#Ceiling Painting in Brooklyn NY

[aandbpaintingexperts]

A&B Painting Experts | Painter | Ceiling Painting in Brooklyn NY

We are your dependable and trustworthy go-to Painter in Brooklyn NY, specializing in transforming spaces that reflect our client's personal tastes. From refreshing a single room to a complete house makeover, we apply our expert knowledge to deliver a flawless, long-lasting finish. Utilizing premium paint products and tools, we ensure quality paintwork. Moreover, hiring us for excellent Ceiling Painting in Brooklyn NY, can give your ceiling a vibrant and colorful look. Our professionals will help brighten your room, cover stains, and contribute to a polished, cohesive look throughout your space. For your convenience, we have also kept our service charges at the lowest possible scale. So, if you need our expert assistance, call us today.

[pierceconstructionandrepair]

If you are facing issues with home improvement Services in Brooklyn, New York, and surrounding areas. Contact Ignite Home Improvement!

[hometoursandotherstuff]

This is such a cute, delightfully colorful 1906 home in Brooklyn, NYC, and even thought I know that prices are out of control, I wasn't prepared for the $2.657M price tag. Like, are you kidding me? It's got 5bds & 4ba. I mean, the exterior is nothing to look at- hastily sprayed with gray paint, the windows trimmed in blue, and a dated brown door.

The entrance hall has the original stairs.

The living room is interesting. They painted the brick fireplace, looks like they stripped the ceiling to the studs and painted it white, and used the leftover bathroom tile in front of the fireplace.

For the price they're asking, I'm going to be critical. I thought that there was a bar, but they have pots and pans above it.

And, it's the actual kitchen. This is weird. There's a door to the yard and it's not a $2.6M kitchen.

There's a cute dining area here.

Here's the 2nd floor for the bedrooms.

This would be the primary bedroom.

And, they managed to make a walk-in closet.

Recognize the tile from the fireplace? This is adorable, but an old dresser painted black isn't the sink for a $2.6M bath.

Then, this would be bedroom #2.

And, bedroom #3.

The tile's been redone in the baths, but the fixtures look original.

Now, we're in a basement room with a nice woodburning stove.

Then, this room in the basement counts as another bedroom and a bath. The walls are uneven painted sheets of plywood. It's very cute, but I'm just appalled at the price to live in a simple home in Brooklyn.

Looks like a porch.

The yard is a mess. Looks like an abandoned patio with dead weeds everywhere. It's depressing.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/100-King-St-Brooklyn-NY-11231/30573356_zpid/

[from-memphis-with-love]

Gambling on Your Love - An Elvis Presley Fanfiction

Summary: Mid-'60s Elvis is stuck in a dead end film career that he hates. Until he meets one Francesca Ferrara, a triple threat from Brooklyn, NY on a meteoric rise whose talent rivals his own. The Colonel is determined to put a stop to their hot and heavy romance at any cost, fearing it may hurt his client's career. But Elvis has other plans.

Word count: ~12,000 Warnings: alcohol, cigarette, and pill usage; sexual content and innuendos; mental health and turmoil. Elvis is not a happy camper as we start this story.

The limousine was oppressive with heat. Boozy breath clung in the air like miasma. City lights smeared like paints along the fogging glass. Glittering nails and hairsprayed blonde curls skewed his already hazy vision and he just barely put out his cigarette in the ashtray without scalding Daisy’s—or was it Cindy’s?—sequin dress.

“Hey! Watch it,” she drunkenly giggled in his face, poking him in the chest with one bony index. She looked older, harsher now in the neon lights. Tap tap tap. “You’re lucky you’re so cute.”

He didn’t know what he said in response, but it didn’t matter. She was still happy just to be in a limousine, leaving a party with Elvis Presley. Something she keenly shared with him that she couldn’t wait to tell her friends all about. 

Stumbling into his hotel room, ceiling-to-floor mirrors reflecting him back, he didn’t remember the elevator trip up. He heard once that if nothing new happens on a routine route, your brain doesn’t bother to write it down. Just doesn’t think you need to use that extra space for something rudimentary. 

Sitting down on a different couch, with a different girl, in a different one of his suites, didn’t constitute much change. The pills he’d imbibed suppressed his lust and he felt himself just going through the motions with her. With himself.

The silence was sharp. Always ringing in his ear. It’s why he liked keeping the party going—he didn’t have to listen to it. She was asleep in the bed, and he wasn’t sure if he was, too, when he stumbled out and into the too empty, echoing living room. The uncomfortable leather couch squeaked when he sat down, cold and sticky. The television was on a late-night variety show. It was an encore for an hours-prior live performance. He held the remote poised at the set, blinking tiredly at the political jab Johnny Carson made, the crowd laughing even when he didn’t say anything funny. He introduced their next guest and Elvis clicked away. 

But before he switched to Nightlife, he caught a glimpse of dark hair and a sparkling high cut dress. Elvis clicked back. Trapezing onto stage, jovial and collected, was a songstress he didn’t recognize, though lately he hadn’t been busy with keeping up with anyone else but himself. He didn’t know anyone on set, hadn’t even heard of the director before—it was just another film in a long line of commercially successful mediocrity. Sitting, he watched her as she glowed with something he felt fading away, spilling out of his seams. He leaned closer towards the television, and Johnny introduced her to an anticipating audience. 

Her name was Francesca Ferrara. What was that, Italian? Either way, it rolled pleasantly off his tongue. He repeated it out loud, watching as she performed. Her voice was like velvet and when she danced, the notes didn’t even quiver. She retained perfect pitch while going heel-toe, shimmying and sliding, dipping her hips in her glittering gown. He was enthralled, gazing from so far away yet feeling like she was right before him, and he was an awestruck member of the audience. 

Grabbing a pill he left close at hand for pangs of severe loneliness, he drank it down with a swig of water, wiping his mouth and saying goodbye with the crowd as everyone waved at lovely Frannie, leaving the stage and leaving him longing for someone he’d probably never meet. Probably wouldn’t even remember. 

Waking up on the couch hours later, he had to go through the awkward peel-away of scooting his latest girl out with a fistful of cab fare. “Thanks for the great night,” he clipped, holding the door like a baseball bat, ready to swing. ���Of course! I had suuuch a good time with you, I put my number on your fridge for when you’re lonely, big guy.” She wasn’t bothered by his briskness and ambled away without argument, leaving him by himself. A routine start to his days.

Three months later, he saw Frannie again. But this time he was clear-headed, clearer than he’d been in years. And he did remember.

“Can’t y’all be quiet for five minutes? Goddamn pack of cacklin’ hens!” Elvis scolded the rowdy group of partygoers behind him. Their raucous cheers and shouts drowned out any hope of silence. He couldn’t entirely blame them for having fun without him, though, as his attention was elsewhere.

"Is anyone else seeing her?!" he muttered to himself as he absentmindedly jiggled his fingers. The crowd hushed ever so slightly, allowing him to catch fragments of the sit-down interview taking place on the television screen. There she was again, that Ferrara girl. She was just as beautiful as he remembered. Her voice reached out to him like a siren's call, its rhythm hypnotic. Penetrating his very being. 

On set, she sunk back into the big red couch, legs crossed demurely in a miniskirt, listening intently as Mike Douglas poked and prodded with his innuendos. Petite, just like Elvis liked ‘em. Fishnet stockings on supple thighs evoked just the right amount of daring playfulness. Then, with suggestive abandon, she threw her head back into the most beautiful laugh Elvis had ever heard. Seeing the soft flesh of her graceful neck made him tingle in a deep, forgotten place inside. She was sensual without even trying. Even better, she seemed completely unaware of her effect on the men around her. The cameraman, for one, must have been completely smitten for the way he lingered on her face. "So, this is the female version of me everyone's been talking about," Elvis mused, a mix of astonishment and delight coloring his voice. "Well, I'll be damned."

Her natural charisma was palpable. Her lips, just like his, bent into an impishly crooked smile that could bring members of the opposite sex to their knees. As she joked with Douglas, it became increasingly apparent why people drew comparisons between them. They both radiated an effortless sensuality that seemed to leap from the screen. Nevertheless, he couldn't help but disagree with the comparison as she palmed the microphone for an impromptu song—he thought she was even better, a force that surpassed his own artistry. 

Her voice. It was soulful, raspy, and powerful, yet also warm and velvety. Effortless, even. From the lower notes that were rich, heavy, and dark to the higher ones that rang clear as a bell, she had an impressive range. Elvis surmised that she easily spanned three octaves and a major sixth, far surpassing his own two and a third. The way she easily hit an E6, a note that seemed out of reach for many singers, left him both jealous and utterly fascinated. Her talent and beauty made him question his own abilities, yet his ego pushed him to pursue her. To consume her. Elvis’ breath hitched in his throat and his hands dropped idly to his sides. Accustomed to being the center of attention, he found the tables turning, himself transfixed and  unable to tear his gaze away. He silently vowed to meet this Frannie at any cost.

He had never experienced love at first sight before, but this was as close as it gets.

As she continued to sing, her voice dripped raw with passion. Elvis didn’t know how long he’d been watching, but by the time Frannie entered the chorus for the second time, it seemed as if every man in the room had somehow crowded around the television set. Suddenly, the once boisterous party fell into deafening silence.

"Damn, EP, who is that?" Red West, one of the men in the room, practically gaped at the screen, his jaw hanging open. Whoever it was on the stage, he thought she was phenomenal. 

"That," Elvis responded with a confident grin, "is going to be my next co-star."

The next day, Colonel Parker jumped down his throat about late nights and partying, always quick to remind Elvis just who tirelessly scouted for him, trying to get him better and better roles. He went from quipping about Elvis’s pale skin and sunken eyes some mornings to blatantly questioning Elvis’s apparent lack of control. 

But Elvis could stop whenever he wanted to. He just didn’t want to.

*

The movie premiere went without a hitch. Everyone at the showing had rave reviews about “Kissin’ Cousins,” but almost everyone in attendance had been family or friends. It’d been a gauzy shield, a curtain keeping reality just out of sight for when the movie would release in theaters just two weeks later.

Even the “good” reviews were hard for him to grit through.

“Good, harmless fun. Pandering, unpretentious, dim-witted fun.”

The bad reviews just cut.

“The songs weren’t memorable, and the dialogue was sitcom levels of easily digestible canned slop for the masses. You’re better off glancing at the poster and thinking up your own plot to stimulate your brain more than this “film” will.”

“Bad. Bad. Bad. Do I need to say anything with depth for a film lacking any? Save your money.”

The critics were tearing him a new one, but he was more successful than ever, making more money than he’d thought possible in a lifetime. Yet there was something lacking. In the women and the cars, the pick-up games, and the palling around with his stunted entourage. His sleepless nights were plagued with visions of a haunting beauty. It kept him ambitious, fanning the dying flame until he was spurred to reach for the phone.

Over the past few weeks, Elvis had sent around on set that he needed to get in touch with Francesca Ferrara’s manager. Someone had to know someone that knew someone. It just took asking the right person, and schmoozing on set with the makeup girls was a pleasant cost to pay as any. 

Eventually it did get back to the right person. Her agent was a man named Dominick Archer, and he was notoriously scrupulous with his clients, only taking on the best actors, singers, and scripts. Elvis learned Francesca didn’t just sing here and there, she was lighting up the charts, skyrocketing to the top. Just the other day, he heard her on the radio. It felt like more than a coincidence.

He had to call Dominick. Again. He’d left a message on the receiver, laying it all out in a quick barrage, “Hey, uh, yeah. It’s Elvis Presley. Look, I saw her— Frannie—I saw her piece on Johnny Carson. She was a fireball, Mr. Archer. I need to work with someone like that. I need to work with her. Call me.”

It’d been three whole days since he left that message and every afternoon he scrambled to the phone, checking to see if his call had been returned. Nothing. But he wasn’t perturbed. He dialed the number again. It rang four, eight times—“What? Speak quick.” There was a rustling sound, like the phone was being held between a face and shoulder.

“It’s Elvis. Presley, sir.”

“Oh yeah. Think I heard of you,” Dominick laughed in that sort of nonplussed way that New Yorkers who have seen it all do. “What do you want?”

Elvis blinked. What did he want? “I left you a message. I think a movie with me and Francesca Ferrara would make box office history.”

Silence. Elvis heard Dominick sniff. Discomforted, he continued, “Do you want to work together?”

“Listen, my going rate for outside agency actors is 60/40. I land us a solid script, a good director, all that jazz. And Francesca is listed as the headliner.”

Bigger cut and her name was supposed to be listed before his? Colonel Parker wouldn’t hear of it. But he could be convinced, maybe. If the profit was tempting enough. Elvis would worry about that later. Right now, securing a spot with Frannie was all that compelled him. He had to get this gig.

So, he answered briskly, “Okay.”

“Okay?” Dominick asked back with a smile in his voice. “Well, then we can start talking business. Get your agent to call me.” And that was it. The call dropped and Elvis heard only a dial tone droning in his ear. It echoed hope.

Now to tell the Colonel. 

*

Elvis was not a man who dreaded much, but he braced himself for this conversation. He was not a pacifist but if in the right circles, could be mistaken for one. Normally, he disliked confrontation and always preferred to take the path with least resistance. And he’d been in the same boat with Colonel Parker for years; abandoning ship now seemed unfeasible if not outright impossible. 

He didn’t want to waste time with a phone call; he knew Parker would just hang up on him the moment he received any pushback. So, he made his way downtown to his manager’s temporary office, where Parker’s sandal-clad feet were kicked up on his mahogany desk and a cigar hung precariously from his thin lips, the whole office reeking of tobacco and coffee while he shot the shit with one of his terrified assistants. Smoke raced out the door when Elvis swung it open, catching Parker off guard.

“My boy! No knock, no call? What are you doing? Shouldn’t you be on set right now?” He put the phone back on the receiver, only slightly annoyed.

Elvis leveled him with a stare. “Because I had some errands to do. Besides, it’s reshoots with Barbara today, they don’t need me. Look, I…” He rubbed his palms, remaining standing as he placed them flat on Parker’s desk and leaned across. “There’s a girl. A girl, Admiral. You’ve got to see her, she's got the voice of an angel. Francesca Ferrara.” God, he liked saying that name. Maybe it should get first billing. 

“Don’t tell me she’s carrying your baby, Presley.”

“No, no. I didn’t get anyone pregnant. I haven’t even met her yet. I saw her on the television. Heard her on the radio! She’s got somethin’, I promise you.”

The Colonel’s chair creaked as he readjusted, stamping out his expensive cigar. His fingers steepled and he asked in a gravely, wet voice, “And I assume you’re going somewhere with this?”

“I want—no. I need to work with that woman.”

Shrugging, Parker retorted, “Get her agent on the phone. Who is he? Not that needle-dick bastard Jenkins, is he?”

“I already talked to him.”

“You talked to him already? When? Why? I—” He shook his head, holding up his meaty, red palms. “Whaddya think you’re paying me for, kid? You let me do all the talking. So. What’d he say?”

Elvis swished the statement, diluting it. “He wants her to get top billing.”

“Absolutely not.”

“And… a 60/40 split.”

“Sixty isn’t enough, you deserve seventy. I haven’t even heard of this broad. Forty percent, my ass.”

“Sir, she would get the sixty.”

Parker rubbed his mouth and jabbed a finger at him. “What are you playing at? You think this is funny? No way in hell.” He started laughing humorlessly, shaking his head. “Sixty percent. You must have fallen and bumped your head, Presley. Now get out of my office.” He flicked his hand but Elvis didn’t budge.

The older man simmered, quietly, wondering with a glare why Elvis hadn’t made himself scarce yet.

“It ain’t right, never letting me pick and choose what I wanna do. You know I’m the star here, right?” He regretted the words before they left his mouth. The delivery, not their meaning. That part he meant through and through. 

“So why do you think I’d let you throw away your cut? You really want to make 40 percent and split that 50/50 with me? What kind of bank do you expect to make from that? Think, Presley! Now quit wasting my time and let me get back to looking out for you. I’ve got some calls to make, so scram.”

He refused. If there was ever a time to take a stand, it was now. He was so tired of letting Parker take damn near full control of his life. The finances, the social guidelines, the shitty movies. All of it. 

“I said scram! If you don’t get lost, so help me. You know I don’t like gettin’ pissed off, kid. Don’t push me.”

Elvis didn’t move. Instead, he firmly reiterated, “I think it could be a great opportunity.”

The Colonel flew up from his chair. He was prone to being a jackass, but Elvis had rarely seen him so angry. But then again, he rarely defied his manager, having always seen him as someone who, despite his flaws, nearly always got the job done. Bread in the bank, so to speak. Colonel Parker made damn sure it was always in excess, even if it meant taking a generous cut of his star’s earnings. That part, Elvis didn’t mind. It was just money, after all, and he could always make more. What Elvis had begun to resent was the vice grip control Colonel had on him. With an iron fist, he wielded him like a weapon, cleaving his way through Hollywood one mediocre movie at a time. It was him who spearheaded his silver screen career, scheduled his engagements, managed his merchandising contracts. But at the cost of rigid ruling.

Elvis was not allowed to announce he was dating anyone for the “time being,” that being however long his manager saw fit. He couldn’t deposit checks directly into his bank; Parker handled all the finances down to the penny. Nobody important could get to Elvis without going through Parker first–not other producers, managers, or even would-be friends. Everyone had to be vetted by the Colonel, who wasn’t above isolating Elvis when he felt someone with influence was getting too close. The contracts Elvis would find himself pledged to were oftentimes suffocating with how long he would be tied to one studio, making critically-panned but commercially successful slop for the masses. He couldn’t escape the exhausting treadmill of quickie films, and he knew that they were there solely to make money. Funds that the studios would use to finance the more important, artistic projects with serious actors. Ones that weren’t Elvis. 

There was a marked disdain for any growth in artistic expression or flexibility. He was proud of his filmography regardless, but there were times he’d felt outclassed at parties. Where it was clear nepotism was the unspoken theme and, ill trained and easily tongue-tied, Elvis would get sweetly nudged aside with smiles by those who deemed themselves more sophisticated than him. Those moments were rare but gutting. It hollowed him out and he didn’t like what he saw. A few years into his movie career, he’d developed painful ulcers that still kept him up at night, and he suffered from debilitating migraines during the day. 

“You need to listen to me and listen good, boy.” Boy. Elvis hated when Parker called him that. “You keep bucking up to me like you run the show and I might have to make a stir about your favorite hobbies. I’m sure the papers would love to know what you get up to in your free time, how you spend all that money you earn. In detail.” The insinuation left little to the imagination and Elvis felt threatened to cave, but knew that if he backed down now, things would never improve.

“If I can convince them to bill me first. Would you consider it?”

Parker was already shaking his head, loudly saying, “No, no. I don’t want to hear any more about this.”

“We can negotiate for a fairer split. I’ll make this a one-time deal if it all goes to hell. But if this works, you’ve got to admit that to me and let me pursue it. I barely ask you for anything, Colonel. When’s the last time I asked you a favor that you can remember?” At his lengthy silence, Elvis said, “Once you see her, you’ll change your tune, I know you will.”

The Colonel was still boiling, his round ruddy face tight around the relit cigar, taking a drink of iceless, room temperature water, clear as crystal in a highball glass. “One. You get one chance at picking your own script. We’ll see how it goes. Good parents let their children learn from their mistakes, right?”

Elvis winced. He already had a father, and he didn’t need more scolding. If he was determined before, he was now dead set on seeing this through given that Parker threatened an exposé. But if he could just win something–just this once–it’d put him over the moon. When he left his manager’s office that day, he called Dominick back himself and told him that things were tentatively going well and that they’d stay in touch, but things might have to be worked out a bit more, something the other man wasn’t too thrilled to hear, telling him briefly, “I’ll let you know when something comes up.”

For weeks nothing at all came up. Then the weeks bled into two long months and the seed of doubt bloomed wild. He began to wonder if he’d ever get to be in a movie with Francesca. But he wouldn’t let the dread creep further. He waited patiently, working diligently at his current contractual obligations, not because he was crazy about the film, but because he knew he needed to practice so that he could give the next project his all. He just had a good feeling about this. Something in his gut told him that it would all work out.

Colonel Parker had him slotted for another slop fest of a movie. He didn’t agree to it, but that didn’t matter. Pushing it on him was just par for the course and he deflected, saying he wanted to take a break and relax. But that was seen through almost immediately.

“You’ll get a vacation when I do.”

And the Colonel didn’t plan on one anytime soon with as many movies he had lined up for Elvis. They had started to lose their shine in his eyes and while they were more commercially successful than ever, he’d never felt more out of touch. Just going through the motions. 

He saw her face on a billboard one morning in Chicago while stepping out of the bus, the sun illuminating her like some angel. Performing live, but the dates had already passed. He’d missed her by 6 hours. They might have even been in the city at the same time. He couldn’t stop thinking about her. How would he introduce himself? What would she say when meeting Elvis Presley and learning he was smitten with her? Surely it wouldn’t be a hot pursuit, he just needed to be near enough to her. He could perhaps convince her to feel what he felt too. Or maybe it was all a silly fantasy, keeping him shaking on stage for the thousands in attendance at the premiere. 

Tonight, he’d almost been assaulted by an over-excited herd of young fans grouping too close to the flimsy perimeter fence, sending it toppling and knocking into his knees. He wasn’t injured but seeing people literally willing to hurt themselves to get a chance to grab at his coat sleeve or tug at his pants leg was enough to disturb him for the rest of the night. He didn’t talk for a while, just sitting and staring in the silence of his suite, the bus stationary for the next 4 hours. He couldn’t sleep when it was moving, it just tossed his stomach to bits.

He clicked on the radio, swapping between stations to maybe catch a glimpse of her, but there was nothing. Just brassy tunes to lull him to sleep.

When he and his entourage checked into a hotel halfway to Memphis, he didn’t bother glancing at the machine, not ready for another dollop of displeasure after his latest film was panned by critics again. He thought it wouldn’t dagger as hard this time, but it never got less twisting. It was impossible to not take it personally.

“Do you want to see someone simultaneously over-act and under-perform in the same film? Then Fun in Acapulco is the watch for you.”

What was he doing so wrong that he couldn’t see? He wanted what he idolized in other stars, the natural ability to convincingly portray a role. Perfect, practiced, performances with organic delivery. It was only when he went back and rewatched these movies himself did he see his flaws. The framing, the diction, the lostness in his expressions. He just wasn’t grounded enough. And of course, the material itself was complete shit. 

“You can’t relate to any of Presley’s latest characters because there simply is no relatability. This isn’t Mike, it’s so clearly Elvis Presley through the weakly played facade. This isn’t acting. It’s lying.”

He needed to stop reading into the criticism. More money meant more money. There was value to it all, merit in his every success, even if they lacked any spiritual nourishment. Even though he felt hollow at the end of nearly every day. 

Sitting in front of the television, too tired to call a girl over, too jaded to invite his friends around, he flicked on the set and slouched with a glass of water and a rattling bottle. Out of the corner of his eye, red flashed intermittently. On the phone stand, the machine blinked, gently prying for his attention. He was walking without thought, hands outstretched, mouth dry.

Elvis hit play, listening to a half second of rustling. A wet lip smack and a cigarette-accented inhale. Then, Dominic Archer’s tinny voice clicked through the receiver, “Might have a bit for you, kid. Jake Turner, a talented headliner at a famous casino is tired of the routine, starts a hot romantic encounter with the mysterious new card dealer on the run from her past. You and Frannie. Previous deal stands, Presley. Give me a call. Your manager is a fucking asshole.”

He played it again. Listening intently to every word. This was textbook glitz and glam that Colonel Parker frothed over, but just enough meat for Elvis to really sink his teeth into the role. There was no way this wasn’t going to be a hit. Two stars burning bright on screen. It was too easy to pitch. He just had to have patience and persistence. He’d beat Parker down with enough persuading. He wasn’t so spiteful to say no to possibly the biggest check of his life, was he?

*

Fuming. The Colonel was quiet; always at his angriest. He looked over his tightly intertwined hands at Elvis. The young star laid it all out once more, repeating in firm earnest that this was the right move for his career.

“How’s this any different from the other movies you have me in, Colonel?”

“What’s different is that she’s asking for a bigger cut and to be the headliner. How do you think that’s going to make you look?”

“No one cares. I couldn’t tell you who the headliners for the last twenty movies I’ve seen were! You know this is a golden opportunity. You gotta see the bigger picture here!”

The lack of a response left Elvis unnerved. Parker was either thinking or stewing, about to blow his top.

But he surprised Elvis when he said slowly, bluntly, “60/50. That’s my takeaway cut from whatever you receive, as your manager. For going out on a limb for you.” 

“Done.” No hesitation. Something that made a nerve in Parker’s jaw twitch.  But Elvis didn’t give a shit if Parker wanted a king’s share of the money. He could have it. As long as he got a chance to finally shine in a decent role, with a decent director, with a co-star that actually had some chops! 

“Let this be a lesson when this fails. And I promise you, it will fail.” The words were harsh and calculated, delivered with carelessness as Colonel Parker shrugged, waving him out. Elvis looked at him, stunned at the lack of motivation. No encouragement. Nothing. He shouldn’t expect it, but there was something overwhelmingly frustrating about silently sharing his hard-won earnings with someone like him. He wanted a change but didn’t know where else to start.

Taking himself more seriously was the first step. And he raced to return Dominick’s offer with a resounding “Yes, sir! Let me start by apologizing to you on my manager’s behalf—”

“No need. We start filming in May.”

May. The month couldn’t come fast enough. He was still a few weeks away, flirting with cold blue spring mornings and balmy evenings. He needed to move back to Las Vegas for filming. He liked the house enough, but it was out in the eerie quiet desert, and he could always see eyes bobbing like ghosts out on the pitch-black horizon. It was spooky being there, so he often never went. Parker came too, insisting that phoning it in wasn’t an option, even if he was clearly sour grapes about the entire trip there, about booking an apartment long term, about coming to the early filming every day (and every other weekend).

“A female director. A female lead. You’ve got to be out of your mind,” Parker scoffed.

Cassandra Morgan was an innovative filmmaker with a unique approach, renowned for passionately exploring complex characters. Elvis watched one of her movies after he settled in while housekeeping cleared the cobwebs. There were some huge spiders always waiting for eviction when he left his Vegas home for long stretches. But the pool was glittering and the pantry was restocked. There was life in the house again and he found himself walking around, wondering how Frannie would like everything. Most men didn’t care to decorate their spaces with fine art and designer furniture. He could see her dazzled by the globe glass chandelier painting the sunken marble living room with dappled prisms. Or her lounging by the infinity pool and gazing out onto the native garden. 

Elvis barely slept that night. So nervous was he that he actually downed some whiskey, suddenly aware of the smell of alcohol leaking from his pores, or the mauve pitting of his eyes when slumber escaped him. He wanted to be at his brightest for this. He felt like an unpaid intern at some big wig exec’s office, knees turned in and gut doing flips.

The studio was a sun scorched walk across bleached white concrete, but he made it as far as two steps past the gate when a cart rolled up to collect him, puttering him across the long stretch. He didn’t see his manager amongst the crew. His make-up artists were sweet gals, older than he expected, enthusiastic to be here. Delia and Margo. On set, there was a dip in professionalism as everyone swarmed him, happily introducing themselves.

His neck craned and his eyes flitted about the room, constantly searching for her. What would she be wearing? What would her face look like when she finally met him? What perfume would she smell like? “Get a hold of yourself, Presley,” he muttered to himself. 

Back stage, he got powdered up for rehearsals, having breezed through the script on the long plane ride to Vegas. It was his seventeenth read-through from start to finish, mesmerized by the similarity between himself and the character he was supposed to play. Jake was also bored of his routine performances and craved something meaningful, something new and fresh in his monotonous life. That something was Frannie’s character. And he knew that the chemistry that was sure to fire between them would translate flawlessly to the screen. This was a once in a lifetime film. He could feel the makings of a classic in his hands. He just had to act his heart out. There was a duet, even though the scene was supposed to be a playful conflict, with the two of them fighting over the right to the microphone during a shared bit. Making music together sounded too good to be true. He couldn’t wait.

On stage for rehearsals of the first scene, he recalled in the script that Frannie’s character wouldn’t be revealed until the first ten minutes in. It opened with a shot of Elvis playing the piano, a slower number than Elvis was used to, but Jake’s style of rock and roll was heavy on the roll. The guitarist was an actor he wasn’t familiar with, but the film barely had any focus on him other than a side plot knocking up a cocktail waitress.

The director was a lovely, warm woman in her late 50s. Elvis shook her hand and was surprised with its firmness. There was a boyish twinkle in her weathered eyes and she seemed born to direct with her motherly cadence. She patted Elvis on the upper back with her big meaty hand, walloping him good and cheering, “I couldn’t believe it ‘til I saw it. You know you were my first choice. Something tells me you understand this character very well. I’m glad you chomped at the bit. I know we’re going to make great things together. I’m gonna make you act yer heart out, Presley!”

Cassandra’s canvas chair creaked loudly as she hunkered down and took her lavalier and shouted, “Action!”

Though he was heartened by the director’s enthusiasm, he couldn’t help but feel a welling sense of disappointment as well. He thought he’d be seeing Francesca by now, but she was nowhere to be spotted, at least until he practiced his lines and the narration that he was supposed to record over the scene. He was struck, mid-sentence, when the metal exit door creaked open and a figure slipped into the darkness of the crowd, whispers lighting up in greeting to welcome the shadow in. The dim lights warmed, and Elvis could see her clearly.

She walked on set that day, a star. He knew just looking at her that she was born for this.

His rehearsal was short and clean, and Cassandra was overjoyed to have seen him in action, clapping for him and thanking dress for whoever picked a white suit for the opening scene. It was stark against the black Wurlitzer. They chose to film in Vegas for real slot machines to rent, adding authenticity to the vibe. The irony of the jackpots going off in the background wasn’t lost on him.

Francesca Ferrara was a silent marvel, blending in, strikingly indistinguishable when she wanted to be. She leaned against Cassandra, and whatever muttering they shared made them both laugh sweetly behind their hands.

“Oh stop. Get up there, sweetheart. You can worry about makeup later.”

She was fussed over for a moment, her hair brushed and a clean sheen of red applied to her cupid’s bow lips. He was struck right through, clutching his chest as she rose up the set steps.

The spotlight was cast, its honeyed glow illuminating her as she walked in from the left of stage. It made a halo in her hair. She was intense from the moment she took center and began her performance bold and clean and with grace in her casual attire. A black dress top and red silk skirt. She already looked the part of an ardent card slinger with a secret past (and a secret set of hidden pipes). It was a whisper to begin, lulling the crowd in. She hadn’t practiced any vocals, but what left her was honed and mighty.

Elvis was rapt, standing amongst the crew, attentive on her. She spun and her skirt draped like a second skin against her shapely legs. Her timbre was soulful, all-American in its honesty. She didn’t close her throat around her vowels, she didn’t whisper, she trusted herself to carry every note with masterful precision. Her hair twirled about her face and he could see her alight.

“I can’t believe you’re really here. This is my first time working on a big Hollywood budget kind of thing.” A crew member tried chatting him up, murmuring low so that she didn’t interrupt Frannie’s practice, but it was distracting him. He nodded politely but tight.

“Uh huh. It’s the big leagues alright.”

“I’m Sherri. I’m the one who put you in white. It’s totally your color, hun.” She was way too young to be calling him hun.

He didn’t mean to be rude, but Frannie was consuming his attention, singing, wondering to the audience with song when her life would finally take a turn for the better. When would she finally find the man of her dreams? Did he truly exist? It was over and she went out as gracefully as candlelight in the wind, curtsying with her ankles crossed and skirt held aloft.

The spotlight on her shuddered then flicked off when the air conditioning unit for the studio hummed to life. Frannie exited stage without preamble. She wasn’t looking for anyone. She wasn’t looking for him.

He watched her meander through the backstage with grace, never a step out of line. Her movements were taken with such… precision. It was like a dance she never stopped, on her toes with a devastating smile. A smile Francesca rarely titled his way, substituting instead for raw surmisal. It was almost like she was waiting. For him to make a fool of himself. He followed her around set, but she was just out of reach somehow, and whenever she got close enough for him to start a conversation, someone would intercept his path and vie for his attention.

“When I told my Dad I was going to be working on a film with Elvis Presley, he couldn’t believe it! Do you mind if I get an autograph? I promise I won’t always be pestering you like this. I just have to shoot my shot. I loved you in Jailhouse Rock and King Creole! Haha, ain’t that what life is? A couple of good moments.”

Elvis grinned, finding the kid endearing. “And all the rest is trying to chase them. What’s your name, young man?”

“Edward! But all my friends call me Eddie. So, you can call me Eddie for sure, Mr. Presley! And I’m—and I’m just a gaffer. But if you ever need anything you just send for me. Say the word, and I’ll have it done. We’re all here for you!” He was filled with enthusiasm, bright eyes wide with wonder as he pulled out a notebook with only two other signatures on the first page. A young buck in the cinematography world. Elvis smiled back. 

Thanks for always looking out for me, Eddie. From your pal, Elvis Presley.

“You ain’t tearing up, are you?” Elvis laughed when Eddie’s face pinkened as the young man clutched his notebook tight. 

“No sir, dust in my eyes. It’s just so… dusty up there in the scaffolding.” He sniffled, smiling at him before politely, letting Elvis get back to finding Frannie.

“Hey, do you know where Miss Ferrara went?”

“I think she stepped outside for a smoke?” Eddie pointed towards the glowing exit sign and Elvis booked it, keeping his gaze fixed straight so that no one would be tempted. He made it to the door and pushed, stepping out into the shaded alleyway.

Elvis spotted her instantly. She was smiling to a kindly makeup extra who was puffing away, giving her a little wave before she finally turned her attention towards him. She didn’t have a cigarette, she’d just stepped out for air.

Her gaze nearly tipped him over and he couldn’t remember the last time a girl really made his heart skip, but here he was, thinking up one liners, sweet nothings, compliments about her glossy hair—something. Anything. But when he opened his mouth to finally break the handful of seconds’ silence, she offered out her elegant hand for him to take. It was warm, her fingers hugged lovingly by glittering jewels. Did she feel the sweat in his palm?

“And you must be Elvis Presley,” she grinned, taking back her hand and leveling him with a look. There was that flicker of resolve in her fierce eyes, just like on stage at Johnny Carson’s show. When the stage light was a halo behind her head and he heard her voice warble, not with falter, but with emotion, constricting her elegant throat. He had to have her. That kind of conviction was rare in a woman.

“Francesca.” He cursed himself for not kissing the cool back of her palm. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person.”

“I’m sure,” she teased, but with a bit of venom in her purr. “So, what’s a big star like you doing on a movie set like this? Isn’t the role a little... non-traditional for you?” Heavy with insinuation, he wasn’t quite sure how to approach her question, to approach her. She was of a different cut. He knew he’d never met a woman like her.

“When I saw you on Carson, I knew we had to mix some of our star power together. For the good of the movie going people,” he joked. “Give them something like they’ve never seen before.”

Francesca smiled, but it lacked warmth. She was analyzing him. “Then let’s make magic together, Presley.” She said unconvincingly and he realized at once that she had no faith in him. That sinking feeling that he got at those uppity parties, of immaturity and shallowness, washed over him in waves now. She hadn’t even seen his rehearsal and she already doubted him. Was this a mistake after all? 

“You can trust me, Frannie, I’d never—”

“Only my friends call me Frannie. Just call me Miss Ferrara, please.” Her voice was pretty, lightly accented with a New York lilt. He could smell her perfume. She was even more stunning in person. Suddenly, he was dizzy. “I’m getting back inside and out of this heat,” she offered. Fall couldn’t set in quickly enough.

Elvis watched her sway away without an argument, wondering how he’d already screwed this up. He’d never really had to introduce himself to anyone, to make a good impression. He just showed up and was the life of the party. Ladies flocked to him and guys wanted to hang out with him. Approaching a guarded woman was a new beast entirely but he was undaunted. Tailing after her, he slid his hands coolly in his pockets.

“So, what are you doing after this? We can talk over dinner.”

“I’m too tired to talk. I still have another two hours of rehearsal, Elvis Presley.”

“Well, maybe tomorrow. Or next weekend.”

“I’m busy next weekend.”

“Okay. Well,” he stumbled to open the door for her and she didn’t regard him as she trotted on through without breaking her stride. “What about the weekend after that?”

“Busy then, too.”

Elvis’s face flattened. “I get the message, Frannie—cesca. Francesca Ferrara. Uh, Miss Ferrara.” He was approached by some crew members with notepads and proper autograph books, pictures of him. They mirrored how Elvis felt, tailing after Francesca, who left him to his groupies.

“I was there at your premiere in Memphis last year! I spent my whole Christmas bonus on those tickets!”

“Mr. Presley! Are you busy after this? A bunch of the crew were going to Marco’s for lunch. Cassandra’s treat!”

“What are you asking him for? Of course he’s going! Elvis, come on. Pile in with the rest of us!”

Elvis laughed, eyes glancing for an out. He’d rather just have a day to wind down since his scene rehearsal was finished for the evening, but he relented, placating them with a smile and joining in. Somehow, Elvis’ Memphis crew found him and jumped in their own cars to follow. Frannie was nowhere in the sight and certainly hadn’t booked a separate ride to the restaurant.

It was dim and the portions were tiny and the conversations were ones he’d had thousands of times already.

“Who’s your favorite artist?”

“Did you ever freeze up on stage?”

“Do you have a favorite song to perform?”

“What do you think you have that makes you Elvis Presley?”

He was tired. He wanted to be someone again, not a thing, an object, an idol, an undigested voice. No one wanted to know a deeper, more meaningful him. It was always about the act, the playing, the singing, and the glamor. Didn’t anyone want to know what his worst fear was? What kept him getting out of bed everyday when there was almost nothing worldly left for him to achieve? How for a time, he felt he couldn’t go on living after his mama died? He had everything, fame, money, charisma. He could reach for top shelf trim whenever he desired and yet his heart was always empty. Tired of the vices, he longed for a connection. And he promised himself that tomorrow would be in line with his goals, that he’d make Francesca see that he had more to him than critically panned cheese and charm. 

*

Francesca just didn’t like him. He was a ham. A sock hop with fourteen moves under his belt exactly. She counted them. He fubbed his lines and under spoke, his voice almost an indiscernible mumble at times. Other times he was just bleakly shouting without a hint of emotional inflection. She felt there was wasted potential there. But for the moment, he couldn’t act to save his life and yet he was the center of attention. No matter what he did, people loved him. It was like Francesca had a meter for detecting bullshit and Elvis was riddled with it. What he did have going for him was his flair. His artistry. His charisma. And God help her, that voice. His voice was like a whiskey hammer, strong and soothing. It rolled over her like black silk, a lover’s caress.

He took the thunder in almost every rehearsal scene he was in. If they had to act like they were in a bitter argument, Elvis was always more emotional, more explosive. If they had to practice their duet, she could feel him trying to suffocate her voice with his. And to make it all worse, he did all this obnoxiously and obliviously. She knew what he was trying to do, emphasis on try. He clearly wanted to impress. Not just the director, but her. He wanted Frannie to take him seriously. But if one-upping her was all he had, then he’d better be prepared for filming, because she was holding back right now, letting him burn all the glory he wanted. Sprinting hard and fast, not realizing the length of this endurance race. She stayed with him, jogging aloofly alongside, performing her part for rehearsals. Never missing a day, even if she wasn’t required on set.

Not only was Presley grating on her nerves, his meddling weasel of a manager with the shark eyes and angry red cheeks, always glared at her whenever he graced them with his presence. He never stopped trying to talk her agent down, to make a change in the headliner decision. It was Francesca’s one request. She didn’t care about the money nearly as much as Dominick, which is why she gave him such a generous 20% cut (that he objected to time and time again, saying she needed to build her estate up and enjoy her youth while she still had it). She just wanted to be a star. For everyone to know her name. Ask anyone for anywhere who Elvis Presley was, and they could tell you. Ask anyone outside of young people who Francesca Ferrara was? Deadpan stares.

To say it was irritating would be an understatement. It wasn’t fair to her to watch him prance in the limelight like a show pony. But at least he wasn’t the highest billed, and she held that close to her heart with pride. Dominick could work magic; he was the only man involved with this she had any faith in.

Elvis, however, worryingly acted like he was about to star in his next big flop and bring Frannie down before she truly had the chance to shine on her own merit. If she was going to lose, she didn’t want to keep herself tied to him. She’d be “that one girl in that one Elvis movie. What was it called again?” She shuddered to think about her future if this big break didn’t pan out. Was hitching herself to the Presley wagon a mistake?

So, she dedicated herself ten-fold to her theatrics and practiced hard, applied herself harder. She was in the dance studio in her free time, honing her skills, tightening her spirals, widening her devastating smile. Slowly, but surely, she would sway them all. Make them all her adoring fans.

Tonight, it rained hard on the tin studio roof. The lights were low, and the stage echoed with the whispers of her feet pittering across the lacquered floor. She didn’t have on shoes to give her blisters some relief, and the added grip made her even more agile. Music played in her head. For this scene, she was supposed to be in a round. The camera would cut to each character lamenting their current situation in harmony, longing for their dreams to one day come true. In the next scene, she would be alone in her dingy motel room, sitting on the bed and counting her cash, hiding it in the mattress. The dance would intersperse, haunting and flighty, like a specter, because that was her character’s life. Bouncing from one place to the next, always on the run and never somewhere long enough to make a human connection with anyone. She was losing herself, a shell of who she wanted to be.

It seemed like no matter what she did, she would be in his shadow. And for that alone, she disdained him with an unbridled intensity. She snubbed his advances, tossing him out to like feed for hungry extras on set who were vying for their next meal.

“Can I get you anything, Mr. Presley?” Emphasis on the anything.

“You know I’m also a licensed masseuse. I can see so much tension you’re carrying in those doorway-busting shoulders.”

“You seein’ anybody, Mr. Elvis?”

It was eye rolling at first but after a time, rolling them so much gave her a migraine. She downed two ibuprofen, drinking from the canteen and crushing the little paper cup in her hand. She could feel the pills still stuck in her throat and she swallowed dryly, eyes watering to the sound of the director praising Elvis yet again for such a good performance. She hated admitting it, but was Cassandra actually getting a good performance out of him?

Throwing the cup into the garbage, she shook the thought out of her head. No, the only thing the lackey could do was sing and even then, he had to be in a serious mood. He was intent on his perceived conquest of her. She felt like hunted game when she turned a corner to find him conveniently there for her to bump into, hit with the heady wash of his piney cologne. He helped her to her waiting golf cart, hopping into his garish pink Cadillac. He offered her a ride every time and every time she declined him.

“Coffee?”

“It upsets my stomach.”

“There’s a new Italian place down the street from—”

“I don’t like Italian.” Total bluff, she grew up on the stuff. Frannie made sure not to ever eat lasagna leftovers in front of him.

“I have a cabin up in Gatlinburg, you should come out sometime. Perfect view of the stars.”

“I can see them just fine from my balcony.” Another lie. The city lights suffocated any natural starlight. When she looked up, she could see the moon and little else but Orion’s lonely belt. Her disdain was threatening to turn into loathing with his insistent pestering, his constant lackadaisy attitude. He showed up on time the first few weeks, but he’d taken to coming in late occasionally or playing pick-up games on set with his pack of hangers on from Memphis. His routine was without practice.

Cassandra’s enthusiasm waned, but only a tad bit. She wasn’t afraid of scaring him off with critique, telling him to tighten up his act and try it again from the top. Her patience was endless, and she was determined to pull a show-stopping performance from him. Cassandra knew he had it in him. But Elvis struggled with some of the more complex footwork, stumbling once and catching himself, his palms slapping loudly against the stage. He wrung his hands, his wrists swollen and red the next day.

He had to go to the hospital for them to tell him he’d suffered a fracture in each wrist, but that he should heal without any issues after some rest and keeping them in a cast. He was encouraged to wear them on set, but he refused when performing.

“They just slow me down, anyways.”

Elvis missed a few days of filming, stalling production considerably. He was apologetic and embarrassed. Francesca practiced her rehearsals without him, going over her part of the duet again and again. She perfected her choreography, working after hours with a dance coach to help her flexibility. Show stopping high kicks and quick splits. There was nothing that could stand in her way. 

She caught him looming once when she was going over another routine, practicing her lines and her placement. There was a cartwheel that kept dropping her voice and she wanted to train the warble out. Everything else was flawless, except for that one note.

“Take me awAy!”

Agh, she did it again! And then she saw him in the back row of chairs that some of the crew sat in. He was watching her. She pretended not to notice.

*

In make-up today, disaster struck. When Margo was going on about her boyfriend’s new job at the furniture store, her cigarette breath punctuating her words, she uncapped the same red lipstick that was used for Josephine every day. But as she painted the cream across Frannie’s lips, the actress cried out, swatting the tube out of her hand. It hit the ground and rolled, breaking the lipstick bullet off its base.

Margo reached down, taking it in her hands while Frannie cupped her stinging mouth. On the takeaway, there was a line of blood.

“What the hell?” Margo exclaimed, showing Frannie that a sewing needle had been inserted inside the wax. It was sticking out just enough to nick.

The room seemed to tilt. The lights on her cheval glass blurred. Someone had tried to hurt her.

Unceremoniously, the lipstick plunked into the trash and Margo reached into her kit to draw out a fresh backup among the dozen others. She peeled the plastic casing and popped it open, inspecting it, running the tip across her wrist and just swiping clean color.

“This one is just fine, sweetheart. Don’t you worry. We’re gonna get to the bottom of this. I’ll have security tell me who was here last night. They usually keep a headcount. They’re good about that.” But the words were muffled in Francesca’s ears as her heart began to pound.

Who would have done this to her?

She was frazzled for the rest of her rehearsal, stumbling over her own two feet after having danced her heart out during practice late last night. And who else had been there? She knew Elvis and a few extras. Sure, he was annoying but he’d never once seemed threatening. This was just downright malicious.

It took her focus completely off track and she went through the motions without soul, guarded, eyes shifting across the crew, like she might see a sign. Elvis was watching her intently, but then again, he often did.

During her lackluster performance, a loud clang sounded above her. Frannie flinched as a light came crashing down, shattering on impact just a few feet from her. It was small, but if that’d hit her, she’d be knocked out cold.

She breathed a sigh of relief, finding that her nerves weren’t baseline at any point, fluttering high. She laughed the incident off though on the inside, she was rattled. Her lips were sore when she smiled. “That was almost lights out for me!”

“Oh my god! Eddie!” Someone screamed, pointing to the back of the stage, where just below the curtains, a pair of feet could be seen dangling, kicking.

Francesca realized she was looking at the gaffer, Edward, a rope lassoed tightly around his neck and left hand. His teeth were bared as he struggled to push against the tension of the rope, his legs jutting out straight, his free arm wiggling wildly. He couldn’t manage a cry for help beyond a high-pitched rasp.

People were scrambling, trying to find a ladder, but the young man’s face was beginning to purple. 

She couldn’t believe what she was witnessing, her legs were moving of their own accord. He wasn’t so high that he couldn’t be reached, or at least his feet anyways. She knew she couldn’t get him down on her own but before she could even try, a man pushed past her, gently moving her aside. It was Presley, looking taller somehow as he lifted his gentle hands up, giving the dangling stagehand a place to stand if only for a brief second. His legs wobbled, knees bowing back, but the crew were all suffused whispers for a brief second, listening for the young boy to breathe.

“Oh my god, Edward, just breathe, honey. The boys are about to cut you down now, just breathe sweetie,” Francesca’s heart was pounding. Presley’s arms were straight up, his sleeves rolling down, his shirt constricting around his powerful chest. She knew his wrists must be on fire, as she could see they were still yellow and purple with healing bruising.

Someone managed to find a ladder and scurried up, hacking the rope after a few of the men gathered together, lacing their arms to catch him. The rope gave and Eddie fell back with a gasp, his face beet red, his eyes bulging, veins completely blown out and bleeding into his sclera. But he was already happily choking, tears freefalling as he profusely rasped, “You saved my life. Elvis, you saved my life.”

“Just relax, Eddie. We’re getting you to a hospital.”

Eddie wheezed, unable to lift his head or move his broken wrist.

“What happened?” Someone asked from the tight circle of concerned faces. 

Cassandra shook her head. “It’s that damn scaffolding. It’s going to come down and kill someone.”

Francesca felt superstition warning her that the film might be cursed. Had her bitterness transformed into malevolence and wreaked havoc on set? She glanced up at Elvis through her curtain of dark hair with new eyes. Seeing him jump into action like that had shifted her view of him just slightly for the better. She must have been smiling, because when he caught her looking his way, he grinned back, looping his arm under Eddie’s shoulder and helping him to a stand.

“Come on, big guy. Let’s get you in the car. Wanna tell your old man you got to ride in my Cadillac?”

“No way…” Eddie croaked, “You think I could drive it back?”

“We’ll uh, we’ll have to take a rain check on that. But one day, kid, one day!”

Frannie couldn’t help but find this side of him endearing. So, she joined him. Much to his surprise.

“What if he passes out or something? Looks like you need a hand with him,” she suggested, hopping into the back. When Elvis grabbed the steering wheel, he grunted, frozen. Eddie didn’t seem to notice as he winced and bellyached, trying to find some way he could hold his sprained neck without causing severe pain.

With grace, Frannie grabbed the headrest and leaned forward, her voice wet at Elvis’s ear when she asked, “Do you want me to drive?”

He didn’t answer for a moment, looking straight ahead, the shells of his ears flushing pink. “You know what? Give her a whirl. Just be careful, she’s sensitive.”

Surprised with his casualness, she slotted into the driver’s seat in his place, the plush leather still warm from his body. His long legs needed the space, but Frannie had to scoot up to the steering wheel before settling comfortably in.

The ride was smooth and she took every turn with care, with Elvis pointing over her shoulder. “Now turn right here, traffic’s going to have Main Street backed up.” He’d obviously spent a lot of time in Las Vegas before. He checked over Eddie, telling him, “Now when you tell the story, you can say it was my Caddy, but that you were driven by the Francesca Ferrara.”

She smirked, choosing to take that as a complement, even if he loaded that with patronization. They didn’t have to wait long at all in the ER—apparently any injury above the shoulders was considered high risk and the patient was swept immediately away.

Eddie called his parents, but they were out of town. Elvis volunteered to be his ride and Eddie begged him to just go home—he obviously had more important things to do, being Elvis Presley, after all—but Presley just assured him. “No, no, I really don’t.”

While Eddie was being looked over by physicians, Elvis got them something out of the vending machines, telling Francesca, “See, I told you I’d take you out for dinner one day.”

Frannie couldn’t stifle her laugh. He got her with that. Now she pondered when he was going to ask her again, but she didn’t have to wonder long when after inhaling a pack of cheese crackers, he brought up the topic.

“You know dating on set means asking for trouble. Right?” She asked, looking out at the darkening, orange sky. 

“You seem like the kinda girl who doesn’t mind a little trouble.”

He thought he was slick. And maybe he was. “I take my work very seriously, Mr. Presley.”

“Call me Elvis, please,” he insisted. “Come on. Just one date. Dinner. A movie. Horseback riding on the beach. Anything you want.”

“Don’t try to charm me.”

“So, you’re saying I’m charming?” He smirked playfully. 

“You’re insufferable, you know that?”

“Mama always told me ladies like a man with consistency. I like you, Frannie. I like you a lot.”

She couldn’t detect any dishonesty. It almost seemed like he was earnest in taking her out on a real date. But she still didn’t want to budge on the principle of dating her co-stars. That was a hot pot of drama waiting to blow. Perhaps she could meet him halfway, just this once. Holding up one finger, she told him, “Take me as a friend to the carnival. There’s one next week in Indian Springs.”

He was like a dog with a bone, wagging his tail. He finally got a bite and practically shot up in victory. Elvis pumped his fist boyishly.

“Then I’ll be the best friend you could ask for,” he assured, leaving her with a week to ruminate on if this was the first of many bad decisions with this dangerously likable man.

*

Elvis watched her dark hair cascade down her shoulders. Her hips swayed sensuously when she walked, inviting his gaze to linger. Francesca drew almost everyone’s eyes, turning heads when she made her way to the ticket booth in her fire red dress, gems glinting on her throat and in her stormy tresses. She splurged on the limitless pass, presenting the back of her hand proudly to be stamped with a bright yellow star, one to match his as he made the same purchase, kicking himself for not covering hers—not that she even gave him a chance. She was adamant on making this as casual as she could.

He wanted her arm in his. He wanted her to lean her pretty head against his shoulder while they walked in step to the Ferris wheel. While she had a big panda bear or something he won her. It seemed so… trivial of her, to pick something like this. Low brow, even. He loved it. There were single moms with lines of unruly children in tow, trash skittering across whatever parking lot the fair rented out, and Frannie was beaming, smiling from ear to ear, eyes reflecting the string lights like fireworks.

“What’s first? I’m real good at ring toss.” He absolutely wasn’t, but anything to get her one step closer to taking him—them?—seriously, was a step in the right direction. 

She shook her head, pointing to the carousel, adjacent to a funnel cake stand and a house of mirrors. Trapezing ahead without him, he was starting to suspect he was getting recognized even with his hat on as eyes followed the pair and hands cupped over secret sharing mouths as people whispered.

“I don’t want to carry around some big stuffed animal the whole time,” she remarked about the game of ring toss he mentioned earlier. “And besides, I don’t want to school you in ring toss, it’d just be embarrassing for you.” She grinned, sending a flare of heat up his spine. Dynamite. He tailed after her long strides, wondering how she was walking in those lacquered things that sure made her hips look good.

“Alright, alright. You’re the boss. Let’s do what you’d like first, then.”

She pointed to the Fireball. A sketchy looking hoop of metal with a snake of carts that went in a 360, first fast, then slow, then counterclockwise. It made his stomach churn just looking at it, but she was giddy, eating up the distance between them and the ride.

“If you don’t want to ride, you can just watch,” she suggested, grinning at him over her shoulder. She was egging him on.

“As much as I’d love to watch you get scared all by your li’l self, I’ll join you. My treat.” He sidled in next to her, lifting his arms as the bright yellow cage restraints shuddered down over their shoulders. He evened his breathing, and involuntarily gasped when the ride shot forward sooner than he expected. Frannie was already screaming excitedly, her hair billowing around her thrilled face. They made the first revolutions and Elvis realized that these janky machines, hissing and clanking, gained more heart, more charm and whimsy when you had someone to share the memory with.

Even though they were both a peck dizzy, they stumbled to the game booths anyway. And although Frannie absolutely did not school him at ring toss like she boasted, she did blow him away at darts. Nailing every high value balloon point blank, dead center. She won him a teddy bear in a smoking jacket, with a hot pair of shades to match. He was tickled, taking the little bear under his arm like a treasure, toting him everywhere and even putting him on the carousel and on the whirly swings next to them.

He won her a giant panda bear after spending way more than its worth on his chances at skeeball. His wrists were still sore from his fall on set, but he was determined to win her something memorable and to see the mirth when she embraced it tightly near the end of the night, just how she wanted. It was all worth it.

Frannie introduced him to the delights of obscenely large funnel cake and vinegar fries, and he convinced her to try her first chili dog. She apparently only ever ate them with sauerkraut, from hot dog stands in New York. 

“You know, where I come from, a kid would get bullied for eating a dog with no chili.” He made her laugh for the dozenth time of the night and lavished in the wind chime sound. The way she threw her head back. The way her eyes sparkled.

In the house of horrors, she startled him with a funny little, “Boo!” after dashing ahead when he stopped for a moment to fix his loafer. He exaggerated his surprise for her a little and she reveled in it, reminding him happily through different points of the night, “I got you good back there, didn’t I?”

You certainly did, Francesca.

On the way back, he drove with his arm across her shoulders. It was rare that he ever did anything without his crew, but boy was he glad he did tonight. Wind blew in their hair and star spray reflected on the chrome trimming. He could see her dark curves outlined by slivers of moonlight. He felt like he was in a dream as he drove the empty stretch of backroads to the city and finally towards her luxurious apartment. Heart in his throat, his palms were damp when he opened the passenger door and helped her across the sidewalk.

The doorman, Bennington, tipped his hat to her and then looked at Elvis once, twice, three times before his eyes bugged and his diligent demeanor cracked.

“No way. You’re.... you’re—him! Francesca Ferrara, now you have some explaining to do. Why didn’t you tell me you were seeing the—”

“Nuh uh,” Frannie laughed heartily, holding up her palm. “We’re just friends, Bennington. You know I’d tell you if I had a man in my life!”

He smacked his lips at her, back to focusing on Presley. “I’m kicking myself. I thought you had his haircut when you picked up Miss Francesca, but I told myself there was no way! Now, I always said if I saw you in person, I’d have something for you to sign but my boss would kill me if I got ink on my uniform.” He patted his chest but came up empty handed.

“I’ll do you one better,” Elvis proposed, unfastening his diamond and pearl cufflinks. “How about these? They even have my name stamped on ‘em. See?”

Bennington’s mouth was agape, his hands cradled in prayer to hold the cufflinks. “I don’t know what to say, Mr. Presley. Thank you! Thank you so much!” He pocketed them for safe keeping. “Boy, this is the best night of my life.”

“Mine too,” Elvis said, cupping young Bennington’s shoulders and bidding him a good night.

Frannie was bowled over by his generosity. She stopped at the elevator, hitting the call button and waiting for it to come cruising down the transparent glass tube. 

“Tonight was fun. I don’t really get to have a lot of fun. My life is just exhausting sometimes. I-it’s nice to get to do something like this every once in a while,” he cooed. Her glossy hair had come undone from its jeweled bindings. She squeezed the stuffed panda he’d won her and smiled that heart stopping smile.

He was devastated, knowing that when the elevator doors opened, he’d be alone shortly thereafter. 

“Thank you, Elvis.”

She leaned in to kiss him and his lips were slightly pursed, his pulse rocketing. But she pressed her lips gingerly against his cheek, her perfume suffusing him, all cinnamon and powdered sugar. 

“Anytime, Frannie.”

She let him get away with it as she turned her back towards him and entered the elevator, the doors shutting and whisking her up. He could see she was looking at him all the way up. Was she thinking about letting him in? She’d communicated very clearly that this wasn’t a date. So why was he so torn up about being left in the lobby, and walking past cheery Bennington who said with surprise, “Oh, goodnight Mr. Presley! Get home safe. And good luck on set!”

Elvis acknowledged him and returned the gesture, legging it to his car and shutting the door, revving it on the start. And although he was forlorn about going back to his cavernous home in the desert, he glanced in the rearview and saw that hot red lip imprint on his cheek. 

Francesca liked him. She just had to give him a chance to make her fall in love. Like he was already falling for her. 

[igrenovation]

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[gregcortezz]

Shipping Container Home Storage Ideas

Using self storage units provide a great option for people to hold onto keepsakes with sentimental value and other personal items, while not having to buy a larger property. The “4Ds of life” – death, divorce, downsizing and dislocation – are facts of life and create a major disruption in our lives. Changing life situations can force someone to live in limbo for periods. They may need to move households and need a space to buy new shipping container store their belongings until they can settle into a new, more permanent situation.

Shipping container self storage may offer them a secure place to keep their possessions until they can get settled into a new place.

In the USA, self storage statistics report that nearly 10% of American households need additional self storage and spends an average monthly cost of $87.89 for a self-storage unit. Nationally, the number of storage facilities ranges somewhere between 45,000 to 60,000.

The 10 most in-demand USA cities for self-storage units. Rank City, State 10 Miami, FL 9 Brooklyn, NY 8 San Diego, CA 7 Las Vegas, NV 6 Phoenix, AZ 5 San Antonio, TX 4 Chicago, IL 3 New York, NY 2 Los Angeles, CA 1 Houston, TX

How much does it cost to rent commercial self storage space vs buying a shipping container? Of course, the answer to this question depends a lot on your specific needs. At commercial self storage facilities, 10’x10′ is the most popular storage unit size, which measures one-hundred square feet and might compare to approximately half the size of a regular garage. A general guideline is that the 100 square foot space will fit the contents of a two-bedroom apartment.

The smallest units average about $50 per month. Much larger spaces cost upwards of $300 per month. Some storage businesses require a 12 month contract to be signed. When you buy a shipping container for self storage you have a one time cost and you own the container forever. If you don’t have an available space to store your container, you possibly may need to rent a small space on a property that is located at a convenient distance to you.

Are shipping containers your best choice for self storage? Most of the people who buy an empty Conex container are using it to store furniture and other possessions that take up a large amount of space. Home based business owners like online sellers who store and ship inventory through websites like EBay, Gumtree and Craigslist find they need somewhere to securely store their products. Additionally, with less storage space (basements and garages) in condos, homeowners are looking for an easy and affordable self storage solution.

Why should we use shipping containers as self-storage units? A short answer: because of their design, construction, size and affordability. A little searching will show that you can buy a used shipping container for a really affordable price (we will address the details later in this article). By their very nature, cargo containers are made to be easily transported to whatever site you require. You may be looking for relocate the container for a household move, in which case it can just be picked up and follow you on your move. Even if you don’t have plans to move the container from one location to another, the containers can be set up quickly and all of your possessions moved inside for safe keeping.

Shipping containers are specifically engineered to be stacked, transportable, and are constructed from corrugated metal sheets that are welded together. The steel boxes are subjected to rigorous quality assurance tests for water resistance, and the ability to withstand moisture, the effects of salt and withstand extreme weather conditions.

Why do shipping containers make really great self storage units? Durability: Made of thick steel walls, strong and capable of storing bulky and heavy goods without damaging the interior of the storage space.

Watertight and Secure: Designed to withstand rains and extreme weather condition conditions during a sea voyage, the containers are in fact watertight against wet weather conditions. Their main function is to make certain that the contents remain dry and undamaged during their trip. Most shipping containers are made of a particular steel alloy called Corten Steel that is especially suited for outside weather conditions.

Vermin and pest proof. The containers are self-enclosed, with tight seals around the doors which prevents rodent and bugs entering and damaging your goods. This can be a problem in many storage facilities. These features combined offer solid security and added peace of mind with the confidence that your possessions are protected, dry and secure.

Low initial investment and low maintenance: Once you have set up your Conex box self storage, there is next to no ongoing maintenance or accumulating monthly rental costs. Buying a shipping container is a one time investment.

Long life expectancy: Shipping containers have a life expectancy of over two to three decades with minimum level of maintenance.

Security: Container entry is secure with a high quality pad lock on the doors and equipped with a special lock box. A “lock box” is housed inside a steel box welded to the doors protecting your padlock from being broken by burglar’s crowbar. Since your container is stand alone and not connected to other people’s storage units, you also have another protection against unwanted entry.

You can store a variety of goods inside. With a few important renovations (like insulation or the other suggestions later in this article), you can safely store almost anything from boxes, books, furniture, electronics without fear of moisture damage. Store larger items. With the ability to open the doors at both ends of the container, containers are easily accessible to store large sized objects.

Portability: Containers are designed to be easily movable, making them especially convenient for packing and for mobile storage needs.

Drive-up accessibility: You can pull up and park your vehicle directly at the doors to your container storage.

How do I choose the right container for storage? There are 2 main factors to consider: the grade or (the condition of how new the container is) and the size. One-Tripper or New Container These containers are brand new. Manufactured and shipped directly from China, having carried their first load of cargo. They will cost more and will be outfitted with new features like polyurethane floor coating, a pre-installed lock box, and handles and doors.

As-Is or General Purpose These are used containers that may have many miles on them. As the name “As-Is” suggests, this is a container purchased in its current, used condition. The cargo container walls may have dents, rust, flaking paint or punctures. The less than perfect condition will be reflected in a lower price. If you are storing spare mechanical parts on a vacant lot, a sparkling new container may not be important and you can save some money by buying a used Conex container.

The standard sizes of ISO shipping containers are: 8ft (2.43m) wide, 20ft (6.06m) in length and 8.5ft (2.59m) high ceiling 8ft (2.43m) wide, 40ft (6.06m) in length and 8.5ft (2.59m) high ceiling * Tall shipping containers called high-cube containers are available at 9.5ft (2.89m) high ceilings.

Contact us

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[daitolpogi]

21st Century Literature WW #4

ERNEST CONCEPCION

Ernest Concepcion (b. 1977) is a Filipino painter based in Manila, Philippines, who combines the motif of classical landscape with contemporary caricatures and representations that take one into the framework of warfare while uncovering the effects of a larger 20th-Century, Postwar existence. Concepcion began exploring this juxtaposition in a series of over 100 drawings from 2004 titled The Line Wars. Within each 9 x 12-inch panel the artist covered the pictorial space with cartoon-like conflicts, portraying chairs flying toward each other, monster-like eggs smothering a massive army of Saint Benedicts, or pasta fighting against the quick-sands of rice.

In 2008 Concepcion’s vision of battlefield landscapes was realized on a much larger scale at the Kentler International Drawing Space where caricatures were tagged over landscapes and extended from floor to ceiling in the tall, narrow gallery space. In 2009 the artist presented a series of explosion paintings that consisted of enamel on steel. Colors became the physical layers of each mushroom cloud and marked the artist’s shift further into the depths of conflicted horizon lines, away from caricatures.

He spent several years in Brooklyn, New York, where he participated in a number of art residences including The Lower Manhattan Cultural Council (LMCC) Workspace Program, the Bronx Museum of Art Artists-in-the-Marketplace (AIM) Program, the Artists Alliance Inc. Rotating Studio Program, the Lower East Side Printshop Keyholder Residency, the LMCC Swing Space Program at Governors Island and an artist residency in Beijing, China via NY Arts Magazine.

A graduate of the University of the Philippines Bachelor of Fine Arts, Concepcion has produced a significant body of work with a particular interest in experimentation in the fields of painting, sculpture, and installation. In 2011 he was both a New York Foundation for the Arts (NYFA) finalist in the Drawing Category and a Nominee for the Joan Mitchell Foundation Painters and Sculptors Grant. In 2012, he re-established his connections with some prominent Manila art galleries where he had two solo exhibitions, in West Gallery and Blanc Gallery respectively and participated in a number of major group exhibitions including an artist feature at The Lopez Memorial Museum. In 2013, he participated at El Museo del Barrio’s La Bienal in New York and had a solo exhibition in Minneapolis before returning back to Manila to exhibit at Art Informal, Secret Fresh and 1335Mabini Gallery. In 2014 he became a Light & Space Contemporary resident artist and held his first-ever solo museum exhibition at the UP Vargas Museum showcasing entirely new epic scale works that not only marks a momentous return home for the artist but also became his ultimate artistic epiphany. He was given the prestigious 13 Artists Award by the Cultural Center of the Philippines (CCP) in 2015. He divides his time as a full-time artist working between Manila and Brooklyn.

 Here are some of his famous artworks paintings

 Birth of a Dynasty

by Ernest Concepcion

2015

 Cake

by Ernest Concepcion

2014

 Deluge of the Druids

by Ernest Concepcion

2012

 Forlorn Memories

by Ernest Concepcion

2012

 Golgotha Rock

by Ernest Concepcion

2013

 OMG Christ

by Ernest Concepcion

2015

 Swamp Things

by Ernest Concepcion

2015

[meggannn]

into the spiderverse: timeline

when i went to see spiderverse again yesterday one of my goals was to come up with a timeline of the story, so here’s what i found with some of my notes. the main chunk of the story takes place over the course of a week in mid-december, beginning on a monday morning and ending friday night.

SUNDAY

NIGHT: Specified only in the background, but a collider test took place under Fisk tower Sunday evening with three pieces of evidence:           1) As Miles walks to school Monday morning, a friend from Brooklyn Middle asks him if he felt the “earthquake” (collider test) last night. Of course, Miles replies “What are you talking about? I slept like a baby last night.” It could very well be all talk, since this is Miles’s “cool” persona that comes out around his friends. I believe the collider test did occur and was centralized/affected only certain neighborhoods, for reason #3 below.           2) The spider that bites Miles on Monday night glitches as it crawls down from the ceiling, implying that it came from another universe.           3) The confirmation: the news broadcast that Jefferson and Miles pass by in the car on the way to Visions announces that “There are multiple reports of another mysterious seismic event last night.” (Side note: when Gwen is blasted into “last week” New York, an announcer mentions, “...this is the second earthquake in the Tri-State area this month.” So this pre-canon collider test on Sunday wasn’t even the first one.)

MONDAY

DAY: Miles gets a ride to school from his dad, meets Gwen in physics, receives a test back, and is assigned the essay.          Miles’s date at the top of his test reads Decembruary 9. I’ve seen a theory that this is what the month is called in Miles’s universe, but later, a poster in Miles’s room advertises the date “DECEMBER 15,” so we can assume “Decembruary” was just part of his efforts to flunk the class. If we assume the date number is correct, this film probably takes place in mid-December. (December 9, 2018 was actually a Saturday, so either the filmmakers didn't check, or Miles was really committed to playing dumb.)

NIGHT: Miles sneaks out to spray-paint with Aaron and is bitten by the spider from another dimension.

TUESDAY

DAY: Miles notices changes. He sticks to everything, tears Gwen’s hair, and realizes he might have Spiderman’s powers.

NIGHT: Miles searches for answers in Brooklyn and returns to the tunnel to check the spider, where he is caught in a battle between PP Spiderman and Green Goblin. PP Spiderman is thrust into the collider beam. PP Spiderman gives him the task of destroying the collider. PP Spiderman is killed by Kingpin, Miles returns to his parents’ place, and stays the night there. The news of PP Spiderman’s death is broadcast across the city.           Meanwhile, Peter B and the others are thrust into Miles’s reality this same evening (Gwen goes back in time). Peter B sees PP’s death in Times Square.          This evening is the first time Miles experiences Spideysense. In the lead up, his senses feel strange, distorted, and claustrophobic; the visuals look weird on the screen until it suddenly condenses into the wiggly lines and LOOK OUT flashes behind him (when Green Goblin bursts through the wall). After that, his Spideysense triggers normally like the others’.

WEDNESDAY

This is the day I’m most confused about. Common sense says these events couldn’t/shouldn’t all happen in the same day, but other parts of the film indicate that not much/no time has passed, so they have to happen either on Weds, or across a day or two, perhaps Weds-Thurs. For expediency’s sake I’m assuming the filmmakers probably intended it to be Weds due to how urgent they stress the collider situation is.

DAY: The city is in mourning. Miles goes to a costume shop and buys a Spiderman outfit, where he meets Stan Lee. He attends a public speech by Mary Jane Watson, attempts to swing off a few buildings, and accidentally breaks the USB.          Peter B also attended MJ’s speech on Wednesday from afar, where he is already seen wearing a trenchcoat he must have scrounged from somewhere. He must have also acquired a pair of sweatpants and mismatching shoes on Weds to cover up/keep warm where the bottom of his suit burned up in collider travel.         Wednesday is the first day Miles skips school and drops out of contact with his family.

NIGHT: Miles goes to PP’s grave and apologizes for failing him. We meet Peter B, who Miles accidentally electrocutes, and they go on a train ride together. After Peter is knocked out, Miles takes him to Aaron’s, where he ties him up and questions him. They recognize the Spideysense in each other, and Peter B reluctantly agrees to mentor him.          The likelihood of all these events happening in one day is pretty infeasible (MJ’s speech and Peter’s gravestone especially). Families would be given a few days of privacy to mourn, and besides which, MJ would need time to write the speech. Most importantly, people aren’t buried within a day. Also, with PP’s death so fresh, there would definitely be mourners at his gravesite in the evening, unless perhaps Miles waited until they all left and it’s VERY late at night/early morning when he meets Peter B.          Peter B’s face is still beat up/swollen in the beginning of the scene when he’s tied to the punching bag, but by the time he’s decided to leave for the collider in the alley, he has fully healed. I would call it a continuity error, but since Peter has healing abilities, I think it was a conscious choice that his injuries lasted this long, either from being knocked out/swung around the city, and/or Miles might have injured him by knocking his head around Aaron’s apartment while tying him up.          There’s a time skip between the alley scene and the next morning. Peter walks up the wall next to someone awake in their apartment window, so we might think it’s a reasonable time of night OR early morning (9-10pm, 5-6am), but it’s also New York, so it could just as well be 2am when they’re having this talk. What did Peter B and Miles do before they go out to eat? Peter says “There’s not a moment to lose” and Miles starts to follow him but there’s not much they could do to get started on a new USB in the middle of the night, and in the middle of winter I doubt they just wandered around the city. Did they spend the night at Aaron’s?

THURSDAY

DAY: Peter and Miles eat breakfast at a burger place and travel to Alchemex to steal the data. They infiltrate the lab, meet Doc Ock, break out with the computer, and are introduced Gwen/Spiderwoman in the forest. We are treated to Kingpin’s backstory and his goals behind the collider.          Peter tells Miles to look up where Alchemex is, and Miles’s phone says Alchemex “OPENS AT 9AM.” It’s light out when they eat, and NY sunrise in December is around 7am, so I assume this scene takes place around 7-8am. Miles wants to swing to the Hudson Valley, but Peter insists they take the bus, saying he won’t swing “after a hearty burger-breakfast.” It’s a 2-hour bus drive from NYC to the Valley, so they arrive after Alchemex opens. Accomodating for their travel time to Port Authority, they probably get there around 10-11am.          Gwen is the third Spider-person Miles has met within a day and a half, after years of thinking there was only one. Only two days ago he was puzzling over the possibility of there being two Spidermen alone in his room, and in the forest he says, “How many more Spider-people are there?” which is honestly probably running through his head all day.          Miles has now been skipping school for two days. His last contact with his family was Tuesday evening, and it’s also been two full days since they’ve heard from him. Brooklyn Visions has almost certainly contacted his parents, which likely prompts the call Jefferson makes to Aaron asking if he knows where Miles is. (Little does Jefferson know Miles almost calls him that same evening as he’s wandering Queens after leaving May’s.) We might assume that Visions thinks Miles is just skipping class, not that he’s missing, otherwise Jeff would probably feel more panicked.

NIGHT: The team goes to May’s house in Queens, and are introduced to the rest of the Spider-people that traveled from other dimensions. They haze Miles, prompting him to seek solace with Aaron. Instead he runs into the Prowler, and it’s revealed the Prowler is Aaron. Miles runs, and Aaron gives chase.          There’s a time gap between the bus ride back from Alchemex. The bus ride takes 2 hours, which Peter/Miles/Gwen presumably make immediately after breaking out of Alchemex, putting them back in NYC around early/mid afternoon, maybe 1-2pm. They meet up with May around sunset, which is around 4:30 in December in New York. That’s a few missing hours in which they might have gone out to eat or something. Why did they wait a few hours to go to May’s? Theories:                1) They were busy eating/talking/getting to know each other.                2) They waited until they were sure she was home. Is May retired?                3) They waited until the crowds of mourners/fans would be gone.          May is presumably housing the Spidergang in her place, including dinner Thursday night and breakfast Friday. Or maybe they ordered takeout.

FRIDAY

Friday has the second-weirdest time skips behind Wednesday. There’s an implication that all of these events happen very quickly following each other, but unless Miles was running around literally all day trying to escape the Prowler, these events have to have some gaps.

DAY: Peni creates a new USB. Miles rushes to May’s house for safety after leading the Prowler on a chase across Brooklyn-Queens. Aaron has called for backup and arrives at May’s home with the Scorpion/Doc Ock/Tombstone. They fight the Spider-gang, Miles escapes with the USB and is cornered by Aaron. Aaron refuses to kill his nephew and is killed for it. Around sunset, Miles runs back to his dorm, where he is confronted by the Spider-gang and Peter tells him they won’t let him destroy the collider. Peter ties him up in his room, and Jefferson visits Miles in his dorm.          Peter is wearing sweatpants and shoes over his burnt suit on Thursday and has a fully functional suit (with the onesie covering his feet) when Miles returns to the house. We can assume May either gave him one of dead Peter’s suits, or helped him repair his own.          We don’t know when Miles rejoins the gang at May’s house, so you could headcanon it’s in the morning or afternoon. The fight with the Sinister Six probably lasts about an hour. We might assume Miles goes missing again after Aaron dies, and he could’ve spent some time wandering the city in grief again. Again, sunset in NY in December is 4:30, so that’s when the spider-gang confront him in his room. Given everything, my suspicion is that they were waiting at Miles’s dorm room (which Gwen would’ve known) for him to return, so when he throws his book out the window, that’s why someone was able to immediately throw it back.

NIGHT: Miles discovers his powers, escapes Peter’s webbing, travels back to Queens where May helps him with his suit and web shooters. Miles takes the subway to Manhattan to take his leap of faith, and then swings back to Brooklyn to join the gang. Meanwhile, the Spider-gang infiltrate Kingpin’s gala and break into the collider. Miles joins them and they successfully defeat the sinister six, and send everyone home. Miles faces off against Kingpin and destroys the collider. Later, Miles calls Jefferson (first contact in 3 days, since Tuesday), delivers Kingpin to the PDNY, and introduces himself to the city as the new Spiderman.

and that’s all i’ve got for now. curious to hear if anyone has thoughts/if i missed or misinterpreted anything.

[architectnews]

Greenpoint Brownstone House, Brooklyn

Greenpoint Brownstone House, Brooklyn Real Estate, NY, New York Interior Renovation, Residential Building

Greenpoint Brownstone House in Brooklyn

March 23, 2022

Design: Barker Associates Architecture Office

Address: Brooklyn, NY, United States

Photos: Francis Dzikowski/OTTO

Greenpoint Brownstone House, NY

This Landmarked Greenpoint brownstone had beautiful parlor floor and stair details, but the finishes and fixtures dated back to the 1960’s and the house was subdivided into many small rooms. The clients, a family with two children, wanted to create a triplex over a garden rental that maximized open space and light, with touches of colorful details and patterns.

The house is an odd shape with a small footprint and a small lot. In order to fit a powder room onto the parlor floor, the water closet was created as a separate compartment under the stairs, and the concrete sink, by Kast, with Vola faucet, became a focal point in the hallway. An arched opening above opens a view into the kitchen. The existing curved stair was preserved, and the risers are painted in Farrow and Ball Green Ground.

The parlor living/dining room was preserved in its original shape, and the ceiling molding, bay window casing, and fireplace mantel were stripped and refinished. Rich Brilliant Willing wall sconces provide ambient light. The L-shaped kitchen features a bright green Fireclay tile in a picket shape with open white oak shelving. A door leads to a new deck overlooking the garden.

In the second-floor front bedroom, a desk and chair from Dims, as well as built-in shelves, provide a work-from-home space with a view of the street. A full bath with blue-green ceramic tile from Complete Tile complements the Ripley wallpaper by Sanderson.

The top floor is a master suite with high ceilings and a sculptural hall skylight. The bedroom walls are painted in Farrow and Ball Green Blue. The skylit master bath features a Perlato solid surface tub, Yukutori wallpaper by Farrow and Ball, and Vermeere hex mosaics in the shower. All plumbing fixtures are from California Faucets. A wall of full-height shelving lit by Herman Miller pendants incorporates a library ladder that doubles as roof access.

The garden apartment kitchen features a Poham Hex Zulu Popham tile backsplash. The bathroom floor is finished with Popham Visby tile, with Nemo tile penny rounds in the shower.

Greenpoint Brownstone House in Brooklyn, NY – Building Information

Architecture: Barker Associates Architecture Office – issacstern.com Tile: Fireclay, Popham Wallpaper: Farrow and Ball, Aimee Wilder, Sanderson Plumbing Fixtures: Kast, Perlato, Vola, California Faucets Paint: Farrow and Ball, Benjamin Moore

About BAAO Founded in 2006 by Alexandra Barker, FAIA, BAAO is a WBE-certified business with projects spanning a variety of typologies ranging from architecture to interiors and landscape for townhouses, residential developments, ground-up private residences, interiors, educational, and retail projects, as well as speculative work in the New York area, regionally, and internationally.

Our award-winning architecture brings inventive, intelligent design to a dynamic, multivalent world through residential, interior, cultural and commercial projects. Our speculative and community outreach work looks toward the future of architecture and brings design to broader communities.

Photography: Francis Dzikowski/OTTO

Greenpoint Brownstone House in Brooklyn, NY images / information received 230322

Location: Brooklyn, New York City, NY, USA

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Dock 72 Brooklyn Navy Yard Building Architecture: S9 Architecture ; Interior Design: Fogarty Finger image courtesy of architects practice Dock 72 Brooklyn Navy Yard Building

The Dime, South Williamsburg Design: Fogarty Finger photo : Alexander Severin The Dime South Williamsburg

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Comments / photos for the Greenpoint Brownstone House, Brooklyn Architecture design by Barker Associates Architecture Office page welcome

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[pierceconstructionandrepair]

Ignite Home Improvement is the Best Home Remodeling & Renovation Services in Brooklyn, NY. We are providing services for the Bathroom and Kitchen, Painting and Hardwood Flooring, etc. Visit us for more details!

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Spike Lee's former firehouse home was sold for $4.35M. The colorful Brooklyn, New York City home was initially built in 1895, as a water tower before being converted to a firehouse in 1903, named “Engine 256.” 4bds, 3ba, it used to be his home/studio workspace. It's a 2 family, but the previous owners used it as a single family, so it has 2 kitchens, etc.

Love this bright pink kitchen.

It's so refreshing to see a home with color. I like the copper paint on the ceiling and wall.

Such an attractive home- the area to the right that's a few steps up is a bedroom. The light fixture looks like a Chihuly.

How amazing not to see a white or gray bedroom. Love this.

Since it's really a 2 family, this space can be a large family room or a separate living room.

This is the other kitchen. It's very different from the pink one, but it's beautiful. Look at the cabinet tucked into that triangular opening.

A dinette area in the kitchen has an attractive shelf wall, and 3 steps to sliding glass doors that open to a rooftop deck. Love the glass block wall, too.

The deck is gorgeous and the upper floor also has access to it.

This is huge and has a cool view, too.

On the ground floor behind the garage is a living area with bedrooms.

The garage that housed the fire engines is gigantic.

[tigerstrikesasteroidnetwork]

NY / Paper Trails

Left: Kyoko Hamaguchi, Postal Summary (9505 5143 5727 8320 1732 96), 2018, shipping box, photo emulsion Right: tamara suarez porras, as two bodies near in a field of stars, 2020, silver gelatin print

Paper Trails April 10  – May 9, 2021 The gallery will be open every Sat & Sun from 3 – 6pm and by appointment

Tiger Strikes Asteroid New York is pleased to present Paper Trails, a two-person exhibition curated by Yael Eban featuring the work of Kyoko Hamaguchi and tamara suarez porras. Both artists incorporate rigorous analog darkroom processes in unconventional and dynamic ways, resulting in photographic objects that are both visually striking and conceptually lyrical.

In “Postal Summary,” Kyoko Hamaguchi transforms the delivery system into a process for photographic image making. She gets a shipping box at a post office, makes a pinhole in one of its sides, coats the inside with photo emulsion so that its surface becomes photosensitive, and ships it to herself. While moving through the postal system, the box covertly records the shipment process on its photosensitive interior. Once Hamaguchi receives the box, she soaks it in chemicals to develop the image. During this process, the box becomes distressed and the shape distorted. The resulting image shows several spaces superimposed on top of each other, accentuated by the crisscrossing of fluorescent ceiling lights in a phenomenon akin to abstract painting. Each box produces a unique image dependent on where and for how long the box sat in various stops during its shipment. The box itself functions as both photograph and camera.

For this exhibition at TSA NY, Hamaguchi will also create a site-specific piece called “Space Watcher,” a pinhole camera made of drywall—the same material most walls are made from today. The piece takes the shape of the corner of a room and is coated inside with photo emulsion. She sets the camera in the corner of the room to record the duration of an event that happens in the space. After finishing the recording, she develops the entire structure as a photograph. The room is directly recorded onto the camera, appearing as a cube projected onto the interior of a triangular pyramid. Moving forms blur or disappear entirely. This work is installed as a camera that records the duration of the exhibition.

In “that which we cannot ever expect to see” tamara suarez porras creates a series of poetic assemblages that consider photography's relationship to the universe. She explores the poetic possibilities of scientific and vernacular archives when decoupled from original context and rearranged. Source material for the photographs and titles range from images and text collected from magazines, books, and other instructional or scientific texts. With visible tears and folds, the images meditate on the impossible physical relationship to galactic bodies of unfathomable scale and at impossible distances, yet able to be held by the hand through the photographic object. This impossibly hands-on relationship to the cosmos is underscored by the works being printed in the black-and-white darkroom. The ubiquity of these photographs across mass media and educational materials develops a set of (false) memories of sites and forms that we cannot ever expect to see in any way other than through an image. A line from Chris Marker’s "Sans Soleil" is a touchstone: “I will have spent my life trying to understand the function of remembering, which is not the opposite of forgetting, but rather its lining. We do not remember. We rewrite memory much as history is rewritten.” What does it mean to remember, to know something never encountered with our bodies? How might we get closer to knowing the unknowable? Each print begins with the arrangement of vernacular images of photographic processes and the cosmos collected from magazines, books, and scientific texts, then printed in the darkroom with digital negatives.

Kyoko Hamaguchi, born and raised in Tokyo, Japan, is a conceptual mixed-media artist who lives and works in New York City. By utilizing her daily experiences and communication systems and tools in society, she is constantly searching for ways to invent transient images and shapes to reflect her ever-shifting perspective as an immigrant. Her practice takes form in many different media including photography, sculpture, and installation. She holds an MFA from Hunter College in New York (2020) and a BFA from Tokyo University of the Arts (2015). She has shown in numerous group exhibitions in New York and Japan including at WhiteBox, New York; SPRING/BREAK Art Show 2018, 2019, and 2020, New York; Museum of Modern Art, Gunma, Japan; and Tokyo Metropolitan Art Museum, Tokyo. She had her first solo exhibition at KOKI ARTS, Tokyo in 2020 and is having her second at ATM Gallery, New York in April 2021.

tamara suarez porras is an artist, writer, and educator from (south) Brooklyn, NY and based in the Bay Area. Her work examines experiences of knowing, remembering, and forgetting. From within vernacular archives, she considers how photographic imagery is used to know the unknowable. She has exhibited nationally, including at the Brooklyn Museum, School at the ICP, En Foco Touring Gallery, and Deitch Projects in New York City, as well as fusedspace, Root Division, The Growlery, and Embark Gallery in San Francisco. tamara teaches at the University of San Francisco and California College of the Arts. She is a graduate of NYU’s Photography+Imaging department and from California College of the Arts in Fine Arts and Visual and Critical Studies.

photos by Yael Eban

[thishomehannah]

For Nicholas And Trey. I’m interested in renovating this apartment if I’m buying it to resell or let you rent it.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/537-Court-St-PENTHOUSE-A-Brooklyn-NY-11231/2078832371_zpid/?

For the ceiling in the living room:

I would repaint the window sills with white paint.

For the living room floor, I would replace the floors with this:

Living Room couch idea:

I would put a brick wall that is rustically repainted with a few layers of white paint against where the painting is in the picture of the living room.

For the living room floor:

For the balcony floor:

For behind the bed in the bedrooms of choice:

[agilenano]

Agilenano - News: Expert Advice: 23 Genius, Reversible, Budget-Friendly Hacks to Transform a Rental Apartment

Here in New York, finding the perfect apartment is an almost futile quest. Unless you’re one of the lucky few—we all know that one person who somehow happened upon a gem, with hardwood floors, an updated kitchen, tasteful light fixtures, and a working fireplace to boot—chances are you’ll end up wanting to change at least one thing about your apartment. (I love the big windows and tall ceilings of my Manhattan rental, but I curse the brown laminate kitchen cabinets every time I walk by.) But we’ve learned that you don’t have to just live with the cards you’re dealt, even if your landlord won’t allow large-scale changes: There are plenty of small, easy, reversible swaps that make a bigger difference than you’d think. Half of the Remodelista team rents, and we know from experience: Alexa created a kit of better light fixtures, outlet covers, and hardware that she carts with her from apartment to apartment. Kristina took the unsightly doors off of her closet in her Harlem apartment late one night (both to remove an eyesore and for easier access). In her San Francisco flat, Meredith removed and stowed away the standard-issue window blinds and swapped out the rusted metal forced-air grates with plain wood ones from Home Depot. Take it from us: small swaps make a difference. Here are 23 small, on-a-budget changes, most of which take less than an hour, all of which can be reversed with ease when it’s time to move out (and get your security deposit back). Fix Up the Kitchen In a rental, the kitchen is often the area where the most can go wrong design-wise, and chances are you can’t rip it out and start fresh. A few, no-impact swaps to get you through. 1. Lay new countertops right on top of the old. Above: If you hate the countertops that came with your place, take an idea from designer C. S. Valentin and lay a new countertop material right on top. Valentin opted for a length of cork repurposed from an Ikea Sinnerlig table but a length of marble or butcherblock would also work well. See At Home with C. S. Valentin: French Eclecticism in Cobble Hill, Brooklyn for more. (And note also: the cloth covering the under-counter storage.) Above: Another countertop cover-up: Sarah Lonsdale had plywood covers cut to fit over the existing countertops in her West Coast rental. When she moves out, they can be easily lifted off and packed away. See Sarah’s Refined Rental in St. Helena, CA for more. 2. Swap knobs for ultra-DIY leather pulls. Above: A Remodelista favorite, and one that is proof that the smallest changes can make the biggest difference: swapping less-than-desirable cabinet pulls. We like DIY leather pulls, like these simple knotted versions in Sarah’s Refined Rental; for a more polished version, see DIY Video: How to Make a $20 Cabinet Pull for $2. 3. Wrap pulls in tape. Above: Or, wrap cabinet pulls in tape (these, in Rental Rehab: The DIY New York Apartment, are wrapped in textured blue duct tape cut with an X-Acto knife); rope or cloth could also work. 4. Take off the cabinet doors. Above: If it’s the cabinet fronts themselves you don’t like, take off the doors and stash them away so you can find (and replace) them easily when it’s time to move out. This works well for upper cabinets, where you’re more likely to have artful ceramics and glassware on display; cabinets that stash food and packaging are best kept under wraps (see below for a way of concealing these). Photograph from Small-Space Solutions: 17 Affordable Tips from an NYC Creative Couple. 5. Hang fabric (or even pretty tea towels) in place of cabinet fronts. Above: If you’re not ready to go for the completely open look, tack pretty lengths of cloth in place of cabinet doors. In Done/Undone with Clarisse Demory in Paris, Demory removed her Ikea cabinet fronts and hung blue tea towels instead. “It’s less cold, less artificial this way,” she says. 6. Build a temporary backsplash. Above: If you don’t have upper cabinets and want to add some storage (and drama), consider building a removable plywood backsplash that can be carted with you to the next place. Read on in Kitchen Upgrade: The Low-Cost DIY Black Backsplash, and see Remodeling 101: 6 Budget Backsplash Hacks for more ways of creating a backsplash on a budget (or covering an unsightly one). 7. Invest in custom fronts. Above: If you know your cabinets are Ikea, and if you’re planning on being in your apartment for the long haul, consider investing in custom cabinet fronts that fit onto Ikea boxes. See Ikea Kitchen Upgrade: 8 Custom Cabinet Companies for the Ultimate Kitchen Hack for a few of our favorites. Photograph from Ikea Upgrade: The SemiHandmade Kitchen Remodel. Transform Outdated Light Fixtures A rental with acceptable light fixtures is a rarity. (Here at Remodelista, we’re always wishing that landlords would just outfit apartments with The Hardware Store Porcelain Light Socket—it’s inexpensive, versatile, and timeless.) Enlist these hacks until they catch on. 1.  Swap out a front-and-center fixture with something more appealing. Above: A simple switch with a big impact: If you can, swap out an existing light fixture (or cover a bare bulb) with a fixture you can bring with you from rental to rental. (Just keep the original fixture somewhere so you can replace it before you go.) Here, designer Paige Geffen swapped an existing fixture for the Terra Surface from Cedar & Moss in her kitchen. See The LA Rental, Upgraded: Designer Paige Geffen’s 500-Square-Foot Challenge for more. 2. Or, add a statement shade right over the old fixture. Above: Hide an unappealing light fixture with a more attractive shade that will cover the whole thing. Here, designer C. S. Valentin used Ikea’s [product id="996030"]Sinnerlig Bamboo Shade[/product] to cover up an unsightly fixture; see At Home with C. S. Valentin: French Eclecticism in Cobble Hill, Brooklyn for more. 3. Replace exposed bulbs with artful versions. Above: For a fixture with exposed bulbs, swap just the bulbs out, like Sarah did in her LA rental: “I removed the milky glass shades on the light above the mirror and replaced them with silver-tipped light bulbs, which not only look better but also provide nicer light,” she says. See Expert Advice: 10 Tips for Transforming a Rental Bath for more of her ideas. Upgrade the Bathroom If you’re like most of us and inherit a rental bathroom in serious need of an upgrade, try these ideas. 1. Swap out standard-issue shower curtain rings. Above: Another place where leather ties come in handy: as shower curtain holders, instead of standard-issue plastic rings. Sarah made the swap in her own bathroom; see Expert Advice: 10 Tips for Transforming a Rental Bath. 2. Switch the mirror. Above: Alexa reports that she took down the ugly mirror in her Brooklyn rental bath and replaced it with a more attractive version—it took some elbow grease, she says, but was worth it. (The original mirror is currently under her bed.) If the mirror is removable, replacing it with something of your own choice makes a big difference. Here an antique mirror doesn’t even need to be hung; see House Call: 50 Shades of Weathered White in Hudson, NY, from Zio & Sons. 3. Wrap exposed fixtures in rope. Above: Don’t like the look of ugly, rusted pipes under the sink? Wrap them in rope, as seen at Urban Cowboy: A Williamsburg Clubhouse for Nomads. 4. Snap on removable tiles. Above: For tired walls or ugly tile, invest in removable tiles that can be stuck or snapped on (and travel with you when you go). We like these Tiles for Commitment Phobes, shown here in a bathroom in a polyurethane finish (for use in moist areas). Cover Bad Flooring Here are some ways to cover up less-than-desirable floors. 1. Layer boards or painted plywood, cut to fit, on top. Above: If you can’t tear out the flooring and start fresh, create a new layer on top. In Sarah’s Refined Rental in St. Helena, CA , she had a tongue-and-groove oak floor cut to fit and “floated” it over the linoleum that came with the kitchen. “It transformed the space, and we were able to pull it off while keeping the original kitchen intact,” she says. When you move, it can be removed with no permanent damage to the floor underneath. Above: Another version of the same idea: plywood, cut to fit, shown here in Christine’s bathroom. (She painted it for added polish.) See Remodeling 101: Painted Plywood—The Best Budget Wood Floor for the full story. 2. Source, or create, an artful floor covering. Above: The oldest (and most budget-friendly) trick in the book: covering ugly flooring with rugs. When Justine enlisted Jersey Ice Cream Co. to upgrade her kitchen, redoing the floors was not in the budget. Her solution? Covering them, wall-to-wall, with washable Swedish floorcloths. See how in DIY: The Swedish-Striped Canvas Floorcloth. Disguise Exposed Utilities Here are some tricks to disguise unsightly fixtures. 1. Paint utility fixtures. Above: Exposed pipes and heaters? Consider painting them for an almost sculptural effect. Shown here: a pink-hued heating tower in Kristina Line’s Brooklyn apartment becomes a curious focal point, rather than an eyesore. (Before, “it was a boring brownish color,” she says.) You might want to check with your landlord before painting since, unlike walls, it might not be possible to get an appliance or fixture back to its original color. Photograph from A Two-Week, $1,000, 500-Square-Foot Rental Overhaul by a Design Student in Bushwick, Brooklyn. 2. Wrap steam pipes in rope. Above: For a more reversible, more textured cover-up, wrap exposed pipes in sturdy rope, as seen in Le Mary Celeste: Coastal Cool in the Middle of the Marais. It’s an effective solution for the steam pipes that run through most New York City apartments—and prevents burns if you accidentally touch the hot pipe, too. Divide Your Space If you live in a smaller space than you’d like, one of these simple changes can help divide it. 1. Paint a “room.” Above: To create the illusion of a “room” in an open space, paint a section or an alcove, making sure to stop abruptly where you want the “room” to end. Shown here: the kitchen in Kristina Line’s Brooklyn one-bedroom (and note how she built out a small plywood partition to complete the alcove.) See more in A Two-Week, $1,000, 500-Square-Foot Rental Overhaul by a Design Student in Bushwick, Brooklyn (and, again, you might want to check with your landlord before painting). 2. Use a bookshelf as a divider. Above: To create the feel of a separate, private bedroom in a one-room apartment, enlist a tall, study bookshelf, as designer Karin Montgomery Spath did in this New Zealand studio. It feels almost like a complete wall but can be packed in the moving van (and repurposed elsewhere if you move to a bigger place). See A Glamorous Studio Apartment in Auckland that Feels Like a One-Bedroom, Hack Edition; photograph by Matthew Williams. 3. Add a rolling rack and a curtain. Above: For a softer divider, we like the idea of curtains, but hanging one from the ceiling requires hardware and drilling holes. For less impact, try this hack from shopowner Makié Yahagi’s Manhattan apartment: a rolling rack (hers is from Ted-Steel Industries) hung with [product id="1001534"]Roller Shower Curtain Rings[/product]and [product id="933845"]Riktig Hooks[/product] from Ikea and a pretty curtain (she used a [product id="1001536"]Selena Washed Linen Flat Sheet[/product] from Caravane). See Shop Owner Makié Yahagi’s Charm-Filled Loft in SoHo, New York; photograph by Matthew Williams. Cover Bare Walls A solution for bare apartment walls, and renters (or commitment phobes) who don’t want to hammer nails in: 1. Hang photos (and storage) from the molding. Above: If you’re lucky enough to have molding in your apartment, use it to hang artwork (or extra storage), as Sarah did here with an S-hook and a length of string. Photograph from Sarah’s Refined Rental in St. Helena, CA. 2. Or, lean art and mirrors on the floor. Above: No need to hang art if you’re not ready (or if you have a cement or brick wall that makes it hard to hang things). It looks just as intentional when leaned thoughtfully against the wall or on a ledge. Photograph from House Call: 50 Shades of Weathered White in Hudson, NY, from Zio & Sons. Above: Mirrors, too. Photograph from Living Large in 675 Square Feet, Brooklyn Edition. More ideas for the rental apartment: Expert Advice: The Ultimate Rental Checklist, Landlord Edition A Two-Week, $1,000, 500-Square-Foot Rental Overhaul by a Design Student in Bushwick, Brooklyn At Home with C. S. Valentin: French Eclecticism in Cobble Hill, Brooklyn Inside a Netflix Star’s LA Bungalow, Budget Rental Secrets Included ‘Own’ It Like You Own It: 8 Ways to Personalize Your Rental, Designer Edition N.B.: This post is an update; the original story ran on March 23. 2018. #IKEAHack #Kitchens #Lighting #Bathrooms #Flooring

Agilenano - News from Agilenano from shopsnetwork (4 sites) http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/Agilenano-News/~3/PuEhZnAxw4E/expert-advice-23-genius-reversible-budget-friendly-hacks-to-transform-a-rental-apartment-1

[rgvjanitorialservices]

Reliable Cleaning Services in Edinburg Mission McAllen TX | RGV Janitorial Services

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[jodybouchard9]

8 Cheap Remodeling Tricks I Tried on My Own Home

ronstik/iStock

Last year, I went through a downsizing phase, wanting to simplify my life. No, it had nothing to do with Marie Kondo—I just wanted to declutter in my own way, first by getting a smaller apartment with a much lower rent.

After a long search, I found a charming one-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn Heights, NY. The price was good, almost 30% cheaper than my previous rental. But the apartment was seriously outdated.

The floors and windows were worn out, the glass block windows (highly fashionable in the early 1990s) looked dirty, and most of the remaining details—kitchen backsplash, walls, cabinets, bathroom floor—were either dark or yellowy. The only beautiful feature in the living room, a ceiling medallion, even looked dull, thanks to the chandelier suspended from it. 

Before I signed the lease, I wondered whether I could turn things around. The apartment had good bones, including 10-foot-high ceilings and a practical floor plan. But since it made no sense to splurge on a rental, I wondered whether I could improve it at a decent price. 

Fast-forward to today, and, on balance, I’d say I did all right. So, for those of you dealing with comparable issues, here are some of my favorite remodeling tricks, which you can try without breaking the bank.

1. Stick-on tiles

I love stick-on tiles—they’re cheap, versatile, and, best of all for us renters, easy to remove. I chose light-gray subway wall-tile stickers (Home Depot, $14 for a pack) to cover the kitchen backsplash. Then, I used wood-parquet peel-and-stick tile (Home Depot, $29 for a case that covers 30 square feet) for the bathroom. The result is amazing. My bathroom and kitchen appear cleaner, brighter, and more modern.

Left: Original flooring Right: Stick-on tiles

Eustacia Huen

2. Switch out the cabinet hardware

One of my easiest, highest-impact tricks was to replace the hardware. All I had to do was make sure everything fit. I bought around a dozen circular black knobs (CB2, $5 each), which quickly gave all my cabinets a minimalistic design element. For the bathroom, I chose a sleek black shower-head (Home Depot, $90) and toilet-tank lever (Wayfair, $46), which neutralized the room’s ugly yellow tones and added a contemporary edge. What I love most about my new hardware is the versatility—I can easily use them again.

3. Change the light fixtures

After moving around New York City for more than 10 years, I’ve collected many light fixtures, and I decided I wanted to use them to replace the ugly, outdated ones in my new apartment. Since the wires in the prewar building were extremely old, I needed an electrician to do some rewiring work. (You may be able to do this yourself, or hire a pro for around $60 per fixture.)

Left: Original light fixture Right: Replacement fixture

Eustacia Huen

4. LED light strips 

There were a few places in the kitchen that needed better lighting for cooking and washing. To fix this, I used LED light strips that I’d bought years ago, and stuck them under the kitchen cabinets. These battery-powered lights are practical, energy-efficient, and last for a long time. You can get a 12” bar from Walmart for about $9.

Brighten your kitchen counter with LED light strips.

Eustacia Huen

5. Paint the cabinets

If I had to name the biggest eyesore in the apartment, it would be the kitchen and bathroom cabinets. Replacing them was out of the question, so I decided to have them painted. After getting my landlord’s approval, I bought 2 to 3 gallons of paint from Sherwin Williams and got someone to sand and paint everything for $700. The transformation is stunning. The kitchen looks warmer and more modern in a soft, blush tone, while the bathroom looks more stylish in taupe.

Left: Original kitchen cabinets and backsplash Right: Painted kitchen cabinets and stick-on wall tiles

Eustacia Huen

6. A cheap ceiling medallion

Like many people, I love Brooklyn Heights for its beautiful townhouses and tree-lined streets. To mimic the look of a historical apartment, I bought a simple and inexpensive white ceiling medallion (Home Depot, $45) for my bedroom. It makes a beautiful juxtaposition with the modern light fixture, adding another layer of detail.  

Ceiling medallion

Eustacia Huen

7. Install a closet organizer

Since my main objective in renting a smaller place was to declutter, the last thing I wanted was more furniture. Apart from getting rid of my clothes and shoes, I had to find ways to make the most of the limited closet space. Thankfully, I bought an Elfa organizing system during an annual sale several years ago. It’s easily adjustable and works perfectly in the space.  

8. Turn my favorite things into art

Everything can be art if you know how to present it. I bought a bunch of brass and wooden frames (West Elm, $21-$111), plastic boxes (T&T Plastic Land, $50-$60) and acrylic photo frames (Crate & Barrel, $12 to $22) to display my favorite things. My selection changes from time to time. It includes my favorite book, treasured news clippings, a meaningful letter written by my brother 20 years ago, plus many memorable photos. All these frames are distributed sparsely, but mindfully, on different walls—just as they would be in art galleries.

One piece I particularly like is my nephew’s first finger painting, framed in brass and displayed with a DIY museum wall label below it. On the card are such details as the “artist’s” name, birthdate, year, and the title of the piece, medium, and acquisition method—just the way you’d see them at the Guggenheim Museum, for instance. Of course, it would be amazing to hang a few John Singer Sargent paintings up here and there, but I love how these personal touches bring life to my home. 

Transform your favorite things into artwork with beautiful frames.

Eustacia Huen

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