Made out of motorcycle parts and scrap metal

Yesterday I moved to a new sublet apartment in Manhattan’s East Village. I’m just a few blocks away from the last place I was living, but what a difference it makes. I’m no longer right by an NYU dorm, and am now free from the ritual of drunk NYU students screaming on the sidewalk outside my window from 2-5am — every … single … night. That experience has galvanized my sympathies for the Save the Village movement.

The entire move took just 45 minutes. That includes everything — moving out of the old place, and moving in to the new place. Remarkable, no? The past few years I’ve shed possessions down to the bare minimum, giving away furniture to my younger sisters and clothes to Goodwill stores. So these days I live as a sublet-hopping urban nomad. They say it’s hard to find an apartment in NYC, but temporary furnished sublets — with everything provided, including wifi — are, in my experience, very easy to find via craigslist. My last sublet was very temporary (just six weeks); I’m in my current place for three months with an option to extend.

This is the tree-lined, New Yorky street I now call home:

And here’s my building. I’m extremely curious about the story behind that rather unsettling bearded face atop the door. All I know is that the building dates back to 1910 or so. I emailed the primary tenant about the face and if I learn anything interesting, I’ll update this post.
10/17 update: I heard back from the tenant; he said this: “I‘m sure there is an interesting story behind it but I don’t know it. Most people never look up. However, I can tell you that it was pretty recently that the eyes were painted. Weird.”

A closer look at the face. Welcome home, Jonathan — mwa ha ha ha.

After I moved my stuff inside, I looked out at the back patio, where a cat returned my gaze, locking eyes with me for a disturbingly long period of time. I guess after seeing the bearded head, I was prepared to be creeped out by anything. And yes, that’s a toilet. It’s a very DIY garden out there.

The primary tenant left one solitary book on the bookshelf for my perusal. Wait — is he implying I need help in this area?

A tattoo parlor is conveniently located right next door to me.

And the Velvet Cigar Lounge is a few buildings down. Inside, there is always a group of cigar-puffing men in their 50s and 60s, seated in a circle facing each other.

And down a bit further, we find a hipster coffeeshop — very tiny place, so people congregate outside. Note the fellow with jeans rolled up and no socks. This is attire du jour for all men under 35 (or who think they’re under 35) in NYC. I tried the drip coffee there and I must say — it’s amazing. Smooth, dark, satisfying. But I will keep wearing socks. Because I’m over 35.

Across the street is a consignment shop, guarded by a … well, words cannot convey what this is.

But words can convey what it was made from.

Further examination of buildings on my street reveals additional ornamental faces — and they are all a bit creepy. Although the head on my building takes the cake.