The one big thing you need to know about cement or concrete is that YOU GOT TO KEEP IT MOVING. My father knew this better than anyone; for most of his adult life, he worked for a construction company that specialized in concrete. All too often, a newbie driver with the company would break down on the road and not realize that his number one priority was to keep that cement drum moving. Invariably he would return a cement truck with a drum full of hardened concrete. This would require either a entire replacement of the drum or a very laborious removal process – chipping the material out with a jack hammer. I did this for a summer job – one of the most unpleasant tasks I have ever known.

I endured an extreme stoicism growing up, driven by my parents’ hard times, lean circumstances, and real need, not by an effort to impress. My father had ZERO tolerance for complaining about any hardship, and I witnessed a few severe accidents with no expression of pain. He owned a rifle at 10 years old and was taken out of school at 12 to work full time as a wood cutter in subzero temperatures. There were accidents, misfortune, and real adversity to face. Later in life, many anecdotes would be exchanged – small tales of extreme bravado.

My family had a custom home built in the mid-1960s. For a family with such austere and impoverished roots, this was a tremendous source of pride. After completion, my father decided that a couple of concrete walkways around the house would be a nice touch and an opportunity to use his knowledge of concrete.

With all the preparations done, it was time to actually pour the concrete. He had been able to borrow a small portable mixer like that in today’s photo. The mixer was chain-driven, and at one point one of his fingers got caught in the drive, tearing off his knuckle. However, the concrete was wet and needed to be kept moving, and an accident was not to deter him. He looked at me and only said four words: “Get me a rag,” with no cry or any visible sign of discomfort, only frustration that his job was now made more difficult.

My father instilled in me a great respect for power tools, and to me, one of the most frightening is the table saw. A colleague who built a post and beam home in Maine told me that most of the members of the crew who built his home had a finger or part missing. A supplier of wood parts to whom I once recounted these tales concurred, telling me that sadly, these accidents are generally just a function of time. A very large number of those who work in heavy wood manufacturing industries inevitably have a serious accident resulting in the loss of a finger.

My father had a basement shopped equipped with a table saw. He was extraordinarily careful and methodical with its use, but time caught up with him. On one occasion, he cut the tip of one finger off. He came up from the basement stairs with his hand wrapped in a bloodied shirt and stood silently before my mother. Surmising the seriousness of the accident, she asked in shock and horror, “Are you alright?” To which he answered, with classic New England stoicism, “Not really…”

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I once called an ambulance for a college-aged girl who was severely drunk, eyes rolling about and vomiting so badly that I thought she might die. When EMS arrived, I apologized for possibly making an unnecessary call, but they assured me that I had done the right thing and that someone can die from alcohol poisoning.

On another occasion, a number of us called an ambulance for Danny Mustard, who was so drunk that he appeared to not be breathing. Danny has since cleaned up and gone on to a musical career after his astonishing cover of Creep by Radiohead aired on the Opie and Anthony show, now with 4 million views on YouTube.

Since the inception of this website, I have befriended a number of homeless individuals, many whom I see on a regular basis such as Stephanie or Morgan. The problem with homelessness is that even with outreach programs, most homeless prefer a life on the streets to that in shelters for a number of reasons. Many are puzzled, as I have been, as to why a homeless person would choose a life on the streets over a shelter. Here is why:

Lack of beds. Most shelters have a shortage of available beds.

They are dangerous. There have been many reported murders, assaults and rapes.

Drugs. Drugs are not allowed, so drug users will avoid them.

Theft. There is thievery in shelters, so some homeless stop using shelters to protect the few possessions they have.

Lack of privacy.

Lack of control. Shelters impose many rules – check in times, meal times, sleep times, curfews. Some homeless work, sometimes with schedules making it impossible to abide by a shelter’s hours.

Mental Illness. Some people are denied entry to shelters due to mental illness.

No pets allowed.

Fear of contracting parasites including lice, scabies or bedbugs.

Lack of accommodations for the disabled.

Separation of families. Children can not usually stay in homeless shelters. Men and women cannot be in the same shelter.

If you fall down in New York City, will someone help you get up? Usually. If you need help in New York City, will someone come to your aid? Maybe. If you are homeless and need a safe place to stay, will you find one? Probably not.

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I recently took a subway with a group of friends. As we descended the stairs to the platform, a train was conveniently awaiting. However, as typically is the case, in order to get the train before leaving, there is a stampede for the first car – the one closest from the stairway to the platforms. So, the first car becomes inordinately crowded.

We jammed in, a la Tokyo (but without the pushers). What may come as a surprise is that we met no resistance, even while pressing our bodies against others. In fact, looking around, I would say there was more smiling than frowning. I felt that there was a sense that like it or not, we’re all in this together. Who would begrudge others the very same thing they want and have for themselves and have to look at the have-nots through windows as the train pulls away?

I have written a number of stories espousing my dislike and avoidance of crowds in New York City. Yet now, crammed like sardines, I, like the others, actually enjoyed the experience – our shared misery was fun. In times of need, common hardship or common celebration, a crowd of people is just the thing. It is said that one can be lonely in a crowded room, but I find that in times of loneliness, to step out into the world that is New York City can be restorative.

At one time I used to frequent the beaches at Robert Moses State Park on Fire Island and also Jones Beach. In both cases, I would always trek away from the most crowded areas to those more sparsely populated. On one occasion, I found myself chatting briefly with someone who had parked himself and his friends only steps from the concession buildings in the most crowded area imaginable. I offered my knowledge of the island and my strategy, thinking that perhaps he was not aware how much less crowded the beach gets just a short walk away. He informed me that he and his friends preferred being there.

This was revelatory and very startling to me. Growing up in New England, my family suffered any pains to avoid crowds, traffic, and cites, always priding themselves on finding those places that were quiet. But now my worldview was being challenged again by this beach denizen. Much as I grew to love the city, I now saw that there were those who preferred not just culture and amenities but crowds themselves.

There can be a feeling of security amoung a group of people. I often find the same feeling in midtown Manhattan amid buildings, where immersed in the concrete jungle, I am comforted, not overwhelmed, by the structures. Many hate crowds, and some even panic at the prospect of being in New York City with all its horrors, some real and most imagined. I, on the other hand, have been a New Yorker for much too long – I feel safe and secure with the melange of buildings towering over and huddled around me, buffeting the world like my Guardian Angels 🙂

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I had a high school classmate that was a runner of the mile. And he won. Everything. He was a regional champion. It was rumored that his father said he would buy him a car if he broke the 4-minute mile. I often saw him running. He was always training.

I attended virtually no sports competitions in high school, but on one occasion I stopped in briefly for a track meet. My classmate had won his event, of course, but our team’s win was in doubt. I tried to console him by telling him that it looked good for a third place in a cross-country running event and there was hope. He looked at me and said, “Anything except first place is shit.” Harsh words. The mantra of the overachiever. But I understood, because this was the attitude I encountered growing up.

I met the group of girls in the photo in front of the Skirball Center at New York University. They had just completed a hip hop dance competition, Blaze the Stage. They had LOST and were not pleased. They were from Florida. I asked how they got here, where they stayed, and who paid. They had flown to New York City, booked a hotel, and paid for it all themselves – not a cheap proposition for these girls.

They were angry and told me they felt that the competition was RIGGED. I tried to get more details on the event, perhaps even to see a video of these girls and the winners to judge for myself. I was unable to find videos for 2011 or confirm the details of the dance competition, even after calling the organization.

For many, the American dream goes something like: work hard, excel in your home town, come to New York City, audition at Radio City, be chosen to be a Rockette, and cry for joy with makeup running down your face. But there is also the classic shattered dream: work hard, excel in your home town, come to New York City, audition, not be chosen, and cry while removing your makeup alone in the dressing room or sit in the street outside the NYU Skirball Center.

There are many coveted positions, professions, and competitions in New York City. There are many competitors, and often, only one will be chosen. Often, the level of talent can come as a shock to the newly arrived. I don’t know if these girls knew what they were up against, particularly a hip hop dance event in New York. With all due respect, I do not think that the event was rigged. Unless you mean by rigged that some win and others lose. Or, that only one wins and all the others lose.

I’m glad my high school classmate was not around to console them. They did not need salt rubbed in their wounds by being told that anything except first place is…


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I hate roaches.

My friend had been swindled by drug addicts. She had paid “key” money for a low-income housing apartment in a city-owned building. When she went to take occupancy, the door was padlocked. She contacted management, who told her that things did not work the way she planned – these apartments were for welfare recipients and the needy, not a woman who just needed a cheap apartment. Through a miracle of persuasion (which included crying), my friend obtained a lease for an apartment she was not qualified for at a very low, $125-per-month rent. The place was in a small tenement building, but it was in the heart of the West Village. It was the coup of the century.

I accompanied her on the first visit to her new place. It was disgusting, as would be expected with a place formerly occupied by drug addicts. Nothing, however, prepared us for the bathroom, which was not just roach-infested but where the ceiling was a TAPESTRY of moving cockroaches. So much so that we only peered in to avoid roaches falling on our heads. A roach bomb was required, as well as a cleanup of dead roaches.

At one time, these kinds of opportunities in Manhattan housing were not uncommon. Most remarkable were the SQUATS. In retrospect, squats are almost unfathomable – apartments for the TAKING. Of course, squats are romanticized. Who really has the fortitude to live in horrific conditions for decades? These buildings had the most awful conditions imaginable. But, after the fact, they certainly are the envy of many a New Yorker, particularly those without substantial means.

From the Villager:

The East Village was then full of vacant buildings the city had taken possession of for landlords’ failure to pay property taxes. Many of the properties were severely damaged, needing extensive repairs that would daunt even the most experienced professional contractors. Doing all the work themselves, the squatters were rehabbing the burned-out tenement shells, transforming them into viable living quarters, bringing life back to desolate blocks.

In a series of high-profile clashes — particularly on E. 13th and E. Fifth Sts. — the city forcibly evicted many of the squatters in the 1990s. But in 2002, City Hall took a radically new approach: Eleven of the 12 remaining East Village squats were sold for $1 apiece to the nonprofit Urban Homesteading Assistance Board. Under the agreement, the squatters, with UHAB’s guidance, would bring their buildings up to code within one year, then buy them — for just $250 per apartment — and the buildings would become permanently affordable, Housing Development Fund Corporation, or H.D.F.C., co-ops.

The deal between the squatters and the city was historic, making headlines around the world. Now, more than six years later, a number of the 11 squats are set to undergo formal conversion to co-ops in the next few months. All of them should be converted in 18 months to two years, according to UHAB.

Similarly, although not a squat, my friend also took possession of her apartment; the building was purchased from the city by the tenants for a nominal sum of money and turned into a co-op. Each tenant purchased his or her apartment at an extraordinarily low price. The coup of the century got even better.

I recently met Mike Kennedy at a concert in Tompkins Square Park. He currently lives in one of the landmark East Village squats at 733 East 9th Street, one of the properties ceded over by the city to the tenants in 2002 for $1. It has been a long road for them, and whatever “windfall” they may have received was well earned. I am sure that on their long and winding road, there must have been many ROACHES 🙁

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I arrived in northern Italy very late one night with a companion. We were not in the best of moods. Our reservation for an inn south of Florence had been placed by mail and was never received. They were booked solid. We drove north to Florence in hopes of securing a place to sleep for the night. We were relegated to the only place in the city with a room: a very overpriced hotel.

We had rented a car, and the hotel was located across from a train station. Adjoining the station was a municipal parking lot. Attendants in uniforms and caps were busy directing parking and collecting fees for overnight parking. I recall that the cost was around $10 – a fair amount at the time. The next morning, we examined the signs and realized we had been hustled; parking was free. With audacity, aggressiveness, and a few uniforms, those men had established a nice little night business with no overhead or taxes at the expense of ill-informed visitors.

In New York, the hustle takes on many forms tailored to to the city: chess playing, cigarette sales, subway swipers, three card monte, umbrella sales, highway water, flower sales, etc. Some activities are illegal, while others are just aggressive opportunism.

One variant of the street hustle is taking advantage of a captive audience dining al fresco on the sidewalks of the city. New York has few restaurants or cafes where outdoor dining is reasonably buffered from non-diners
(see Insult to Injury). Flower vendors will sometimes accost diners, as well as the homeless asking for money.

Over the years, I have seen a number of instances where individuals with pets, particularly unusual species, are demanding to be paid by onlookers who want to take photos. In 2006, I wrote Snake Charmer about a man with a snake, alligator, and macaw. More recently, I encountered a man with an enormous pet iguana on a leash in the park, demanding money as we took photos. Of course, photography in a public space for non-commercial use is perfectly legal, but many will try to intimidate amateurs and tourists into paying for the “privilege.”

Here, in the photo at the Trattoria Spaghetto on Carmine Street, we have a hustle which combines the captive diner with the paid photo op extortion. As diners, passersby, and I took photos, Mr. Zoo York “asked” for payment.

Whether late night in Florence or by day on the streets of New York, adapted for the time and place, you will always find some variant of the urban hustle…

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