Even in the snow, the Mulberry St. fruit sellers don’t rest
If you want to read stories of true love for New York, read the Reddit’s r/nyc thread titled: New Yorkers of Reddit, what is the most fucked up rental/sublet/roommate story you have?
An excerpt from user PlushGunMusic’s epic story:
I was living in Bushwick, and after Sandy, a lot of Brooklyn’s rats got pushed inland. One night i heard a rustle, something got got on a plastic bag. It was too loud to be a mouse. After investigating my girlfriend and I found large droppings under the sink, so we invested in glue traps. The next night, the rat got into a bag of cadbury eggs left on the table. So I think: great, they like chocolate. I put the eggs on the glue traps hoping it would catch it. The next morning, I woke up to see all of the eggs plucked off. Smart bastard. So instead of placing the glue traps in different parts of the kitchen, I put them all together like one large glue trap valley, and this time it worked. Later that night I heard a squeaking and the rat got all jumbled up in traps, hysterically scampering across the floor. I had to throw another glue trap on top of it, making a bit of a rat-trap sandwich. I knew I had to kill it as reminded by my girlfriend, standing on a chair screaming bloody murder — it was honestly the largest animal I’ve ever had to kill. Rising to the occasion, I crushed it with my foot until the squeaking stopped. You know in movies when the villain suffocates the person in the hospital with a pillow? It was kind of like that. I lifted my foot and took a deep breath — sending a prayer out to the rat gods. There was silence for a moment. An then it started squeaking… again. Because, as I would find out later, rats can RESTART their fucking hearts. So we go through the whole excruciating scene again, with the suffocating with the foot like the villain with the pillow in the hospital until this time I was sure it was dead. I didn’t pray to the rat gods that time. Undead fucker. Criss over. Right? What I didn’t know was that, when you see one rat…it means there are hundreds. Rats are routine based, they have a list of stops per day, and if they put you on their schedule, there is no way getting off of it. So it began that every night, as soon as the sun went down, they came. Like gremlins. The following things actually happened:
- woke rat up after getting home from work, was sleeping in my sweater
- rat jumped out of garbage, as I was discarding soup contents.
- woke rat up after getting home from a show, was sleeping in my bed.
- scratching, lots of scratching everywhere.
- dead rat under kitchen table
- rat staring at me having sex
- rats playing in the walls. loudly.
- two rats hiding out in my kitchen
- rat poop on my bed
It had gotten so bad that I built a wall between the kitchen in my bedroom, I lived in a tiny studio, and there wasn’t so much neutral territory . You know you’ve hit rock bottom when you cede parts of your apartment to rats.
Take your romantic horse-carriage rides while you can. One of Mayor de Blasio’s promises was to rid the streets of horse-drawn carriages and the current City Council leader sponsored such a ban in 2010.
The Times has a good article focusing on the animal-care concerns, with some interesting details about the livelihood of carriage-drivers:
Mr. Hernandez and Teddy had eight fares for the day, excellent for a post-holiday Sunday. Waiting on the hack line, Mr. Hernandez fed Teddy oat pellets and corn, and allowed tourists to feed Teddy carrots. He gave Teddy a manicure of sorts, applying black polish to his hooves. The front left hoof bore his number: 3527. Mr. Hernandez himself earns $10 for every 20-minute ride, and $20 for the less common 40-minute rides that cost $90. He keeps whatever tips he gets. The rest he gives to Teddy’s owner, Angelo Collura. Mr. Hernandez first rode horses as a child on his grandmother’s farm outside Mexico City. He came to New York as a teenager and worked for nearly five years as a stableman before studying to become a driver like his uncle. He and his wife, who works in a restaurant, live in the Bronx with their two children. After work, he goes to school to become an electrician.
Read the full story here.
I’ve probably done it dozens of times but walking through quiet, almost empty Manhattan at night never gets old. If it weren’t for work the next day, I’d walk all night
Angel’s Share, still my favorite bar in the city. This “Smoke gets in your eyes” drink required the bartender to use a brulee torch to ignite some cinnamon sticks.
WINNING IN SOHO
Edit: This is apparently the Lamborghini owned by the man Jalopnik called “the world’s most stereotypical Lamborghini owner”