Because Nothing Says, “Frolic In The Water” Like The Bronx Kill And Harlem River Intermodal Railyard

Never mind the Disneyfication of Times Square, here comes the Six Flagsfication of Randalls Island:

The city is quietly pushing plans to build a massive, Six Flags-style water park on Randalls Island — complete with wave pools, slides, a manmade “adventure river” for rafters and even an indoor, year-round “beach club.”

The $168 million theme park, which would be paid for by a private developer under a 35-year lease with the city, faces a critical hurdle today before the city’s Franchise and Concession Review Committee.

But the park — which was proposed originally in 1999 by then-Mayor Rudy Giuliani at 12 acres — is drawing concern because of its swelling size, now set at 26 acres.

“It’s as if this project has evolved from a wading pool into a tidal wave on the East River,” said Jeff Simmons, a spokesman for city Controller William Thompson, who has a seat on the FCRC and is expected to vote against the project at today’s meeting. Manhattan Borough President Scott Stringer also is expected to vote against the project, citing concerns about its size. Still, it is believed the mayor has enough votes on the board to pass the measure.

In addition to the 7-acre indoor beach club, the park — which was approved by the City Council in 2004 — would include 19 acres of outdoor water slides and rides, with additional space required for 1,800 new parking spots.

City officials hope to cut the ribbon for the park, where an all-day ticket will cost $25 for kids and $30 for adults, by Memorial Day 2007.

At $25 a ticket, the city’s youth should easily be able to take advantage of the facility over and over again during hot summer months.

What would Robert Moses think about what they’ve done to his island? (It’s water sports — he might approve!)

See also: Randalls Island.

There Really Goes The Neighborhood . . .

Things homeowners don’t like to hear include that the nondescript box-like building down at the end of the block is actually a federal prison:

Some Springfield Gardens residents who were surprised to learn that the nondescript building at 150th Ave. and 182nd St. is a federal prison are now worried that there are plans to expand it.

. . .

Located at 182-22 150th Ave., it is fitted with outdoor security cameras, can house 200 prisoners and — although located in an industrial area near Kennedy Airport — is just blocks away from a residential neighborhood.

“I didn’t know about that jail,” said Thelma Grey, who has lived on 147th Ave. — not far from the prison — for the past 11 years. “A prison . . . that sounds strange to me.”

The building was formerly the Wackenhut Immigration Detention Center, which housed illegal immigrants awaiting deportation. It now confines federal prisoners awaiting trial and is controlled by the Geo Group Inc., a privately run correctional and detention management company.

“We bought the adjacent building to the facility and we plan to have company representatives at the meeting on Wednesday to address any community concerns [about] any potential expansions,” said Pablo Paez, director of corporate relations for the Geo Group.

Paez said the Geo Group has managed the facility since 1995 and that its management agreement changed from an immigration contract to a U.S. Marshals Service contract in June 2004.

It’s so 24, a new season of which, by the way, starts Sunday.

I’ll Show You What Selling Out The Unborn Really Looks Like

If you want to see want “selling out the unborn” really looks like, see what the police are doing:

A new batch of NYPD recruits sworn in yesterday is the first to earn $25,100 — the lowest starting salary for New York’s Finest in at least two decades.

That’s “bad public policy,” according to Police Commissioner Raymond Kelly — who called on the city and the police union to boost starting wages.

. . .

The incoming class will earn $15,000 less than the class that was sworn in last July.

. . .

The pay cut covers a 10.25% raise over two years for officers already on the payroll. After six months in the academy, rookie salaries are bumped to $32,700. [Emph. added]

See also: What happens when you doggedly refuse to “sell out the unborn.”

How Much Corned Beef Do You Have To Sell To Make Rent?

First CBGB, now 2nd Ave. Deli may have to close because its monthly rent is being raised to figures higher than the average U.S. worker’s yearly earnings*:

The East Village restaurant that has long been a magnet for lovers of corned beef, pastrami, Hungarian goulash and chopped liver has suspended operations, admitted owner Jack Lebewohl.

But only temporarily, if he has anything to say about it.

“This more than breaks my heart,” said Lebewohl yesterday, as hungry passersby stopped to peer through the deli’s iron gate before walking away. “Hopefully, it won’t be final. I hope to reach an agreement with the owners.”

The kosher deli’s new landlord has increased the rent from $24,000 a month to $33,000, which is too thick a cut of the cash flow for Lebewohl to part with and still make a profit, he said.

. . .

More than 55 cooks, dishwashers and waiters have been laid off and forced to find new jobs.

Meanwhile, the Post writes glibly about the closing:

The deli, which has been clogging arteries at the corner of East 10th since the 1950s, was closed by owner Jack Lebewohl on Sunday after the building’s new landlord demanded a rent increase from $24,000 a month to $33,000 a month.

*$28,652, according to Bureau of Labor statistics current as of November 2005.

Western Beef Is Dead . . . Long Live Western Beef!

Patricia Fieldsteel eulogizes the 14th Street Western Beef in The Villager:

When I read The Villager online in my home here in the foothills of the Alps, I groaned aloud, “Oh, no, not Western Beef!!” But there it was, plain as day, the store on W. 14th St. with its signature orange-and-blue awning and the smiling green cowboy cactus will shortly close to give way to a high-end office building.

. . .

When I lived in New York, I loved Western Beef: the feeling of community and camaraderie among the shoppers, ranging from homeless people to wealthy West Villagers, transvestite prostitutes, truck drivers, Chelsea guppies, welfare families, firemen (always a good sign of a food store’s worth) and elderly Spanish-speaking people left from the days when far W. 14th St. was called “Little Spain.”

Then again, memory is a funny thing, and absence seems to make the heart grow fonder:

There were open white-plastic barrels of pig ears and snouts in brine; 10- and 20-gallon jugs of pork bellies and carpet-sized rolls of tripe. You needed a strong constitution to shop at Western Beef, which originally was a warehouse where one walked into a glacial auditorium-sized freezer with entire cow, hog and sheep carcasses hanging from hooks in the ceiling. I went once back then, had nightmares for a week and didn’t return until the early ’90s when the warehouse began to upgrade to more of a store. My friend and neighbor on Jane St. and now here in Provence, the cookbook author and cooking school teacher Lydie Marshall says, “I could not breathe in the place, especially the meat department; anyone who wanted to become a vegetarian only needed to go in their meat department and they would be cured forever of eating meat.” [Emph. added]

And:

At times, I admit, especially in the heat of summer, Western Beef was heavy on grunge and fetid odors, from the customers as well as the meat. I rarely shopped there in July and August. However, if there was one time of year when the store became magical, it was at Christmas. Christmastime was always a three-dimensional, live and in-living-color New York experience.

. . .

The checkout lines were long and took forever. Western Beef was noted for its narrow aisles, its Brobdingnagian logjams at the checkout. Most of the checkers were hirsute Spanish-speaking young women. A major portion of the customers paid with food stamps. They’d discover they’d bought too much and couldn’t pay, scrounging in their pockets, pulling out every last penny, nickel and dime. The checkers would yell, “Shameeka, KEY!! Rosita, KEY!!!! REGISTER!!” Another long wait, another delay until someone arrived with the master key to unlock the cash register. No one complained. [Emph. added]

You know, I don’t know if it helps any, but there are still quite a few Western Beefs around town: five in Queens, five in Brooklyn, two in Staten Island and five in the Bronx. You could always visit them . . . personally, I think they’re kind of gross.