City Island: The Bronx Riviera

Recently, people have been asking if I do any research before visiting these various and varied neighborhoods. The short answer: No. I find it far more interesting to enter a place without any foreknowledge. And so, ignorant with open eyes, I disembarked the bus, you know, wherever on City Island.

In the time that it took to solve the algebraic equation of public transportation necessary to get to this little isle off the Bronx coast (F to the L to the 4 to the BX-29 = 2.5 hours), I could have flown to Florida. That being said, City Island somewhat resembles the sunshine state and I headed down to the beach, a mere 2 blocks away. In fact , where I got off, the island was a whole 3 blocks wide, which makes one wonder if the inhabitants are at all worried about rising sea levels. But we'll save that conversation for another day and just enjoy the view for now.



To be honest, I don't really like the beach. Besides the sand factor, there's a lot of pressure to "enjoy" oneself and to "relax." Trying to relax stresses me out, so I spent only enough time there to really start yearning for pavement, all of about 3 minutes.

Walking the streets of City Island a single word came to mind : Cute. Everything is cute and/or cute-cute, sometimes even, regrettably, cutesy. Take for instance, this house:


Cute, no? But with this next house, we're moving in to cute-cuteville, as in, doesn't this house look just like a house in Nantucket?



Finally we have cutesy:



hmm... lawn ornament deer reclining beneath a flowery tree. But wait, what's that behind it?


Pink Flamingos. Right. However, we should at least be a little thankful to City Island. After all, how many times do you get the opportunity to say, "Aw, isn't that cute?" in New York City? NEVER. Except for on City Island, and sometimes, even cutesy is kind of nice.

Still, a little bit goes a long way, so thankfully, I happened upon a graveyard before my eyes glazed over with honey.


Now, while all these people may be dead, there's nothing like seeing the span of a lifetime in two numbers and a dash to remind you of how long life can be. This couple for example



lived through both World Wars, the majority of the Cold War, Vaudeville, Elvis, the 60s, and Depeche Mode. That is a lot of life, to say the least.

But reveling in the strange beauty of life and death as we know them was not the only point of interest in this place of rest. Like any halfway decent graveyard, this one had its mysteries and many of its headstones bore the ominous sign of the Freemasons:



Not just for gravestones, later on I saw this famously infamous sign on the sides of buildings and on the lapel of a jacket I almost bought at a yard sale. (It was a little too big.) I had to uncover this clandestine mystery so close to the shores of the center of American finance and culture. What scandalous plan could they be hatching? Is our very way of life at stake, held in the hands of this uber-secret society? For answers, I went straight to the source - www.bronxmasons.com, their website and clicked on the “Got Questions?” link. As if to beguile the viewer, their website is pretty poorly designed and hard to read. Also, the writing isn’t that good, I mean, the writing is cryptic! But as far as I can tell, some fishermen and sailors got together in 1918 and started a Lodge to take care of member’s widows, orphans, and business interests. But when I clicked on “Famous Masons part 1” I received the enigmatic message: “404 Not Found, sorry but the content you request could not be found.” I suppose it should have come as no surprise that these cloak-and-dagger cultists should keep their hand close. Well, score one for the City Island Freemason’s – but I’ll be back!

Later this week: the original Trader Joe. Rest assured, he doesn't sell organic snacks and moderately priced hormone free meats.

The 99¢ Store

Have you noticed there’s no “cents” sign on the keyboard anymore? You have to insert a symbol and even there it’s hard to find.  In the April issue of Harper’s, there’s an article by Joachim Kalka about the slow but eminent disappearance of coinage, and with it, the extinction of the rituals surrounding these metallic objects. Heads or tails? Flicking pennies at elementary school crushes. The pleasure of having exact change at the counter of your local bodega. So, it was with profound enjoyment that I visited the last and greatest defense of the coin: the 99¢ store.

Of course, as any soured skeptic will immediately point out, not everything in a 99¢ store costs 99¢. But, that, my dear nay-sayer, is not the point. The point is that some things, indeed many things, in a 99¢ store cost 99¢. If you hand the cashier a dollar, he will hand you a penny. If you give them your credit card, he will charge you tax and then it’s not 99¢ anymore. Take for instance this bag of rubber bands. 99¢! And it will last you a life time.

It is entirely possible to find your every need, if not desire, in the crammed aisles of Bushwick 99¢ stores.



From food to toys, from brooms to toilet seat covers (who doesn’t need one of those – especially in lovely pastel), they’ve got it all and cheap.



But choice! you say. I want selection. Have no fear! The name and description might be in a language other than English, and you might not know exactly what you’re buying, but your options are nearly unlimited. Just like going out to dinner in Paris. Heading off to the laundromat? Just try to choose from this epic shelf.



You’ll be lingering for hours.

What's that? You wanted tape? Well.



With an average of 2 per block on the main drag, Knickerbocker Avenue is the absolute Mecca of 99¢ stores. For those on a budget, or just in the market for authentic kitsch, it’s well worth the subway trip. So come-on. Roll up your pennies and enjoy it while you can.

Beautiful Bushwick

Okay, full disclosure. I used to live in the neighborhood known as Bushwick (arguably between the Morgan and Dekalb stops on the L) on the very unfortunate corner of Knickerbocker and Suydam where nightly, stereos turned up to 11 would set off all the car alarms in the vicinity. But! It’s got some great graffiti - especially off the Morgan L stop - home to the Morgan Lofts.

For those unfamiliar with this particular complex of converted warehouses, they are a veritable hive of artistic activity (and, of course, all night bonanzas of bargain beer and designer drugs). Huge, cheap, and in what was not too long ago a no man’s land, the Lofts now form one of New York’s most vibrant artistic communities. That’s the upside. The downside, as always, that scourge: Gentrification. But, beyond politics, there’s something interesting going on in Bushwick, mostly on the sides of buildings.
After another long, long ride on the rickety but lovable, G train, then a transfer to the not so lovable L, I emerged from the underground into the thick of it, and this sweet face:

With miles of empty and unpoliced streets at their disposal, Bushwick artists have created a better public art program than anything the government has done since circa 1934. Thanks budget cuts.

They’re not the only ones, however. Traditional graffiti artists, employing text as their principal subject, have long reigned over these gritty corridors, rivaling their fine art competitors with nothing more than a cache of spray paint cans.

It always befuddles me how it is they do what they do without a brush. Notice, for example, the belly button in this one:

Where it gets really fascinating is the point of intersection between these two styles. While say, wheatpasted sad boy:is clearly of the Morgan Lofts variety and this giant tag of illegible (to me) letters:

obviously falls into the traditional category, there are examples aplenty where distinctions cannot be so clearly drawn. Take this tag – curvy letters, crowded canvas, sure.

But pastel? That’s an odd color pallet for a tagger.

Or what about this flying pig?  Pop art imagery – but attached to flashy orange letters.

My favorite is the block long mural which seems to be a perfect collaboration between these two modes, comprised of both uber-script and incredible pop-art figures.



Also, I would mention, there is nothing behind this wall. It's just a wall.

Zig-zagging between Morgan and Jefferson for the better part of the morning brought on a wave a nostalgia for my good ol' days of hard Brooklyn living. Falling asleep to fist fights, waking up to roosters, and parties full of aspiring artists of every ilk. Park Slope (where I live now) certainly has its attraction, but you're not in the thick of the counter culture's vanguard, nor do you have a living museum outside your front door. Let's be honest. A trip to Bushwick is a trip back to 21. You wouldn't want to stay. But my God, is it nice to visit.
At about noon the many, many churches burst forth their Easter parishioners like a great tidal wave of pastel and lace. At this point I thought it best to explore my other favorite Bushwick phenomenon - 99₡ stores. More on that later this week. For about a thousand pictures of graffiti, click over to Artifacts. I went kind of nuts with the camera.

They’re not the only ones, however. Traditional graffiti artists employing text as their principal subject have long reigned over these gritty corridors, rivaling their fine art competitors with their cache of spray paint cans.

It always befuddles me how it is they do what they do without a brush. Notice, for example, the belly button in this one:

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