I believe the last election for which ballots would have been cast here at PS 5 was this doozy back in late March.
Unlike its Franklin Avenue counterpart, this painting contains (an approximation of) a full-on infinite regress.
They don't quite compare to wild blackberries, but I'll take what I can get.
Like our friend Rubel, Mr. Dietz dealt in coal and ice. He's featured in this history of the neighborhood's ice industry, a wonderful window on the days when the ice man still made his rounds.
I thought today was finally going to be my day, but this kid just horsed around for a while without ever inserting a quarter.
Each year, during the lead-up to the massive Puerto Rican Day Parade on Fifth Avenue, Tony sets up a little store outside his house here in Bushwick. Miles from the parade route, he sells flags, t-shirts, and other memorabilia (there was much more stuff on display to the right of this photo) to neighbors and passersby.
That was the greeting I received from Mr. Williams as I passed by his house here in Bed-Stuy. I asked him how he knew I was a knucklehead. His reply: "Because I am the Son of God." By the end of our subsequent conversation — of which I remember very little; I suppose that's what happens when you're in the presence of the SoG — "knucklehead" had become a fond term of endearment, and Mr. Williams insisted we perform a thug hug ("like they do in prison") before I departed.
Wandering the streets, playing Bob Marley tunes (among others)
