#Bedford Avenue

[wanderingnewyork]

From 2016: The #Bedford_Nostrand_Avenues_Station on the G line, #Brooklyn.

[wilmontstudioarchive]

Newnham Avenue, Bedford, Bedfordshire, England

Mid 1960s

[unity-is-strength]

As the old gets torn down to make way for the new, let's not reflect the people and the things that mattered to the community.

[dilettantereviews]

You might be a psychopath You might wanna check that

[morbidology]

Henryk Siwiak is known as the last man killed on September 11, 2001. He was a Polish immigrant who had recently arrived in New York City in search of a better life, but was shot and killed in Brooklyn's Bedford-Stuyvesant neighborhood.

That evening, Henryk was on his way to a cleaning job in Manhattan but he was unfamiliar with the area and disembarked at the wrong subway stop. He was shot multiple times on Albany Avenue around 11PM after asking for directions. It's believed that he encountered communications barriers, but the exact circumstances remain a mystery.

Unfortunately, Henryk's murder was overshadowed by the September 11 terrorist attacks. In the chaos that ensued, his case received very little immediate attention as the New York Police Department found themselves stretched thin. As a result, important evidence or eyewitnesses may have been missed.

Henryk's murder remains unsolved to this day. Despite the lack of substantial progress, detectives have ruled out the possibility that the killing was related to terrorism or hate crimes, as Henryk was not Muslim. It is believed that the crime was likely a robbery or a case of mistaken identity, though no suspects have been identified. Henryk's family in Poland continues to seek answers, but after more than two decades, their hope for resolution is fading.

[danishphoner]

guyeppel: @/thelastshadowpuppets // Sound Fix Records. 110 Bedford Avenue, Williamsburg, Brooklyn. NYC. March 4th, 2008.

Alex Turner(Arctic Monkeys) & Miles Kane(The Rascals) played their North American debut show at the now long gone Sound Fix Records, in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Was this their first ever show anywhere worldwide?! The guys played to a full room at the side of the store. In town for interviews, they told the crowd they decided to play a gig while they were over here. The set was a run through of eight songs, much to the delight of fans who’d lined up when news of the gig announcement was sent out.

Set list: In My Room Standing Next To Me The Chamber Only The Truth Calm Like You My Mistakes Age of the Understatement The Meeting Place

My photographs of the night along with a post show portrait ran in both the NME & Rolling Stone magazine, which was nice, as such things meant something still in 2008.

(Posted on July 17, 2024)

[rosewaterandivy]

Everyone But You - a Life as We Know It au

Ch. 1 - Come as a Known Enemy Memory

previous | masterlist | next

Summary: You and your nemesis, the blight of Williamsburg himself, are thrown together under disastrous circumstances. Pairing: e.m. x f!oc w.c.: 4.5K warnings: NSFW / MDNI, immersive second person narration w/ a name and background but no physical description mentioned, big sads, grief, character death, car accident, jason carver mention, legal guidance, CPS, repression of emotions, occasional catatonia, max mayfield esquire

The call comes in somewhere south of 2 A.M. It’s an unfortunate fact of life that you are stone-cold sober, awake, and pouring over the second to last manuscript from the agency. 

You answer it by the second ring.

“This is Vance.”

"Ms. Vance, this is Officer Booker at the 94th precinct in Brooklyn. I’m calling on behalf of Christine Carver, could you please come down to the station?”

The telltale sign of a migraine creeps into your head, lashing against your temples to weave around the base of your skull. A forced blink of your eyes while the words from the manuscript swim across your vision. 94th precinct… that’s, what Greenpoint? The fuck was she doing in Brooklyn at this hour?

"Is she alright?”

The officer sighs, “Ma’am, I can’t disclose personal information over the phone. But once you’re down here—"

Innately and intimately, you know something is wrong. Chrissy and Jason were leaving the city tonight, flying out of Laguardia and back to Indianapolis on the red eye, which should have left an hour or two ago. The officer prattles on about policy and regulation as you get your bearings.

"Yeah, I’ll be there in an hour or so.” A few pages scatter on the table in your haste to get up, “I’m sorry, you said your name was…?”

"Officer Booker ma’am. I’ll let the front desk know to be on the lookout.”

The line drops dead and you lock your phone before slipping it into your pocket. A spring storm whipped through the city, rain falling in sheets outside your apartment window. Slipping into the Hunter galoshes at your door, you attempt to recall Chrissy’s latest missive.

Can’t wait to see you this summer! You and Ed better play nice OR ELSE

The doorman kindly hails you a cab and escorts you to the car, umbrella in hand. You thank him and rattle off an address you’d rather forget in Williamsburg. The ride itself is a quiet hum, briefly punctuated by your various attempts to contact said resident of the Williamsburg apartment which usually ended in a hushed, “Fuck.”

By the fourth attempt, you wonder why you’d ever bothered at all.

It’s not unusual for him to dodge your calls, though it was rare to initiate contact either way. But, rather, this was The Way you had operated since Chrissy posed you Iike her life-size Barbie dolls hoping for a happily ever after— the disastrous date was seared into your memory and played on a loop at the most unfortunate of times, i.e. the night before a big client meeting or during a relay of your Top Ten Greatest Mistakes. And closing in our top three humiliations is…

So, in short, no. No, you did not frequent Brooklyn, and you certainly did not cross the East River if you could help it. Working your ass off at one of the most acclaimed publishing houses did not afford you the luxury to gallivant through the burroughs all hours of the evening, especially not if you wanted to make partner and curate your own client list.

But, clearly, this fact couldn’t be helped tonight.

By the time you arrive in Brooklyn rolling to a stop in front of the brownstone off of Bedford avenue and pay the cabbie, it’s nearing 3 A.M. Dashing onto the stoop in an attempt to avoid the rain, you glance over the numerous intercom buzzers and realize, rather foolishly, that you have no idea which his could be. Luckily, someone is stepping out of the vestibule and you’re able to slip in before the door slams shut.

It’s a walk-up, of course, because this night couldn’t cut you one measly break, could it? The squelch of your galoshes haunts you up the flights of stairs, rain dripping in rivulets onto the steps below. You pause at the third floor, a heavy bass thudding from down the corridor like a siren’s call.

Your fist pounds on the door, punctuated by the clipped sound of your voice, “Munson, I swear to all that is unholy—"

The door opens quickly, and you nearly topple over the threshold. There’s a curl to his lips that tells you he wishes you had careened, tits over ass, in an unfortunate lack of poise, and fell to a heap on his floor. Fortunately, your hand collides with the door frame and finds purchase before any of that can come to pass.

"For Esmé—In Love and Squalor, as I live and breathe.” He drawls, all biting marks and bravado.

Edward ‘Eddie’ Munson was a few things: a writer, a pretentious asshole, Chrissy’s high school BFF, the worst person you’d ever had the displeasure of breathing the same air as, and your arch nemesis— just to name a few.

“Well, if it isn’t the ice queen from the Upper West Side! What brings you down here to slum it with us plebs?”

Soaked from head to toe, the rain drips steadily down your face and body. Your mouth opens and closes intermittently, gaping like a fish. How do I say something like this? How do I tell him that Chrissy, our mutual best friend and her husband are in all likelihood dead? Do I tell him, or should I leave it to the cops down at the station?

Because, at this point, nothing has been confirmed. And it won’t be until you’re both at the precinct meeting with Officer Booker. All you had to go on was your gut.

And your gut hadn’t been wrong yet.

Maybe tonight’s the night. After all, there’s a first time for everything, right?

“Hellooooo,” He hangs on the door jamb, long limbed and impatient. “C’mon, if you came all the way down here to bust my balls you could’ve—“

“S-she,” You swallow audibly and try to correct your earlier statement. “They, they’re gone.”

Eddie straightens up. A furrow pinches between his brows. “Who’s gone?”

“Chris, Jason, they just—"

He quickly grabs a jacket and slips on a pair of beaten to hell docs before shutting the door. It briefly passes through your mind that he should get his keys, he’ll need his keys to get back in. But before you can say anything, Eddie’s hand curls around your bicep and steers you down the stairs.

“Okay, okay.” He soothes, guiding you onto the sidewalk. “Where are we going, hospital or precinct? We’ll need a cab or Uber, right?”

Eddie grabs his phone and pulls up an app before muttering, “Fucking surge pricing, what the shit.”

The rain falls steadily, on and on, in the cool spring night as you wait. A seemingly endless vigil for the pair of you, the dark sky blanketing a city that never sleeps.

The blip and wail of sirens increases the closer you get to the station. The cab ride itself had been silent, save for Eddie’s wallet chain jangling as his leg jostled up and down. You’d mostly gathered your wits on the drive over, knew what to do, who to find— your head was as clear as it could be for now.

Eddie pays the fare and nods to the cabbie in thanks as you turn to open the door. His hand finds your arm, fingers trepidatious against the damp fabric of your trench coat. 

“D’ya think…”

A pinprick of pressure at the top of your sinuses, eyes blurring with newly minted moisture. A quick sniff to clear your nostrils as you slowly exhale.

”I hope not.”

You push the door open and stride across the wet pavement. An officer holds a door open for you with a tight-lipped smile.

”Hi,” You say, clearing your throat. “I’m looking for an Officer Booker?”

A desk jockey leads you both back to a small conference room and offers you a choice of coffee or water. You take him up on it and anxiously wait for Booker’s arrival.

”Hello,” A man greets, setting a to-go cup of coffee on the table and offering his hand to shake. “I’m Officer Booker. You must be Esmé Vance. And this is…?”

”Eddie Munson,” He says with a cough. 

Booker nods, as if he expected it. “Of course,” He takes a seat and places a manila folder on the table between you. He takes a beat, looking each of you in the eye, a tinge of sorrow precedes his next comment. “There was an accident, and it is with sorrow and regret that I inform you—"

And with that, the world drops dead.

A harsh buzzing, like static, fills your ears. Unwittingly, you clutch at Eddie’s hand, slotting your fingers together. Can’t bring yourself to worry over how cold and clammy your palm is against the dwarfing warmth of his. He squeezes your hand back, nods at whatever Booker is saying, something about finding your information as her I.C.E. contact on her phone.

"The first responders found it and we took it from there. But now we need numbers for the nearest next of kin, can you supply those?”

Big, wet tears fall silently down your cheeks and you can’t bring your vocal cords to work, to say something as simple as yes.

"Uh, yeah,” Eddie replies instead, accompanied by a violent sniff. “Her parents are back in Hawkins, Indiana— Peter and Ellie Cunningham.” He rattles off their home phone number as you watch, mesmerized, tremulous tears falling unabated down his face.

There’s scruff bordering on five-o’clock shadow peppering his cheeks and jawline, errant curls falling from the sloppy topknot on his head. He looks exhausted, as if the last half-hour has robbed him of sleep, bluish hollows like crescent moons underneath his eyes.

But he hasn’t let go of your hand.

No, he’s held it like a vise. As if it’s the only thing tethering him to the ground. 

“You said the car flipped? It—It flipped when it hit the…”

Booker looks at both of you, really takes a long, hard look.

Two kids, really. Early thirties, if he had to guess, and hopelessly floundering in the midst of a goddamn bitch of an unimaginable situation. Shit, he couldn’t tell which way was up at that age, and by then he’d had a badge and a gun.

Then, as if it’s dawned on you for the first time:

"They have a baby, w-who is she with now?“ You stutter out, dread curling low in your stomach. You clench Eddie’s hand all the harder.

The harsh whisper of your voice brings a halt to the conversation. Eddie gapes back at you, wide eyed and woebegone.

”If you’ll excuse me,” Booker says, rising to leave, “I’ll get a deputy to contact the parents and ascertain where the child is. Sit tight ‘til then.”

The door clicks shut. 

And the wail that careens up your throat is enough to kick-start Eddie’s survival mode into gear. He pushes away from the chair to sit at your feet, one hand grasping yours while the other winds around your waist and presses you to his torso. Sobs wrack your body, loud and hiccuping, while his lips murmur softly at the crown of your head.

Nothing he’s saying registers. But he’s there and warm, one large hand trailing the expanse of your back, up and down and over again; it’s almost soothing. He’s taller than you, something you’d always known from his penchant to loom over you, but you don’t seem to mind it just now. 

Tucked under his chin and pressed to his chest, it feels almost safe. His physical proximity and the way his body seems to mold around your own, protecting you from the sickening reality that she’s gone, and the sharp pain that kicks up in your gut, lends you enough comfort to make an attempt at processing this disaster. Chrissy and Jason, both gone in one fell swoop. Their daughter, Zoë, effectively orphaned and alone.

A beautiful, innocent little girl, a veritable copy of her mother, all blonde hair and blue eyes. Soft coos and footie pajamas, waiting for parents who would never return. 

What would happen to her?

It’s that very thought that snaps you out of your tear-streaked state as Officer Booker returns. Eddie sets you back on the chair, hands patting along your arms to check that you’re okay, at least for the moment. Catching his eye you give him a small nod.

"The Cunninghams have been informed and are on their way. The child was with the nanny, but CPS has taken over her care for the time being.”

”What, why?”

Eddie’s posture has changed, what was once hunched in an uncomfortable precinct chair has now straightened up, his spine pulled taut with tension. 

“It’s procedure until the next of kin can be notified.”

”No, that’s—" You stand abruptly, “We’ve gotta go. I mean, unless you need anything…?”

He shakes his head, “No, you’re free to go.” He stands and offers his hand to you once more, “My sincere condolences to you both.”

Leaving the precinct in a blur, you hardly realize you’re back on the sidewalk. On auto-pilot, you step out to hail a cab. Eddie, the lingering presence behind you, continues to silently brood.

As the cab pulls to the curb, a sharp jerk of your arm pulls you backward to collide with an oomph against him. You turn an apology on the tip of your tongue that vanishes at the sight of him. 

For all you know of Eddie Munson, one thing is for certain, it takes a lot to render him silent. And while you were rapidly losing it in the station, he had held it together. But the second you mentioned Zoë, all the fight left him. 

“Munson,” You croak, trying to draw him out from his racing thoughts. “We’re going to her, she’s not going to be alone, I promise you.” His eyes track your face in the light from the street lamps. “We’ll be on the next flight out, but we have to get in the cab first, okay?”

He nods, so subtle that if you’d blinked you would have missed it. You release the breath trapped in your lungs, a slow exhale as your hands settle on his forearms. Cautiously, you step forward and wrap your arms around him. He hesitates, body as tight as a tripwire, before he settles against you. The slight weight of you reminding him that he’s not alone in this.

"We’ll figure it out,” You murmur, voice scratchy from all the sobbing.

And for a moment, you just hold one another in the crisp spring morning. Birdsong twitters from above as the gloomy clouds of last night’s storm begin to clear. Elsewhere, people are beginning to rise and greet the new day, coffee percolates and sheets rustle. 

But in that moment, you’re able to forget all that— to push aside the fact that there are other people in the world and instead revel in the heartbreak you both feel, in the odd familiarity of each other.

Eddie uses the key Chrissy gave him to unlock the house in Loch Nora. It’s just after 6 A.M. of that same dreadful day and the house looks homey. A laundry basket propped up on a credenza, overflowing with burp cloths and tiny onesies. He flips a switch, and the entryway is bathed in a dull warm glow. 

“No, no,” You continue speaking into your phone, as you shut the door. “What I don’t understand is why we can’t see her now? Ma’am, I know you have protocol but we’re the godparents, isn’t there a precedent for that?”

Eddie moves like a ghost through the house, finds himself wincing as he catches sight of the Carver family photos with Chrissy’s bright smile. As he moves further into the house, your voice falls away.

All business since the cab ride. You swept through his studio like an automaton, throwing things into a duffle and didn’t bother to shut dresser drawers either. It looked like a criminal had ransacked his bedroom for a paltry collection of clothing. 

Eddie was tasked with packing his backpack, which he couldn’t muster up the effort to adequately do, and settled for tossing in his laptop, a few charging cables, and whatever else he swept off of the cluttered desk before zipping the bag.

Spent less than twenty minutes at your own place on the Upper West Side and returned with a neatly packed hardshell carryon and a leather tote bag, all the contents neatly organized and at the ready. 

And, he had to hand it to you, the efficiency you deployed everywhere from check-in to the TSA Pre-Check line, to wrangling an upgrade for the plane ride itself, and now playing verbal chess with the CPS representative was… impressive. Albeit frightening. 

But he also found it rather cold and unfeeling. Because, while yes, he had held you as you fell to pieces in the police station and witnessed your grief, since then you’d been too… together. Neatly packaged with a shiny bow on top, your sorrow packed tight and lying in wait underneath the glinting veneer of propriety.

The click of your heels on the hardwood floors alerts him to your presence. 

“Yes, I’ll be at this number. Thank you, goodbye.” You huff and lean against the arm of the sofa. “They won’t do anything, not until the case worker arrives this morning, at least.”

Eddie nods, “I’m sure that she’s fine, Vance.” His voice is soft, tired. “Why don’t you get some sleep? The guest room is upstairs and—“

A shake of your head, as you bring the phone back up to your ear. “No, I still need to contact the lawyer for Chr— uh, the will.” You reply, unable to speak her name, a little uneasy at the fact that she had a will in the first place.

Eddie tsks, his lip curling in disbelief, “C’mon, are you serious? What lawyer is going to be in-office and answer the phone at this hour, Dewey, Cheatem, and Howe?”

Fixing him with a glare Medusa would envy, you purse your lips. “Then I’ll leave a message with their answering service. And,” You turn, tossing the last bit over your shoulder, “If it’s an attorney that Carver hired, I can guarantee they’ll call back within the hour.”

And, true enough, the offices of Mason & Finch returned your call within thirty minutes. But really, who was counting?

You find Eddie’s limbs sprawled all over the couch in the den, the tv light flicking against the pallor of his skin. Grabbing the remote, you catch sight of Katharine Hepburn swanning across the screen in Bringing Up Baby. 

Tossing the remote to the side with a clatter, you accidentally (somewhat) wake Eddie. 

“The fuck Vance?” He sounds groggy and confused, slightly alarmed that he was jolted awake by a piece of plastic to the face.

”The attorney has arrived.” You say in lieu of a greeting, “And CPS hasn’t called yet.”

He rises slowly, stretching as a cat might— arms flexing above his head causing the hem of his shirt to ride up and reveal a smattering trail of dark hair down his abdomen. With a roll of your eyes, you turn and walk back into the study at the front of the house.

Maxine Mayfield Esquire, junior partner at Mason & Finch, has made herself comfortable at Jason’s mahogany desk. Briefcase stowed at her feet, she runs a hand through her hair, loose in her haste to make this meeting on time. The sealed last will and testament of Mr. and Mrs. Carver sits at the center of the desk, ominous and forlorn.

Technically, she wasn’t on-call for estate cases currently. But when the secretary had phoned her to see who was available this week, the second Max heard the words “fatal collision” and “Carver”, she was up and out of bed. She knew she needed to handle this case, though the name the secretary gave her was unfamiliar: Ripley Esmé Vance.

Whoever this person was, Max knew Eddie wouldn’t be long behind.

Before she’d left for the Carver’s that day, Max had trusted Lucas to rally the troops for an all hands on deck situation. She couldn’t tell him much, or if Eddie was even in town yet, but she knew Lucas would see to it that he wasn’t alone. 

Mason had briefed her over the phone on the drive over about the proceedings, what to expect from the beneficiaries, how to liaise with CPS, who to contact if Vance and Munson refused custody. Though, she didn’t anticipate needing that particular bit of information.

Rising to greet who could only be Vance, Max is nearly bowled over at the sight of Eddie. He looks haggard, which is to be expected, but it’s a stark contrast to the pristine image of his counterpart. 

Esmé Vance oozes sophistication— black Tahitian pearls adorn your neck contrasting with the gray sweater and wide legged trousers you’re sporting. Not much taller than Max, the inch or two gained in whole part due to the heels that click against the floor as you go to greet her.

"Ms. Mayfield,” You say, with the husky voice of a silver screen siren, “Thanks so much for seeing us this early, we appreciate it.” 

As you shake hands, the singular ring on your right hand catches Max’s notice. A clean and simple signet nestled on an elegant finger. Your nails are impeccable, a dark plum shade that Max makes a note to get the name of later.

In short, Chrissy’s best friend is just as the bubbly blonde had bragged— her polar opposite in nearly every way. Max wasn’t sure if she wanted her or simply wanted to be her, but she’d deal with that later.

"Hey Red,” Eddie says, leaning against the doorframe.

She excuses herself to wrap him in a warm embrace, professionalism be damned. He accepts it willingly, and she allows herself the luxury of inhaling the familiar scent of stale cigarettes and coffee.

"Hey Ed,” She replies, stepping back after a moment or two. “I’m so sorry about Chrissy.” She turns back to Esmè, eyes misty, “My condolences to you both.”

Soon after, they get down to brass tacks. Max reads the will aloud, the legalese meaning absolutely jack shit to Eddie, that is until:

"Joint legal and physical custody of Zoë Lux Carver is granted to Ripley Esmè Vance and Edward Waylon Munson—“

"I’m sorry, but what?” Eddie’s voice is louder than he intended, so distracted by the fact that he’s been granted custodial rights over an actual baby, that he completely misses that you don't even go by your given name.

It’ll come back to him later, sleep-addled and at wit’s end, no doubt.

Max pauses, noting the lack of reaction from you. Hmm, interesting. “Did Chrissy not discuss the guardianship arrangements with you?”

Eddie shakes his head, you decline to reply and turn to gaze out of the window. You’re quiet, which can only mean one thing.

"You knew about this Vance?”

"Well,” You hedge a reply, “I didn’t think it would necessarily come up. But… yeah, she mentioned it after Zoë was born. Though I didn’t know she meant joint custody.”

He turns back to Max, “What does that mean?”

"It means,” You supply, turning back to the conversation, “That we raise her together. Joint as in the two of us,” Your fingers gesture between the pair of you, “Not as in what your studio reeks of.” And then, you pantomime taking a drag from an imaginary joint, as if to prove your point.

"Gee, thanks for the tip, Officer Krupke.” 

Max watches, idly amused by the pair of you, a knowing smile gracing her lips. “Right, so if you refuse custody, Zoë will be placed with another willing caregiver, preferably family, but if not, she’ll go into foster care.”

"Oh, fuck no!”

"Over my dead body!”

Your exclamations override one another, the volume of the conversation increasing for so an early an hour. Max desperately wants a coffee, maybe an Irish one. 

“Okay, so you’re agreed on that, at least.” Max turns over to the next page in the document. “Everything else is pretty standard: all liquid assets are left to Zoë, kept in a trust until her twenty-first birthday, which you are both guardians of.”

She pauses for a moment, very much entertained that Chrissy, and by extension Jason, have left you both in charge of everything. A realization that has Eddie rolling his eyes beside you.

”You’ve also been given the deeds to the house in Hawkins, as well as the brownstone and, besides a few personal effects left to other people, everything within the properties seems to be yours.”

The redhead passes a copy of the document to each of you, along with her card. “When you have questions, you can reach me at these numbers and Eddie has my cell, too.”

Your mind is reeling, trying and failing to piece together the remnants of a life left behind. A puzzle that only you and Eddie can solve, or so it would seem. Before you can ask for confirmation or voice any of your concerns, Eddie’s voice rings through the room with an incredulous, “Properties? As in, plural?”

Max clears her throat, “Uh, yes. They want you to raise Zoë either here, in Hawkins, or—" She trails off to confirm the location of the other property. “New York. They closed on a property there earlier this week.”

"Huh,” He says, collapsing back into the club chair in front of Jason’s desk. “They never mentioned that.”

"Zoë.” You say once your tongue begins working again, “How do we— Where is she now?”

Max gives you a relieved smile. “Well, I’ve already arranged for her transfer. The foster family she was placed with last night will bring her to CPS. They feel that she’ll adjust best in her own environment. So, first, she needs to be picked up and brought here.” 

“Right,” You say, rising from your chair, “Can you excuse me, for just one moment?” And walk, as calmly as you can, out of the study and through the house to the back deck. 

It’s as if you can’t get enough air into your lungs, but the quicker you breathe in, the faster your heart beats. Your skin pricks with cold despite the warm morning sun.

”Ohmygod,” You heave out in a rush of air, “Ohmygod, ohmygod.” 

There has to be a better solution than co-parenting with Munson. How Jason’s attorney even let Chrissy pair you together for the foreseeable future truly boggles the mind. The pair of you loathe each other, further compounded by one disastrous interaction after another. This was insanity, there was no way in hell it could ever work!

You brace your hands on your knees and will yourself not to throw up. Never knowing that at precisely that very moment, Eddie is doing the same in the front yard of the house, just as petrified as you.

[dispelzine]

Walls / Bedford Avenue, Brooklyn, New York.

[newyorkthegoldenage]

The residents of Atlantic Avenue in Bedford-Stuyvesant must have gotten used to the rushing and clanging of the Long Island Railway in front of their houses, 1940s.

Photo: Joe Schwartz via the Smithsonian National Museum of African-American History & Culture

[polkadotjohnson]

What’s the nicest way you ever asked a girl out?

I met this incredible girl while I was in New York for a very short time. I lived in New York for about a year,  while I was shooting a really cool short film. It was like a zombie film set at fashion week, and we were shooting all around fashion week. One day, this incredibly hot, just drop-dead gorgeous girl was hanging around the set shooting behind the scenes pictures as a favor to the director, because they were friends. I really liked her instantly, but I was just too nervous to ask her out. I guess it was obvious, because at the end of the day, she asked me for my phone, and she put her number in it. So I guess she kind of asked me out. When we finally did go on a date, I asked her out by calling and saying, “you like a good burger?” So we went for Dumont Burger in Williamsburg, and we had this incredible day together. She was getting her wisdom teeth pulled, and I sent her flowers. I’ve never done that before, sent somebody flowers, and I barely even know this girl except one date. I was falling for this girl really fast. At the end of the first date we had, I was coyly trying to figure out if I could get a kiss, and we were standing on Bedford Avenue, and I said to her trying to be gentlemanly, “if we weren’t in the middle of Bedford Avenue right now, I would totally kiss you,” and she denied me, laughed, got in a cab and took off back to her apartment in Queens. I was devastated.

Well, fast-forward 2-3 years later, we went on a date at the exact same spot in Williamsburg, Dumont Burger.  We’re on Bedford Avenue, and I said to her, “you know if we weren’t standing in the middle of Bedford Avenue, I would ask you to marry me,” and she laughed and flipped her hair like she did when we were on our first date, like she was going to call a cab. Then I got down on my knees, and I pulled out a ring, and she almost fainted and she started crying. I said, “I mean it, will you marry me?” She said “yes.” And that’s how I got my wife to marry me. That’s the nicest way I think you can ask somebody to marry you. That’s a long answer to your question!

(x)

[fashionbooksmilano]

Ralph Lauren A Way of Living

Home, Lifestyle, Inspiration

by Ralph Lauren

Rizzoli, New York 2023, 543 pages, 23,5x30,5cm, ISBN 978-0-8478-7214-5

euro 78,00

email if you want to buy booksinprogressmilano@yahoo.it

A stunning celebration of Ralph Lauren’s signature home collections—including the designer’s own homes—which have inspired the world of interior design for nearly half a century. The cinematic vision of Ralph Lauren is brought to life with a stunning and intimately written book that spans decades of innovation and influence by the iconic American designer. Ralph Lauren: A Way of Living, published by Rizzoli New York, commemorates the 40th anniversary of the home collection with the first comprehensive volume dedicated to the signature style of Ralph Lauren and his pioneering lifestyle approach to design. From trailblazing innovations that revolutionized the home industry to conceptualizing residential retailing and perfecting the art of hospitality, Lauren has created a multifaceted world that evokes emotion and inspires a more beautiful way of life. This special volume presents a visual timeline of Ralph Lauren’s remarkable history as a lifestyle innovator. Lauren’s unparalleled ability to seamlessly blend fashion and the home is illustrated with the groundbreaking designs and innovative use of materials that have distinguished the home collection since its inception in 1983: menswear-inspired Oxford Cloth bedding that required the creation of special looms and took two years to refine; the sleek RL-CF1 chair, crafted of carbon fiber and inspired by Lauren’s McLaren F1 racecar; and an appreciation for a timeworn, weathered aesthetic, as exemplified in the iconic Writer’s Chair with its hand-burnished leather and rich patina. Historic achievements such as the opening of his first New York City flagship on Madison Avenue – which invited guests to experience the complete World of Ralph Lauren in a residential environment – and his renowned restaurants that offer the epitome of gracious hospitality, demonstrate the magnitude of Ralph Lauren’s influence on the worlds of lifestyle design and hospitality. The timeline is complete with quotes from distinguished members of the design world and prominent figures of our culture including Oprah Winfrey, Hillary Rodham Clinton, and architecture critic Paul Goldberger. Ralph Lauren’s signature ability to create transportive environments begins with his private homes that inspire his iconic lifestyle collections. Ralph Lauren: A Way of Living offers an in-depth look at all the places Lauren calls home, from a sprawling ranch in Colorado and an island retreat in Jamaica, to a Fifth Avenue penthouse overlooking Manhattan’s Central Park, a seaside home in Montauk and a country estate in Bedford. Lauren’s homes are deeply personal expressions of his vision for living; captivating imagery is complemented by essays and descriptions written in his own words that intimately express the meaning of home and share inspiration and anecdotes for each residence. The photos of Lauren’s captivating homes are followed by a celebration of Ralph Lauren Home’s lifestyle collections – cinematic worlds that are brought to life with iconic imagery showcasing Lauren’s pioneering lifestyle approach and all-encompassing home collection. Ralph Lauren: A Way of Living honors the life and work of a true visionary and innovator. Ralph Lauren’s monumental impact on the way we live is as recognizable today as it was groundbreaking 40 years ago. His vision is not about trends of the moment, but is built upon values and things that last, and his legacy will continue to shape the places we call home.

29/10/24

[wanderingnewyork]

Houses in the #Perry_Avenue_Historic_District, #the_Bronx.

[unteriors]

Washington Avenue, Bedford, Indiana.

[auroraborealis22]

Poppies, Bedford Park Avenue 

Arthur Lismer

[beardedmrbean]

NEW YORK -- Ryan Carson, a social justice advocate who was on a mission to make New York a better place, was stabbed to death on the streets of Crown Heights on Monday. 

People who knew Carson, 32, said he dedicated his life to trying to change things for the better. 

Carrying candles, dozens of Carson's family and friends gathered at a park in Bedford-Stuyvesant to remember his life. 

Police said the long-time government advocate was stabbed at around 4 a.m. about a mile away at Lafayette Avenue and Malcom X Boulevard. 

Sources said Carson was standing on the street with his girlfriend when the suspect approached and asked, "What are you looking at?" before stabbing Carson in the chest multiple times. 

Carson was pronounced dead at Kings County Hospital. 

"I was absolutely in disbelief," said New York Assembly Member Emily Gallagher, who knew Carson before becoming a politician. 

Gallagher and Carson bonded over losing close friends to drug overdoses. 

In 2021, Carson walked from New York City to Albany to lobby for safe injection facilities.

For the last decade, Carson was a campaign manager with the New York Public Interest Research Group, most recently dealing with recycling and solid waste. 

"Trying to deal with the unreclaimed bottles and cans that litter New York streets, but he had been involved with lots of projects with us over the years," said Blair Horner, executive director of the New York Public Interest Research Group.

Sources told CBS New York police do not have a physical description of the suspect, but said the person was acting irrationally prior to the attack. 

Carson's girlfriend was not hurt. 

"It was so shocking. I'm there constantly," said Max Sabo, from Bed-Stuy. "It's terrifying." 

Gallagher said Carson had been sending out reminders for his upcoming birthday, adding he had a gift for bringing joy and comfort. 

"If you wanted to talk, he was absolutely always ready to talk, always there for you," said Gallagher. "It's hard when the person that you go to to talk about grief is the one who died." 

Police said no arrests have been made and the investigation is ongoing.  ____________________

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"CONSTABLE DISMISSED," Ottawa Citizen. October 15, 1913. Page 1. ---- Use of Revolver Not Justified by Circumstances. ---- Arthur Ainscough, the police constable who fired three shots at a man in front of Wah Lee's laundry, corner of St. Patrick street and King Edward avenue, about 2.30 last Monday morning, was today dismissed from force. His use of the weapon was reckless, since he says that the man had not entered the laundry. There was not sufficient provocation to warrant the use of a revolver. Ainscough came here three weeks ago from New Bedford, Mass., where he was employed for some time on the police force. He will leave for New Bedford today. He has lost his taste for police experience and intends to try some other line. The man at whom the constable fired got away and the police have not any good clue as to who he is.