SoBro!

Hipsters colonizing the South Bronx:

Hundreds of artists, hipsters, Web designers, photographers, doctors and journalists have been seduced by the mix of industrial lofts and 19th-century row houses in the Port Morris and Mott Haven neighborhoods. Some now even call the area SoBro.

Yes, it’s the very South Bronx that had a reputation for grinding poverty, rampant arson, runaway crime and as the starting point of Tom Wolfe’s race-relations nightmare, “The Bonfire of the Vanities,” which chronicles what happens to a Master of the Universe driving with his mistress in his Mercedes-Benz on a creepy Bruckner Boulevard.

Well, Bruckner and the blocks nearby now boast two tidy bars that a Master of the Universe would feel more than comfortable patronizing, including one, the Bruckner Bar and Grill, that offers pear and arugula salad.

There are a dozen antique shops, at least one new lively art gallery, Haven Arts, to join three older ones, and a cafe partly owned by a resourceful Dominican immigrant that sells bourgeois bohemian delights like croissants and veggie wraps.

The bad news is that gentrification may price out longtime residents, the good news, however, is that White Europeans now walk comfortably there:

As he has been doing for 16 years, Angel Villalona, a Dominican immigrant, still sells papayas, coconuts and mangoes from the side of a truck, as well as batidas – fruit milkshakes that he prepares by yanking the cord on his sidewalk generator, which feeds electricity to an Osterizer blender. But now one of his customers is as likely to be a sculptor who has just moved from Williamsburg as a longtime resident like Charles Bachelor, a truck driver who immigrated from Antigua.

“White Europeans used to be afraid to walk in this neighborhood,” Mr. Bachelor said. “Now they walk comfortably.”

Worst. Op-Ed. Ever.

I basically fell out of my seat on the subway this morning reading the worst op-ed ever:

I try to go to the gym just about every morning. Because I work out with my scarf on, people stare – just as they do on the streets of Cambridge.

The other day, though, I felt more self-conscious than usual. Every television in the gym highlighted some aspect of America’s conflict with the Muslim world: the war in Iraq, allegations that American soldiers had desecrated the Koran, prisoner abuse at Guantánamo Bay, President Bush urging support of the Patriot Act. The stares just intensified my alienation as an Arab Muslim in what is supposed to be my country. I was not sure if the blood rushing to my head was caused by the elliptical trainer or by the news coverage.

Frustrated and angry, I moved to another part of the gym. I got on a treadmill and started running as hard as I could. As sweat dripped down my face, I reached for my towel, accidentally dropping my keys in the process. It was a small thing, I know, but as they slid down the rolling belt and fell to the carpet, my faith in the United States seemed to fall with them. I did not care to pick them up. I wanted to keep running.

Suddenly a man, out of breath, but still smiling and friendly, tapped me on my shoulder and said, “Ma’am, here are your keys.” It was Al Gore, former vice president of the United States. Mr. Gore had gotten off his machine behind me, picked up my keys, handed them to me and then resumed his workout.

It was nothing more than a kind gesture, but at that moment Mr. Gore’s act represented all that I yearned for – acceptance and acknowledgment.

She’s kidding, right? Actually, scratch that — the Times is kidding. They have to be!

Did I ever tell you about the time I left behind my umbrella at Fairway? Along with that umbrella slipped away my faith and enthusiasm for the Upper West Side. As I lugged my many bags thoughtlessly stuffed with olives and sumptuous cheeses down Broadway, the rain came down steadily. Drenched, I cursed the gods, only to have Regis Philbin — no shit! — tap me on the shoulder. Just before ducking into his hired car, he handed me a black umbrella — the ubiquitous five-dollar black umbrella — a lumpy, overwrought symbol of my restored sense of good will towards men.

It was nothing more than a kind gesture, but at that moment Mr. Philbin’s act represented all that I yearned for — acceptance and acknowledgment.

Places, Places!

For the Times, the story behind the Billy Graham Crusade is not the man’s message, the devotion of the flock or even namby-pamby generalized anthropological discourse on the role of religion in culture but rather the logistics, “where even the ineffable must be quantified”, which is actually probably how the Times views religion when you think about it. At least they didn’t use their special red state correspondent:

Since Labor Day, the crusade’s 30 paid staff members have run their campaign from a 12th-floor office in the Fashion District overlooking a nine-story billboard of an underwear model pulling down his briefs to reveal a tattoo of a panther. ([New York Crusade Director Art] Bailey said he found the image inspiring. “This picture is an illustration of what the world sees,” he said. “The world focuses on the outward body. Our job is to put the focus on the inner man, the part that is eternal.”)

It was here that organizers booked the Christian pop bands that will play before Mr. Graham preaches and where they secured the services of Bibleman, a caped crusader in Spandex and silver body armor who will lead the children’s rally on Saturday morning at Flushing Meadows.

Bibleman . . . intriguing . . .

P.S. A little birdie points me to the Bibleman website and an apparent connection to Eight is Enough/Charles in Charge Hunk Willie Aames.

Easy Money!

Steve Fishman’s New York Magazine piece on alleged NYU fraud Hakan Yalincak and his mother has so much dirt that reading it will probably disqualify you from the jury pool:

Together, Jackie and Hakan, along with their indispensable props—a Waspy, credit-poor Matthew Thomas; a white-shoe attorney; and a grateful NYU—managed to convince people who ought to know better that an undergrad history major was running a hedge fund after classes.

Highly recommended!

Trash Picked

New York Magazine’s guide to trash-picked furniture:

Even an Eames lounge should be left alone if you detect the slightest note of urine.

Yuck!