Posts Tagged ‘Pickman’
linger strangely
The fedora district of Long Island City.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Last week, one found himself wandering desperately through the Fedora District.
A term of my own invention, as it seems like the sort of spot built for and by fellows who routinely placed felt hats upon their heads when leaving the house. My sweaty desperation was brought on by certain bodily functions which were calling for, nay, demanding attention.
Simply put, I had to poop, drop a deuce, or extrude ex food.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
One of the big problems experienced all over the megalopolis is a lack of publicly available rest rooms.
For some reason, the credentialed urban planners of the world do not acknowledge human biology in their calculations, nor require accessible bathrooms from the real estate people in exchange for their tax breaks and $1 land deals.
This is why people piss on their green infrastructure, there’s no where else to go.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
I should have stopped at the diner on Jackson to take care of business, but didn’t have the money or time to spend on a cup of joe or similar item as a ransom for relief. Urgency commanded one to double time it back to Astoria and the comforts of those porcelain fixtures which we keep confined in a tile room. I, for one, urge the incoming Mayor’s transition team to consider the fact that humans will need to crap and pee occasionally.
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wooded hollow
An old school MTA bus, spotted at Union Square.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Recent obligation, this time a consultation with and an examination by some the medical professionals who maintain that delicate homeostasis which forestalls my inevitable dissolution, brought one to the Shining City- specifically to the storied locale known as Union Square.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
The MTA runs a museum program in December, rolling out so called “nostalgia” units from their vintage collection. The subway side of it runs along the M line and will be discussed later in the week.
There’s a bus program, which operates along 42nd street, so it was a surprise to find one of the legacy units at Union Square. Serendipity!
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Fond memories of this model of NYC bus clutter my memories.
The first time I had a gun pointed at me was on one of these, as was my first experience of getting caught up in one the race riots which Brooklyn regularly offered back in the 80’s.
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uneasy voices
Quite the hullabaloo over in Astoria last Friday.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Rainy, last Friday evening, a sudden explosion of sirens and a characteristic strobing of red and white light announced that members of the Fire Department had arrived to pursue their occupation. I grew interested when Rescue 4 showed up, which I understand to be a sort of mobile command post and which I’ve only seen when the situation is truly serious.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
There were two crewed trucks, a hook and ladder unit and an engine unit. In addition, the Rescue 4 truck and this “Haz Tac” unit arrived on scene along with a couple of ambulances. The setting is Broadway in Astoria, by the way, between 43rd and 44th streets.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
There were enough FDNY personnel down there to start a soccer team, but they all seemed to be milling about, rather than the rushing around and “crash bang” action which normally describes the pursuit of their occupation.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
NYPD sent an ESU (Emergency Services Unit) truck as well as a highway patrol and several ordinary unit cars, and being the nosey sort, this motivated me to throw the filthy black raincoat on and find out what was going on.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
The municipal employees were tight lipped, as usual, but my network of local Croatians had already created a cogent narrative. The whole thing revolved around this van.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
As transmitted to me by the Istrian witnesses, there was an accident. A typical fender bender with no injuries, the driver of the van nevertheless fled the scene and abandoned the vehicle.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Some unknown municipal threshold must have been achieved, in terms of ascertaining the threat posed by the vehicle, and the FDNY began to pack up and leave. NYPD got busy with traffic cones and redirecting traffic. One wonders, however, what triggered this massive response to an abandoned van.
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Project Firebox 99
An ongoing catalog of New York’s endangered Fireboxes.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
This 99th portrait of a Firebox depicts that which stands proudly upon Northern Blvd at the eastern extant of the Carridor in Queens. Great expectation has been expressed by certain readers of this, your Newtown Pentacle, that some Götterdämmerung of a Firebox posting will arrive for the 100th iteration, but that misses the point of these ubiquitous columns of street furniture and will surely leave one disappointed. This scarlet sentinel survived 12 years of Michael Bloomberg’s best attempts at firebox genocide, like its brothers, and that alone is worthy of comment.
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inevitably drawn
Where oh where can I find the direction home?
– photo by Mitch Waxman
Everybody is going somewhere, coming from someplace else, or running errands. A humble narrator has no direction, no destination, no desire. All I want is to acknowledge Newtownian physics and prove that objects in motion tend to stay in motion until they encounter a force strong enough to arrest or alter their movement. Also, energy cannot be created nor destroyed, but that’s a longer term project that involves hanging odd charms from string in a series of bottles, and I’m still collecting the necessary glassware.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
The world only makes sense when you force it to do so. This statement is something I constantly convince myself isn’t true, but unfortunately its diabolical truth is proven to me time and again. Tendencies to reticence and a desire to “trust,” which is a vainglorious attempt to believe in humanity as a whole, seem to be my metaphorical achilles heel. Experiences amongst the monkey tribes over the last few years argue against the mendacity of these apes, and one such as myself can only laugh his scary laugh and retreat back into the night.
– photo by Mitch Waxman
I aspire to be “nice,” struggle with notions of absolute morality, and attempt to keep my true nature under some sort of control. Most of those who have long populated my life know this side of me, understand what it is that I keep chained up in the attic and basements of the soul, and have learned how unpleasant things can get when the fetters are loosed. Do not push a creature like me, as you will find the road you’ve entered upon to be quite a bumpy one.
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