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At right, a real estate developer. At left, his assistant. Here at Kava Shteeble, they're discussing the Bed-Stuy properties the developer is aggressively pursuing to buy, the owners of which his assistant is contacting daily.

I can only assume that this refers to the D'Angelo song by the same name, because that's the first and only thing I think of when I read or hear about chicken grease.

I try to walk a few blocks out of my known territory every other day to add what was yesterday's frontier to tomorrow's familiar spaces. I want to get a sense of place relative to where I'm living now. I want to learn where I can work, where the viable coffices are.

Lucy, who dreams of getting a FUCK YEAH, AMERICA tattoo on her arm, sent me a gift. Her gallery had work from Sugimoto on display and, as part of the deal, books of the photographer's work as well.

He's the best-dressed bum on the block. 

I got to thinking tonight about words typically associated with slaugter used to explain the quality of a musical performance. Some of those slaughterin' words have a positive connotation. Others have a negative connotation.

While I don't have the same Proustian association with Dairy Queen®  and happiness and childhood that the easily excited blogosphere does, I've still ventured to the first store to open in Manhattan on its opening day. I was in the neighborhood for other things and whatev

Time this month has been limited. I've not yet set up the kitchen for cooking, nor have I made the living room available for living. 

The McClurification of a bodega is a sign of imminent neighborhood gentrification. But the price per bag here is less than half the going rate in Williamsburg and that will make me a customer. 

The building at right is large, grey and plain. The structure's unremarkable facade is brought out by the smaller boedga and its bright yellow paint and heap of curbside debris. I liked that contrast and tried to convey it in a photograph.