All this warm weather is good for us though I’m sure it isn’t great for Mom’s Nature, messing up the normal cycle of things.

Anyhow, the buds are on the trees in New York and that is always a welcome sight.

Just writin’ my name and graffiti on the wall.

[Photo Credit: Graffiti and Girls]

More photo fun over at Gothamist.

Here’s more NYC photography by Michael Sean Edwards over at Gothamist.

From the indispensable site How to be a Retronaut here is a gallery of photographs by Michael Sean Edwards of the Garment District in 1985.

Man, just another great shot from the New York Times‘ tumblr site. I remember this Times Square ad well. Actually gave me the chills seeing it again.

I had the King Kong lunch box and thermos when I was in first grade. Dag.

Baseball is in the air…

A mother and her two girls got on the subway this morning on the upper west side. I’ve seen them before. The mother has a long, narrow face with big teeth but she isn’t unattractive. The girls are maybe four and six respectively.

The mother had her hands full this morning. The girls shifted in their seats and the young one kept talking like an infant.

“No baby talk, please,” the mother said.

At one point, the two girls were seated across from each other. The older one turned her back on her sister and looked out of the window into the darkness. The seat next to her was open and an obese man sat in it. He took up more than one seat but there was still enough room for the older daughter. Barely.

Her sister saw this and said, “That woman is too big.”

The mother told her to be quiet. But she said it again, loud enough for the man–who was not wearing headphones–to hear: “That woman is too big.”

The man’s expression remained blank. The mother turned the little girl around and distracted her with baby talk.

New York, 1973: another dope Photo Gallery found at How to be a Retronaut.

I saw this when I got on the train this morning and well, you just know it helped start the day off on the good foot, now, don’t ya?

What would you rather do: Drive a bus or operate a subway train? I’d rather drive a bus for the simple reason that you wouldn’t have to deal with people jumping on the tracks.  But a bus driver’s job can’t be easy and depends heavily on which route he or she is working.

Waiting for the bus last night in the Bronx. The city is always poppin’.

Pictures

by

Louis Stettner

You’re Welcome.

Overheard on the subway this morning:

“I’m almost fifty, I can’t be locked up again, what kind of shit is that? It’s ridiculous. I need me a Jew lawyer.”

I looked up. Two women stood above me. The one talking wore black-rimmed glasses, a white turtleneck, underneath a navy blue pea coat, tight jeans, high heels. She and her friend spoke quickly in English and then Spanish. I wished I understood Spanish but I just picked up some familiar words and phrases: siempre, tam bein, mi amore, ay dios mio.

“…Yo, that fucking bitch is fierce as fuck,” the woman said. “I fucking love her.” I looked down and smiled.

Next to me a girl was doodling on the front page of a packet that read: AP Psychology, Mr. Wilson.

Dig it:

A friend of mine sent me this New York Times piece by Corey Kilgannon the other day:

Thirty-three years ago, an office worker named Ludwika Mickevicius left her native Poland and became Lucy the bartender in the East Village.

Her proletarian toughness and heavy Polish accent played well with the punks and rebels at Blanche’s bar on Avenue A, near Seventh Street. Ms. Mickevicius became so synonymous with the place, the owner renamed it Lucy’s and then sold her the business 15 years ago.

As the East Village cleaned up around it, Lucy’s remained the prototypical dive bar: a comfortable cave bathed in low red light, with a dingy dropped ceiling and worn linoleum on the floor. One arcade game, one jukebox, two pool tables, two small drinking tables, a dozen stools and a heavy oak bar. All are steeped in the character of Ms. Mickevicius: straightforward and practical. No frills, no nonsense, no whining.

“Many people hear about me and they come in and say, ‘Lucy, don’t change anything; we like it like this,’ ” she said. “Plus, change costs a lot of money.”

The story would have made Joseph Mitchell smile.

My friend used to go to Lucy’s years ago. He told me:

A past relationship of mine, we were a pair of heavy users, and recognized that we were in love. We hung out  at Lucy’s, never called it more than that, in the bag, leaning on the bar making sure we continued the “feeling better” part. We squeezed each other and made out. We loved to scream at each other.  Lucy had to break us up or shut us up. Her advice: “Why don’t you both get married”! Stoned and drunk we looked and said “why not?”

From that point forward we were going to get married. Started speaking to each other about living together. But within two weeks, I could not find her. I spoke to a friend of hers who had told me that she couldn’t handle it and just got in her car and drove west, ending up in San Francisco. She cleaned up and I finally heard from her, apologetic. She ended up marrying another artist/grease monkey out there and seemed happy.

Within a year I got a call, Her husband dryly stated that she died of an overdose, in a corner of a room with the needle stuck in her arm. He sent me her driver’s license and her death certificate along with one photo I always loved of her.

I still miss her, or maybe I really miss what could have been.

[Photo Credit: Robert Simonson]

The subway was backed-up this morning and the 1 ran from 59th to 42nd, skipping my stop. So I got off at 59th and got on the next train. Conductor says: “If you can’t fit…quit.” Then after the doors closed and we were on our way he read us the riot act but he sounded amused. “And remember,” he summed up. “In order for the MTA to be on our way…you must get out of the doorway.”

I laughed. Nobody else around me did. Maybe they’d heard his act for too long to smile. Nothing but a group of angry, sleepy faces.

[Photo Credit: Jonathan Woods]

The light is changing. I started noticing it a few weeks ago. Now, each day I see it more.

It’s a beautiful thing. Spring is on the way.

A husband and wife on the subway this morning, mid-thirties. The wife sits next to me. She is blond and her face is plain but she’s not unattractive. The husband stands in front of us. He is wearing a baseball cap and his full beard and strong hands can’t hide the fact that he looks like an overgrown boy.

They talk quietly. I read my book. Then I see her take his hand in hers.

“Your hands are so dry”

“They still have plaster on them.”

“You want some hand lotion?”

“No.”

“I have neutoagena.”

“That shit smells.”

“It’s oderless.”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

My wife is always on me to use lotion and I still look at her like she’s got three heads. Sometimes, she puts it on my arms anyhow and after I squirm and make faces I feel better.

I look up at him. We exchange a look and a smile. Then I return to my book.

[Photo Credit: Pink Sherbet Photography]