep moving. Unfortunately, it’s impossible to avoid the “tells” that my movements have been anticipated by some shadowy cabal of possible occultists, if you know how to read the streets. One also grows a bit dizzy when spinning around on his heels to check if any enemies might be coming up from behind.
It’s best to remain vigilant, always. Look at the signage on the food cart above… who ever heard of a halal chili dog? Gotcha, shadowy cabal, you’re not as smart as me – I can spot you people at fifty paces.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Here in Astoria, I noticed back in the first and second weeks of September that a bright beam of light was emanating into the sky from lower Manhattan. There’s a cover story for this propagated by the government, but I know what’s really going on and so will you when a race of extraterrestrial lizards arrives in flying saucers. Of more immediate concern to me is my so called neighbor, which presents itself as an elderly woman who hordes cats. I know what its really up to, and I’m betting those aren’t really cats either.
There’s always one of her so called cats in her window, pretending to be asleep.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Don’t ask me to tell you what’s really going on in Astoria’s St. Michael’s Cemetery. The answer, and its occult implications involving an extra dimensional race of non human intelligences who were the former and are the future wardens of the Earth, could spark off a new dark age and return mankind to the status of shivering cave dwellers and ape like savagery were their presence here known generally. It is best that in these places where they walk about in the dark of night, these elder things, that they do so alone and that the only evidence of their travels are piles of swept aside granite.
It is also best for the rest of you to argue about verbal manners and behavioral mores, and leave the occult reality of things to ones like myself who can actually handle the truth that lies beyond your gaze. There is no “safe space” when “they” are discussed, as our specie are as ants to them. On the earth, only that thing with the three lobed burning eye which dwells in in the cupola of LIC’s sapphire megalith can spy them, and even then only dimly.
“follow” me on Twitter- @newtownpentacle
evil expectancy
Manic paranoia, in today’s post.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
The other day, whilst bringing a check to the bank for deposit, one overheard two gentlemen of the street comparing notes. The younger of the two informed his colleague that the Bush family were in fact reptiles, but he wasn’t sure if they descended from us or if we descended from them. His colleague asked if their reptilian heritage related back to their habit of drinking human blood. The former indicated he did not know.
You can’t make this stuff up, I tell you. What if they’re right? What if it’s all true?
– photo by Mitch Waxman
One of my Croatian neighbors told me that you can catch cancer in the manner of a cold. My own mother was convinced that electricity could arc out from the wall outlets, and required the usage of little plastic plugs for otherwise unused power orifices. The world is a scary place, presumably.
I’m scared, and of pretty much everything and everyone. There’s a threat rich environment to be had on every street corner, and the only thing missing from NYC are jets of flame erupting from random spots in the sidewalk. What if an air conditioner fell on you from some eighth floor window? What if it was pushed by some acolyte of those blood drinking reptilians? That little blur of movement in the corner of the room around the baseboards? That could be a mouse, but it could also be something far worse, although it’s likely a mouse – which is disturbing enough, actually.
What lives, or exists, between the walls of all the apartments is not something you want to think about.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
The world is a scary place, full of existential horror and banal traps. The little plastic or metal tips on shoe laces are called aglets, and their purpose is sinister. Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton patrol the landscape at night seizing people’s precious guns. HAARP is listening, but who is listening to HAARP? FEMA is building vast concentration camps nearby the airports – prison camps for political dissidents.
Heh… why do you think the City wants to replace Riker’s Island, really? Humanitarian concerns? Heh, how naive are you anyway? Heh.
“follow” me on Twitter- @newtownpentacle
The Newtown Pentacle 