City Life

Miscellaneous Photo Post

Conehead and pest

Back of the Museum of Natural History

always something…

During the holiday season these guys move over to make room

for these guys

Gas line being replaced

Pipes are laid pretty far below the surface, I think this guy is standing on one

An unbelievable amount of time and work to lay one stretch of pipe. Gas lines, people–NO, they can’t work any faster.

Ok, I’m weird, but all of this–the fruit stands, Christmas tree stands, the literal underground workings of the city, are as much what makes New York as the museums and theaters.

Move Over on that Cross, Will ya?

Painting image of Joan of Arc (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Checking my email this morning, I saw one of my favorite discount stores is having a sale. Today. One day only.

I needed gloves. It’s freezing out. I bought a pair last month, and they look fun in an ugly kind of way, but they’re a loose knit, no fingers, not even a thumb. Why did I buy them? They were $6! Sure I saw practical, warm, pretty gloves too, but those were $50. 6 vs 50, on a day when it wasn’t too cold yet, no contest. Sure I’m a lifelong New Yorker, and understood it wasn’t going to stay 50* outside, but 6 dollars!

Once I dropped Flower Child off at school, I walked to the store. This left me standing in the cold for half an hour before they opened. OK it was 25 minutes, I guess the manager felt sorry for me and the other fools waiting for them to unlock the doors. The selection was pitiful, but I was determined to take advantage of the 25% off coupon slipping through my icicle fingers. Found a pair. Not what I really wanted. I was imagining something elegant or funky, interesting color, super warm pair with a touch screen fingertip. I found warmer than what I’ve got, no touch screen fingertip, and I’m not really sure if they’re navy or black.

I’m in the store where it’s warm, not overly crowded, and agonizing over whether I should buy this pair of gloves, or wait and keep looking until I find the perfect pair at the perfect price on a day when I’ve got money in my pocket. I’m sure you can all now understand why I own a very limited wardrobe. I decide to look around the store. It really is a very good sale, and there are several things I could use. I look at dresses. I found this super cute wine colored knit–with sleeves! (why do they sell sleeveless winter dresses in the Northeast?)–my size, no obvious rule it out defects, for a very reasonable $50. It’s just my kind of dress (though not a color I usually like), nice, practical, fine for a regular day but if I had an appointment for tea with the Queen I could put some beads around my neck with a nicer pair of shoes and look fine.

Portrait of a group of ladies at a tea party, Charters Towers (Photo credit: State Library of Queensland, Australia)

Don’t forget the 25% off coupon! I picked up the dress and carried it all over the store, inspecting everything else I wasn’t going to buy. I looked at coats. I would love to have a warm down coat for everyday use. I spend a lot of time outside walking, and do not enjoy cold weather. At. All.

I have a coat I bought several years ago at another discount store. I hadn’t been coat shopping in a long time prior, and was shocked by the prices. So shocked, I called my mother to rant. She laughed at me, and I bought the cheapest one I could find. Sure it’s down, but apparently it’s only got 3 feathers, because I’m shivering in it the second the temperature drops below 45*. I’ve got a fabulous and fabulously warm shearling I got when my Grandmother died, but I don’t like to wear it. It’s the only really nice coat I’m ever likely to own, and I feel kind of silly when I wear it. Here I’m living this crazy broke-ass life; picking up dog poop in a shearling? I’m like a character from a Depression era movie, “Well, de-ah, I’ve fallen on haahrd times.”

I put the dress back. Bought the boring but reasonably priced and warmer than what I’ve got gloves, and punished myself by walking home, instead of taking the train. Why? I dunno, it’s the martyr instinct. I’ve got it, and so do many of the women I know who aren’t shopaholics. It was perfectly reasonable to put the dress back. I’ve got to buy Christmas gifts for the kiddos, and there isn’t any wiggle room in the budget. I could use a new coat, but I won’t freeze without one, I’m absolutely fine wearing layers. I like my layers. I like the look, and they make me feel shabby chic instead of shabby. I did need a pair of gloves.

So why do I feel guilty for having bought them? Besides the obvious answer that I’m a lunatic. What kind of shopper are you?

Walked past my new favorite lady in the city.

And some perfectly elegant holiday displays.

A Helluva Town

the business of garbage (Photo credit: David 23)

On my way to pick up Flower Child from school, I was hungry and stopped to grab a slice of pizza. Hey! It’s a long walk, don’t judge me. I didn’t have time to sit, I added a heathy ~~six~~ ummm, three, three shakes of red pepper flakes and ate as I walked. When I was growing up, this was a common sight, but not so much anymore. Is it Manhattan vs Brooklyn, or just different etiquette with the years? Husband always wants to sit down when he eats. Not me; what’s the point of street food if you have to stop to eat it? Then again, I always liked to stand and walk when I was eating, my mother used to tell me I was going to get fat toes.

As I walked, I ate my slice, hopscotched around the tourists on their way to the museum, and let my mind wander. Walking through crowded streets is a good time for mind wandering. Like being in the shower, only more reflective than creative. I remembered an incident I was going to blog about a little while back, goosed to the back of my brain by medical mayhem.

A cream Afghan Hound. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I had been walking a dog through Central Park, and it was a crappy late afternoon. Cold, sporadic drizzle, one of those days where gray becomes a temperature and a barometer, something you feel in your bone marrow.

Central Park (Photo credit: Image Zen)

I heard a small motor coming up behind me, and turned to see one of the golf cart thingies used by the Central Park Conservancy for driving along the paths, reaching different sections of the park for clean up and or maintenance. The cart stopped just when the dog stopped to pee. The maintenance worker pulled himself out from behind the steering wheel, and grabbed a trash stick from the back. I don’t know what they’re actually called, but it’s a long wooden stick with a sharp point or nail at the end for picking up loose trash or papers without having to touch anything nasty.

Not a glamorous job, for sure. Then again, neither is picking up dog poop. But this guy was pissed off, stomping and muttering and then glaring at me like I represented all wrong in his life that had left him stabbing moldy juice boxes for eight bucks an hour. My writer’s mind took a stroll. If he were my character, why would he be so angry? Big plans thwarted by having to work late? A gardener who had been demoted for poisoning pigeons? Girlfriend dumped him for some bozo with a shiny suit and a desk job? He spiked exactly one piece of paper, tossed the stick in the back of the cart, and started moving again. By this point, I was walking again, dog veering left where the path forked. I hoped the maintenance guy would be turning right, or straight ahead towards the reservoir. No such luck, this thing was behind me again, and of course this is exactly where the dog needs to stop and poop. I’m now quite certain it wasn’t my imagination, the guy really was glaring at me. I then began seeing the scene as an episode of Law & Order, roped off with sunshine yellow crime scene tape and the trash pick planted in my sternum. Mrs Fringe must have been looking swell, maybe I remembered to brush my hair that morning, since he seemed to think I was someone I’m not.

Cover of Christine (Special Edition)

Part of my mind was now hearing this cart behind me like it was Christine, Stephen King’s possessed Plymouth Fury. Yanno, the part of me that was noticing no one else was within spitting distance. Part of me wanted to reach out and make peace? a connection? “Hey, buddy, this fancy dog isn’t mine, and I sure as heck don’t live in one of those apartment mansions across the street.” Another part of me was getting pissed off and resentful. Fuck him. Who was he to make assumptions about who I was and what I was doing? Your life sucks? Pffft. Get in line, my friend.

I said none of the above. I did however, begin talking to the dog, and let my Brooklyn out. There are all levels of socioeconomic class throughout this city. Poor, destitute, working class, middle class, wealthy, and filthy rich. All can be found throughout the five boroughs. But certain accents there’s no mistaking. Clear as a tramp stamp, my accent says Brooklyn peasant.

Saturday Night Fever (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Self Aware…or Self Involved?

An illustration from page 30 of Mjallhvít (Snow White) an 1852 icelandic translation of the Grimm-version fairytale (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Among my many obsessions; lack of space/privacy, and the Real Housewives franchise.

I was catching up on the ladies in Atlanta (love them!). There was a scene where one of them was whining about losing her rental home, and possibly being forced to move back into her townhouse with her husband, 4 kids, and 2 dogs. I’m watching, and grooving on this scene. I can relate! Oh wait.

The townhouse she might move back into is 5000 square feet. Five thousand. Pfft. That’s more than six? seven? times the space I live in with Husband, Man Child, Nerd Child, Flower Child, Big Senile Dog and Little Incredibly Dumb Dog. Frankly, not even my dream home is 5000 square feet. Who wants to clean all that? Except this Housewife seemed genuinely freaked out, concerned about how they would be able to live in such a small space. This episode captured me, and has me thinking about the many people in this country (including but not limited to the thousands in NYC whose homes are destroyed or uninhabitable because of Hurricane Sandy) who would be happy to have my overcrowded apartment to live in right now.

Where’s your light bulb, Uncle Fester? (Photo credit: apollonia666)

Lightbulb moment, right? Angels singing, I felt the light-in-me recognizes the light-in-you connection of it all, and I smiled looking at the crap piled along the windowsill. Not really. Because despite my recognition of spoiled American capitalist values, well, I’m a spoiled American who was bred and raised in this capitalist society. As such, I want to keep my stuff, have more space, and enjoy some privacy.

But, I will remember the moment, and the honest it’s-impossible look on Dream Home Atlanta Barbie’s face when talking about living in a 5,000 square foot home, and think about those I come across or walk past in my little corner of the world who are puzzled by my complaints.

Let’s be honest, the very fact of this type of blog epitomizes self involvement, regardless of how self aware I might try to be.

Heh. Check out Mrs Fringe, being all Zen and the Art of Selfishness and shit. Or would that be zazen?

Cover of Remember, Be Here Now

Paring Down

Old Woman Peeling Potatoes (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I love the principles behind the various living simply movements. Think about it, in our frenetic day to day lives, doesn’t the idea of slowing down and simplifying sound tempting?

Not in an extremist way, I have no interest in renouncing technology and indoor plumbing; living completely off the grid, but just saying enough is enough, enough is good enough, I’m going to value time to breathe and enjoy. I’m always interested in the stories of people who decide to do this, sell their second and third cars, their McMansions, and move to adorable, solar powered log homes in Montana, or Maine or Idaho.

1919 Indoor Toilet Ad (Photo credit: dok1)

Except, reading these blogs, how to guides, and articles, these people all seem to have started off with significantly more than they need. And their new homes always have enough room for comfortable furniture, a working garden, room for all who live there and the stuff they continue to value. How does one decide to live simply in the city with a family and limited budget? Is it possible to make it a choice, when so many “no’s” are out of necessity?

I’ve known/know a few who seem to, but they’re all either single or two people (couple or one adult with a child). None have significant, chronic medical needs. Their dry goods aren’t sitting out on kitchen counters because the cabinets are crowded with medicines and supplements.

I like the idea of getting rid of unnecessary stuff and clutter. It’s the battle of clutter here, because there just isn’t a place for everyone’s stuff. But what is unnecessary? My books? Bite your tongue, I need those! Not every book I’ve ever read, and over the past couple of years I’ve passed along at least a hundred, but what’s left are my companions, my solace when I’m feeling stuck or lonely or blue. I could replace them with an e-reader, but that would involve money to purchase the e-reader and buy the books–I already own!–electronically.

There are now 4 small boxes of stuff sitting in my living room from my mother’s apartment. One that’s waiting to be passed along. 3 small boxes from my mother’s life which includes memorabilia from my father and grandmother’s lives. I’d like to get rid of the big wall unit taking up space, but I’m not about to renounce TV either (yes, I do need to watch the Housewives), so that can’t happen until I can replace the old tube TV with one of the skinny hang on the wall things, and a smaller unit to hold the cable box, iPod dock, and Wii. Money again.

And what about time? Where do these hours to enjoy life come from? All those luxuries of modern living (many of which I don’t have), like a dishwasher or washer and dryer are luxuries because of the time they save.

Maybe living simply is a luxury itself, only meant for those who can do so as a choice.

What do you think?

Dollhouse (Photo credit: cliff1066™)

Sandy, Part II, After

Well, the first pic is during, because it made me giggle.

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Flower Child wants all my Fringie followers to know she was very, very scared. But brave.

These photos show just some of my crappy photos that came out the least crappy. They also show only a few blocks worth of damage, in a part of the city that was very lucky, not nearly so effected as other neighborhoods.

My thoughts and prayers are with the thousands (millions?) of people who were more than frightened and inconvenienced by Hurricane Sandy, but have suffered devastating losses, and are without power and limited access for an indefinite period of time.

Who Invited Sandy?

In case you didn’t hear, the East Coast was hit really hard by Hurricane Sandy. Over here in New York, still sporadic rain and some significant winds. Many are without power and looking at major damage from winds and flooding. I hope all are safe, I’m sending good thoughts into the universe for those who are unable to check in right now. I am lucky, we live uptown and didn’t lose power, uphill from the river so no real flooding threats. But New York overall is a mess. Schools are closed, the MTA is closed, subway tunnels are flooded, as are some entire neighborhoods, water was literally pouring out of the Battery Tunnel,. The Ground Zero construction site was flooded. Let’s not forget the collapsing crane 80-90 stories up, on 57th Street.

So, another crappy photo perspective by Mrs Fringe. I’ll do it in 2 or 3 parts, I’m fairly lousy at the whole uploading pics thing, and guaranteed to lose patience before I’m through.

This batch is before the hurricane actually hits us, some yesterday morning, some in the afternoon.

Odd looking sky a few mornings before, connected?

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Thwoka thwoka thwoka

English: NYPD helicopter patrolling New York City. Photo taken from the Empire State Building Observatory. Deutsch: Ein Helikopter des NYPD patrolliert über New York City. Das Foto wurde von der Empire State Building Sternwarte aufgenommen. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I hate the sound of those blades beating the air. When I was younger, it was a sound I associated with wit and laughter, the opening credits of M*A*S*H.

Now? Forget it. When I hear a helicopter I look up to see where it is, and assess which direction will take me away from it. Leftover PTSD from 9/11, I suppose. But it seems as if it’s never neutral. I don’t live in a part of the city where tourists would be taking rides, and I’m not en route to the Hamptons. So a helicopter means something is happening; police searching for someone, news crew filming, either way, I don’t want to be out in it.

Yesterday evening I was out walking a dog in Central Park when I heard them. I felt that unwelcome pitch and roll in my stomach, and then realized the odds were excellent that the choppers were part of the Parks Dept, doing a recon mission to see what trees it would make sense to trim in case Hurricane Sandy does hit New York and have the impact they’re predicting. Does the Parks Dept have helicopters? I have no idea, but the thought worked for me. I reminded myself to buy a couple of gallons of water just in case, and kept walking.

After I was home, I found out why the helicopters were out. A mother’s nightmare, every mother’s nightmare. Two young children were stabbed to death in their apartment, allegedly by their nanny, who was also stabbed but not killed, while the mother was at swim lessons with the third child. The entire Upper West Side, a neighborhood is filled with families, dogs, and nannies. I don’t know the circumstances, don’t know the family, don’t know the nanny, but my heart breaks for their loss.

I heard the mom is a successful blogger, documenting her children and family life in the city. I can’t even imagine the push-pull that will take place for her, not wanting to see the documenting of a happy and complete family, and yet maybe she’ll be glad to have those moments enshrined in cyberspace.

I’m not sure why I feel especially captured by this tragedy. My youngest is considerably older than this mom’s oldest. I don’t live a similar lifestyle. This is, after all, New York. Things like this do not happen every day, but violence is a part of the city. This type of violence, or at least what it appears to be at this point, can and does happen everywhere, city, country, suburb; someone “snaps,” and there are victims: young, old, innocent.

As I am typing, I hear more of those evil blades. Please tell me the Parks Department does in fact have helicopters.

Go Play In Traffic

Lower center of the The Last Judgement by Michelangelo (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Several years ago, I read “A Complaint Free World,” by Will Bowen. In it, there’s a challenge to go 21 days without complaining, gossiping, or criticizing. You put a bracelet on, and when you catch yourself in one of the aforementioned activities, you switch wrists, and begin the count again. It wasn’t magical, I didn’t “start enjoying the life I always wanted,” but it was enlightening, to say the least. Now, I don’t think anyone will nominate Mrs Fringe for sainthood, but the exercise left an impression on my brain, if only so I’m aware, and recognize when I’m engaging in these behaviors.

So, I’m quite aware I’m about to be judgmental. Mea Culpa.

The other day I was walking up my block, when I heard, “Hey, hey, HEY STOP!” I looked across the street to where the voice was coming from, and saw a man yelling and running towards a toddler who was running into the street, with a truck coming pretty fast. There was a group of people in front of a building, the little guy was obviously part of that group and had wandered away. Maybe he lost his ball, maybe he was following a pigeon. It was fine, little guy was spotted and safe before the scene was a script for the evening news. It happens. Dad thinks Mom is watching the baby, Mom thinks Auntie is watching the baby, Auntie thinks Grandma is watching the baby, etc. Frightening, but not shocking or cause for judgement.

But then, I was walking along Central Park West and saw a man in a snappy suit, riding his bike. Nice, thanks for saving the environment while getting your workout in. His baby was on the bike with him.

English: Looking north past AMNH along Central Park West. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

If you aren’t a New Yorker, let me tell you, Central Park West is not part of the park, it’s a big, busy avenue. And it was dusk, when visibility is worst. Aww, look at dad, doing his share. Only one problem, baby wasn’t in a safety seat designed for a bike, she was strapped to Dad’s chest in a soft, front carrier. WTF are you doing, Dad? I see you had a helmet strapped on your own head. This is not safe, can’t possibly be legal.

Suddenly, it all made sense to me. All those ridiculous labels on walkers (which I don’t think exist anymore, “don’t leave baby unattended near stairs”), the danger of bath seats. Heh, imagine, you shouldn’t walk away from your 5 month old in the tub, even if they’re in that nifty seat? There really are adults who can read who need these warning labels.

I can’t say that was a regular sight, but it wasn’t surprising. I don’t get it. New York parents are the most paranoid bunch you’ll ever see. Inside. God forbid their toddler should learn not to touch something. There’s an entire industry, not just comprised of safety products to pad those corners, but of people who are paid to “consult,” come to your apartment and make it safe for baby. The earlier the better, preferably long before baby is born. Because, you never know, baby could slip out of your irritable uterus at 26 weeks, just when you’re standing near an outlet, amniotic fluid spraying into said outlet just as baby flings out his arm in a startle reflex, poking one delicate finger into the open socket. Could happen, right? What a racket.

So in the apartment, all is non toxic, organic, non breakable yet sturdy, soft and yet firm enough not to suffocate, elegant yet flaccid–no wait, that’s Mom’s wine, out of reach, of course.

But outside, on the streets and sidewalks, suddenly a different story. These same parents seem quite vested in proving to the world that even their toddlers are sophisticated New Yorkers, eating edamame at snack time, and intuitively understanding the flow of traffic patterns in New York. Except they don’t. Because even if they did, often they can’t be seen by a driver or bicyclist. So these parents who have spent hundreds, sometimes thousands of dollars for a baby proofing consultant to divulge the secrets of padded walls and common sense don’t think any of these rules apply outside. Every day I see kids running, scootering, or wheeling their little wooden scooter bikes down the sidewalk on their way to school (of course, morning rush hour when sidewalks and streets are busiest), half a block to a block ahead of the parent, while mom or dad calls out a gentle stop-at-the-corner reminder. Watch and give it a minute, then you see the same mom or dad running to catch the two, three, or four year old who didn’t stop and is now crossing the street by themselves, or forgot they were going past an active parking garage.

And let’s not forget the other pedestrians, who are expected to move out of the way for little Susie and Johnny so they can enjoy their childhoods unfettered, and show their suburban cousins they get just as much time playing outside, and it really is worth paying $3500 a month for a two bedroom apartment.

I get it, to some degree. The same child who will whine about walking seven blocks to school will happily pedal there. It’s nice to give them an opportunity to burn off some energy before they’re indoors and building their SAT vocab skills. Can’t start too early, yanno, competition is fierce.

If you haven’t been to Manhattan, let me tell you, all the horror stories you’ve heard about driving in New York are true. The streets are crowded with cars, buses, taxis, bikers, and pedestrians. Don’t forget the ambulances, fire trucks, and police cars on their way to an emergency. Lots going on, every driver has to be aware of every possibility.

wrong way, lady! (Photo credit: *Bitch Cakes*)

For the most part, I think they do a great job. But with all this going on, so much congestion, parking, double parking, taxis stopping and starting without notice, delivery guys on bikes who don’t watch where they’re going but say a prayer instead, ummm, accidents happen. All the time. People get hurt. Car vs bike, bike loses. Bike vs bike, both lose. Car vs pedestrian, pedestrian loses. Bike vs pedestrian, pedestrian loses.

Parenting is hard, nobody makes the right call all of the time. Parents whose children are diagnosed with epilepsy are cautioned by pediatric neurologists about bathtubs and swimming pools; NY parents are cautioned about bathtubs and the subway. Parenting in NY does carry extra challenges, I’ve made decisions that my suburban counterparts don’t understand. But I can say with a clear conscience that I’ve never sent my kids out to play in traffic.

This has been a Public Service Judgment by Mrs Fringe.

20070901 – Greg Z’s birthday party – Nicole – new tattoo – the more you know – (by AE) – 1306312142_8cf5b6332e o (Photo credit: Rev. Xanatos Satanicos Bombasticos (ClintJCL))

Mrs Fringe is a Dirty Stay Out

English: Natalie in Fur Cape (ca. 1905) – A portrait of the writer and salonist Natalie Clifford Barney. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It’s true, I left my apartment at 5:15 yesterday afternoon, dropped Flower Child off at Mother In Law’s apartment, clip clopped to the train station in a kick ass pair of boots, and didn’t get back home until 9:30. I was invited to a reading at a lit bar down in the East Village, very cool. Even had a gin and tonic. Look Ma– it’s me, Virginia Woolf!

The East Village is definitely outside of my usual zone these days. The only time I have reason to find myself there is to go with Nerd Child and his guitars to the super secret, super cool luthier off of Avenue A.

Mom’s Tattoo Heart (Photo credit: Smeerch)

I was going to take a picture of one of the piercing/tattoo parlors and text it to Man Child, asking his opinion of whether or not I should get a new tattoo while I was in the neighborhood, but alas, coming out of the train station I turned the wrong way, went East when I should have gone West, and had no time to play. You could blame my advancing age for the misdirection, but instead, I’ll blame the annoying train ride.

The subway was unexpectedly packed for early evening on a Saturday. Maybe due to the recent cab fare hike. So there I was, smashed onto the 2 train, making my way downtown. The other passengers were a typical New York mix; young, old, all ethnicities, styles of dress, and of course, aromas. A particularly ripe group of young men were squooshed right next to me, looking like they were coming from a soccer game. Or basketball. Or polo, or something. Mrs Fringe doesn’t follow athletics, couldn’t tell the difference between golf shoes and football sneakers if there was a publishing contract on the line.

I don’t mind riding the trains, you could say I like the subway. Sure it’s dirty and stinky, but I don’t have to drive, don’t have to think about parking, and the cost is reasonable. It’s also an excellent time to read or people watch, two of my favorite pastimes. New Yorkers are a skilled, creative lot. We know how to maintain boundaries and anonymity, even when jammed in nose to armpit. Usually.

I honestly wanted to slap each one of that group of young athletes upside their collective heads. If I had to guess, I’d say they’re young Wall Streeters, probably still in the operations departments, putting in their year or three of work experience before going back to school for their graduate degrees. One was holding a neon green bottle of what I assume was an electrolyte drink, to prepare his body for an evening of heavy drinking and peacockery. Unscrewing the cap, he fumbled it into the lap of a man sitting in front of me, not with their group. Glad I don’t have any money on his team. Another kept his backpack on, very rude on a crowded subway car, packed full of shit with yet another pair of sneakers coming out the front pocket, poking me in the chest. WTF? Personal space, guys. But the prince of this crew of entitled young shits, well, he was extra special.

He kept jamming his hands down the front of his nylon shorts. Adjusting himself? Fondling himself? Checking that his dangly bits were really his and still attached? I’m old enough that I could be the mother of any of these kids, but I’m not their mother. As such, I didn’t find his self exploration to be endearing, cute, or thrilling. I think he got the wrong message back in preschool, when admonished to keep his hands to himself. And their conversation, the verbal equivalent of his masturbatory display. My end of the train car got to hear all about his sexual exploits; who he banged when and where, which one of his buddies texted the results to the rest of their crew and everyone else on their contact list, and their tag line after each story, “Did you shower?” Maybe that’s a script reference I’m unfamiliar with, maybe it references an incident from their dorm days. I could barely contain my excitement. Ooh baby ooh baby.

I’d say I hope they missed their stop and ended up lost in Bushwick, but that would be uncharitable. And I think that’s become yet another hipster neighborhood.