Posts Tagged ‘Long Island City’
tremulous pen
It’s National Chocolate Mousse Day, in these United States.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
The staccato of lonely scuttling steps are the rhythm of my life, and a humble narrator recently found himself pulsing down Jackson Avenue in Long Island City after dark. Were it just a few hours later, the subway would have been utilized to return to the rolling hills of almond eyed Astoria from the post industrial dystopia of cylcopean construction sites which typify modernity in this ancient place, but since the evening had just begun it was my bet that the legions of vampire who hide in the rafters of the elevated train tracks were off conducting their nightly siege of the NYC Blood Center over on Vernon Avenue, a few blocks to the west. Still, one had left the garlic and cruciform back home…
I’m guessing that as I age I’m starting to slip up – ten years ago I would have never left the house without the garlic…
– photo by Mitch Waxman
One did encounter unholy and inhuman things along the route, of course. Bizarre statuary adorned a median divider, its misshapen countenance perhaps hinting at what those who walk amongst us unseen are working towards turning mankind into. Have no doubt that a shadowy group is at work at all times in LIC, an unseen cabal organized and controlled by that impossible thing which dwells in the cupola of the Sapphire Megalith and stares at the world through an unblinking three lobed burning eye. Also, the rats hereabouts are oddly organized and operate in a seemingly orchestrated or military manner. Do they all serve some hidden master, a monkish being who is the lord of all that is darkness in Western Queens? Only time will tell.
The organized efforts of the rats might be due to the Vampires (who are known to possess affinity with “creatures of the night”), however, as I haven’t been able to connect the shadowy cabal or any monkish master with rodent control… quite yet.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Heading eastward, towards Queen Plaza, one removed his headphones and tried to focus on separating the sounds of the eternal cacophony of the place. It is critical to listen closely for the rustle of grave soil choked clothing coming from above, and to remain vigilant for the other horrors which lurk in harsh contrast. Queens Plaza is a sensory melange of automotive headlights throwing out beams of bright bluish light, emergency vehicles strobing white and red, the thunderous crossings of the elevated N, W, and 7 Subway lines above and the E, M, and R lines below. The ground shivers with the passing of transit, quakes with the activity of heavy construction, and the very air you’re breathing is a poisonous fume. This airborne taint is painted into the breeze by the hundreds of vehicles a minute which are moving at speed through here at any given moment, and by the out gassing of buried toxics from the former industrial properties which rim Queens Plaza.
Perhaps, underway is some sort of environmental adjustment designed for the comfort of that shadowy cabal, the vampires, the army of vermin, or for the inhuman thing which dwells in the megalith. Who can say?
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Historical research reveals that the Dutch Kills tributary of Newtown Creek used to run right through the section of Jackson Avenue between Queens Plaza and 31st street, in fact the clear eyed Mariners of the United States Coast Guard were able to navigate and map the waterway all the way to 29th street and what is now Jackson Avenue as late as the Civil War. In accordance with the engineering habits of earlier eras, when the Sunnyside Yards were constructed in the early 20th century, the waterway was contained underground. It’s still flowing down there, as the East Side Acces project engineers found out at the start of this century, and as we all know – Vampires are proscribed from crossing running water. That’s why you don’t have to worry too much about them once you cross Queens Plaza while heading for Astoria.
We do have an issue in Astoria with a race of Grecian Goblins called the Kalikantzaros, but that’s another story.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
One is preparing a check list for my carriable prophylactic measures to ensure that age, haste, and other factors do not allow one to go out into the night without a full compliment of deterrents. A garland of fresh garlic – as well as a compliment of cruciforms, crescents, and Stars of David, amongst other wards and amulets – will now be everpresent in my camera bag.
Remember to avoid the area around the blood center on Vernon after sunset though, if you should find yourself somewhere in the northwestern section of LIC, here in the Newtown Pentacle, at night. You’ve been warned.
Upcoming Tours and events
MAS Janeswalk free walking tour, May 7th.
Visit the new Newtown Creek Alliance/Broadway Stages green roof, and the NCA North Henry Street Project – details and tix here.
“follow” me on Twitter- @newtownpentacle
narrow slits
It’s National Black Forest Cake Day, in these United States.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Whilst shlepping about in Astoria, Queens – one often encounters cool cars. The one pictured above was a highly customized Chevy pickup which drew more than one admiring glance from both myself and some other bloke who was dressed as a butcher. I’m pretty sure he actually was a butcher, as after we compared notes on our admiration for the thing, he went into the butcher shop on the corner of 38th street. That would also explain the giant clots of blood I observed on the apron he was wearing, but you don’t ask too many questions about blood stains in Astoria.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Over by the NYCHA Astoria Houses, found to the north and west of that cool car mentioned above, one observed a group of workers building a dock to accommodate the Citywide Ferry service which is meant to be kicking into gear this summer. One advised everyone that would listen not to put it here, but nobody ever listens to little old me.
When a ferry leaves its dock in NY Harbor, regulation and custom demands that it signal its departure via the usage of a particularly loud foghorn. These horn toots are a regular complaint offered by the Manhattan people, who have docks near their homes along the Hudson, in the tony section called Battery Park City. Wonder how the Latin Kings of the Astoria Houses will react to it blowing outside their windows at seven in the morning.
It should have been placed to the south, at the Costco bulkheads where it would have become a viable transportation option for shoppers from Manhattan which would have made it an economically feasible stop and wouldn’t wake up anybody at seven in the morning, but as mentioned – nobody listens to me.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Traipsing down Jackson Avenue, one discovered that a Union protest of some sort (electricians, I think) was being aimed at the so called “5Ptz Towers” construction site. Personally, I’ve always believed there to be enough rodents of the home grown variety here in Long Island City, but there you go. One of these days, I’ve got to investigate where one would proceed to shop in pursuance of purchasing inflatable rodents. As you can see, there’s a regular and a family size model.
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other callers
It’s International Whiskey Day.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
This is normal, right? Everybody wanders around in industrial neighborhoods at night taking pictures of highly polluted waterways, right? It’s not just me… right?
At this time of the year – when it’s neither hot nor cold, but instead lukewarm – the Dutch Kills tributary of the inconceivable Newtown Creek always displays a layer of filmy “goo,” which is at its most observable during the interval when the burning thermonuclear eye of God itself has dipped behind New Jersey. Not sure if the “goo” is just road salt and snow pellet residues, nor some sort of oil or grease, some effluent introduced by the multiple sewer outlets on Dutch Kills which are offered by the NYC Department of Environmental Protection, or perhaps it’s just the mucoid castings of some hidden water dwelling leviathan.
Me, I lean towards the leviathan theory, because it involves both mucous and a giant monster. Mucous is cool.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
One had to tend to a bit of business in Greenpoint last week, and since it was decent out – weather wise – decided to walk home to Astoria. It’s a walk that sounds longer than it is, you just need to take advantage of fact that since the street grid here about is divided and subdivided by highways and rail infrastructure which creates a series of triangles – walk the legs of the triangle and not the hypotenuse until it’s advantageous.
Cutting through the streets around Dutch Kills leads me to that advantageous hypotenuse (which would make a great band name, incidentally) which is Skillman Avenue. A century ago, I would have been able to shortcut on Old Dutch Kills Road from there, but all that’s left of that is a stubby block following the rail tracks near Home Depot which the City calls 37th avenue. You have to work with what you’ve got, though.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
One is engaged, at the moment, with drawing up a schedule for this year’s walking and boat tours. A recently announced Newtown Creek Alliance tour – the 100% Toxic All Day Newtown Creekathon on April 9th – filled up in about half a day and I didn’t even have time to let everyone here know before it did. I have a feeling we will be repeating this one sometime in the fall, but there’s a lot of neat stuff coming this summer.
On the tours subject – Working Harbor Committee met the other night, and there are several water tours in the offing with that group of maritime educators and enthusiasts. We, as in Newtown Creek Alliance, are going to be announcing several opportunities to visit the Creek by water and on land shortly. Additionally, I’ve got a couple of things cooking with Atlas Obscura that are mighty cool. I’ll be letting everyone know about these and other excursions as soon as I’ve got all the dates etched in stone.
“follow” me on Twitter- @newtownpentacle
haughty hermit
It’s National Chips and Dip Day, in these United States.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
An acquaintance of mine, an immigrant frenchman that works at Delmonicos as a butcher (that’s him, all blurred up in the long exposure above) whom I know from the local saloon asked me just the other night “do you always hold meetings in the bar”? The answer is “yes.” If I have to sit down and chat with someone about work and there’s an opportunity to do it over a pint rather than in some banal office, I take it. One has always favored the “Irish Bar” variant of watering hole. One of the first times that I reveled in the glorious and often forgotten history of NYC was back in college whilst wondering about why Third Avenue in Manhattan seemed to host a group of Irish bars at seemingly regular geographic intervals (14th, 23rd, 34th etc.), and that’s when I learned about the former existence of the Third Avenue Elevated. The Irish bars agglutinate do around its no longer extant exit stairwells, and provided a clue as to “what used to be.”
Back when I was still doing comics, and doing promotional appearances at conventions around the country, I’d often find myself in some strange city or town all by myself after the show and would wander into the local licensed establishments for diversion. That’s when I discovered that there were ethnic influences in the set up of various regions – the “Slavic” style bars of the Midwest (a central island with low slung counters built around it, where shots of clear liquor are favored over tap beer) or the restaurant style setups of the American Southeast – where the bar itself is not meant for sitting at, and the patrons gather around tables and chairs set up in the manner of a coffee shop or diner. Further, you can tie the presence of the Northeastern style Irish bar, in say… Pittsburgh or Nashville, directly to the presence of a railroad line that connected to New England or New York City.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
In political circles, they’ll call a working guy “Joe Six Pack,” which was distinctly the sort of drinking that was favored in my old neighborhood back in Canarsie. Going to a bar was largely precluded for my cohort, as the law kept on changing and the level for legal drinking age was constantly being raised as I approached it. When I was 17 turning 18, they made it 19, and then again it was raised to 21 just as I was turning 19. Never stopped us from buying a bottle of suds at some bodega, but the bodega owners would only sell us the crap that no one else wanted like Meister Brau Light (shudders). There were bars in my neighborhood that looked the other way at your fake ID, of course. Famously, one of them in nearby Sheepshead Bay employed a bouncer who was a young Andrew Dice Clay. Dice didn’t care about ID if your face was familiar to him, and his parents lived a block away from mine, so…
The cool thing about my old neighborhood, right on the edge of an increasingly Caribbean Flatbush, was that the beers that nobody else in my social circle wanted to drink but were abundantly available included Red Stripe and Mackeson’s Triple Stout. Back in the 80’s, everyone was still salivating for Bud, Heineken, or Corona, and Coors was still a newly introduced brand in NYC, so… more of the “off the radar” stuff for me. I still like keeping a six pack of Red Stripe in the fridge during the summer, as the Jamaicans really have something going with their national lager as far as hot weather is concerned.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
One has never embraced the high end beers which began to proliferate in recent years as part of the “microbrew” revolution. IPA just causes heartburn to blossom in my skinvelope, and a “flight of beers” as pictured above is just such a “fancy shmancy” and “hoitie toitie” way to suck back a cold one that my inner “Joe Six Pack” just can’t help going all sarcastic.
The thing one finds disturbing about the Irish Bars which I love hanging out at – these days – are the sudden proliferation of the “sore winner” Trump guys who get angry when they overhear a humble narrator, or anyone else for that matter, using multi syllabic words whilst discussing the news of the day with the other “alta cockers.” Whatcha want from me, bro, you’re the one who voted for a walking trash fire to become President. Can’t we just argue about the relative valuations of the Rangers or the Mets like the good old days?
Just last week, a drunk gym teacher from some charter school comes up behind me and… well, that’s another story.
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well on
It’s National Artichoke Heart Day, in these United States.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
One does not want to deceive you, lords and ladies. A humble narrator often thinks about subjects both arcane and nebulous. A recent bit of pondering involved finding a way to hide things in plain sight, although my thoughts did not venture into the realm of nefarious or dubiously legal character. In Hollywood movies, there is a concept called the “Macguffin” – which is an object of desire that drives the protagonists and plot of an action movie. It’s the Lost Ark of the Covenant, the Maltese Falcon, the jewel called the Pink Panther. The Macguffin itself is less important than the events and characters surrounding it, of course. Where would you hide a Macguffin in modern day NYC?
I’m thinking the fleet of green Boro taxis would work.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Manhattan and its fleet of yellow cabs are relatively contained. Close the bridges and tunnels, monitor the shorelines, and you’ve created a closed box to search systematically in. The infinity of Brooklyn? The vast tracts of Queens and Staten Island, or the “attached to the continent” borough of the boogie down Bronx? Now you’ve got an intractable problem in finding the Macguffin, with open borders to other counties. The Boro cabs are largely individually owned, and do not return at set intervals to a central location in the manner of the yellow taxi fleets, which complicates locating them. Further, they are dispersed geographically, unlike the yellows.
The green cabs, due to their meters and other electronic components are able to be found on a GPS map, of course. Saying that, there’s a lot of turf to cover and you’ve only got so many cops. Additionally, once you shut the engine off and park the thing, it’s just another one of the hundreds of thousands of vehicles in NYC.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Nefarious purposes notwithstanding… let’s say the Macguffin is a box of pastry prized by the gendarmes, and not some dirty bomb or other claptrap. A box of donuts, for arguments sake. Would it be possible for the Cops to catalog the contents of every single cab?
One can report that, based on apocryphal reports offered by those involved with the trade, narcotics and other illicit goods are commonly moved about the City by taxi and car service rather than by private vehicle. Criminal elements amongst us know everything there is to know about forfeiture laws, and the building of RICO cases by association. The favored methodology for moving “weight” is not to have a known gang member carry the stuff (a kilo of Macguffins), but rather to find an innocuous courier whom the cops will not notice nor suspect. In my old neighborhood in Brooklyn, it was common for the mob guys to employ Orthodox Jews as paid couriers for cash and dope for exactly this reason. They blended into the background, just like the Boro Cabs.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
As a note – something about living in Trump’s America has been causing my conspiratorial theorizing to go into overdrive. Hasn’t been this attuned to the hidden and obscured since the late 1980’s. Paranoid wonderings and obscure connections just seem to blossom these days. A box of donuts isn’t just a box of donuts anymore, instead it’s likely something sinister and laden with more than just too much sugar and fat. We live in a bigly country, and donuts are great again.
I wonder if I could move a box of donuts through the City, undetected, using nothing but green cabs.
“follow” me on Twitter- @newtownpentacle
The Newtown Pentacle 