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?

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.

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.

I looked up from my book this morning and saw the man sitting across from me reading “The Road,” by Cormac McCarthy. I heard myself say, “Oh, wow,” as I’m always looking for an excuse to engage a stranger in conversation and a book is an ideal opening. But I stopped myself when I saw that he was maybe twenty pages away from the end of the book.

There’s just some things you shouldn’t do. Don’t interrupt an animal when they are eating. Don’t disturb your wife when she’s putting on make-up and getting herself ready. And don’t bother someone when they are almost finished reading a book. It’s not just uncouth. It could be dangerous.

How to be a Retronaut features a gallery of those punk skateboard kids. NYC, 1960s.

New York Panoramas, 1902-1913 over at How to Be a Retronaut.

Found on the walk between uptown pre-schools a few weeks ago: one of New York City’s greatest mysteries.

To me, anyway. The first time I remember seeing sneakers strung across telephone wires I was in the Bronx around Yankee Stadium. I asked why, and I’m sure I received an answer, but the answer didn’t have sufficient tack to stay with me.

Here are a bunch of theories, though not exclusive to New York. I like the idea that when you get a new pair, you throw the old ones up there. And since my wife snapped this pic on a block between my kids’ schools, let’s be tooptimistic and rule out the crack, murder and gang-related explanations.

Isn’t it Romantic?

Where a token booth once stood. Downtown side of the 50th street station on the IRT.

Roomier. But makes me sad when I think of the clerks who are out of work in the name of progress.

Check out this coolness:

New York Calling from Vas on Vimeo.

[Photo Credit: Jake Dobkin]

Coming straight from the underground.

Undercity via The Gothamist.

[Photo Credit: Steve Duncan]

This beautiful New York Minute is brought to you by the most talented people at This Must Be The Place:

PRIME from thismustbetheplace on Vimeo.

Ben Wu and David Usui at Lost and Found Films…thank you.

[Photo Credit: Serious Eats]

From the Subway Art Blog, Richard Estes.

Seen on the 1 train.

A boy and his mom reading a Tintin comic book.

Sleepy faces on the train this morning. Start of a new week. I heard a squeaking sound and looked around the car. It came from one of the doors. It was an irritating noise but soon I got the rhythm of it and it sounded like a bird chirping. It wasn’t so bad anymore. Morning sounds on the Iron Horse.