this was always the plan.
Long Island City Graffiti Building aka Five Pointz.
Amazing. I’d like to see more buildings covered with graffiti and murals.
If I had to live in a stuccoed brutalist building I’d invite people over to graffiti it up.
(Photo by X.A Medina http://lepoet.tumblr.com/)
I need my space. There is this urban legend that Greenpoint is hard to get to. It’s not. But I let the legend live on. Whenever someone asks me how I like Greenpoint, I say, “It’s wonderful, but it’s hard to get to.” I like my own space. I like that the bar next door to my apartment, The Black Rabbit, is oftentimes empty when I go in during the week. I like that I can sit in the same booth each time and drink my beer and read and write and not be disturbed except for when I disturb myself and want another beer.
And this is where the story starts, me sitting alone drinking my beer. A skinny kid walks in. He asks the bartender about the chicken slaughter across the street.
“Hey man, I just checked out this apartment down the street. I really like it but I heard there is a chicken slaughter house somewhere on this street.”
The bartender in the red hat, whose name I never learned because I’m shy or just don’t like people, tells him it’s across the street.
“Is it bad?” The kid asks. The-bartender-in-the-red-hat rubs his chin and says “Nah.” I poke my head out and interrupt, “It’s horrible man. When I am walking home I hear the chickens’ screams. And sometimes you see feathers floating down the street no doubt stripped from the poor birds bodies just moments before.” I took a sip of my beer refusing to unlock my eyes from the kid. “It’s sickening.” The-bartender-in-the-red-hat and the kid just stared at me. I stared back. They broke their eyes away and the kid thanked the-bartender-in-the-red-hat quietly and left the bar. I felt like he should have thanked me. I was the one who gave the most information. The-bartender-in-the-red-hat asked me why I said that. I said, “I like my space.” I admired the-bartender-in-the-red-hat’s empty bar and sat back down in my booth and re-opened my book.
“When I tend to think about myself, I tend to think that I am okay. My hair is fairly soft, and I have very tiny hands. I don’t necessarily imagine men fantasize about me, but maybe they fantasize about me in certain situations. I can make a good, hearty chili, for example, and my oven-baked layered nachos have been called “better than those at Applebee’s.” Sometimes on Sundays I watch football, and while I don’t fart, I can handle a man who does. I once spent six hours in a car beside a man who did, off and on the entire way, and I made it out of there pretty okay.”…
