Diana Hansen-Young

So our apartment building is on the front page of NY Post. . .

. . . click. . .

Vanderbilt Avenue Flap!

and the Gothamist . . .

The Gothamist

And the NY Daily News, Channel 11, 1010 Wins Radio and just this last 30 minutes, Channel 2 news came by and wanted an inteview. I drag myself downstairs and my daughter says, in the sunlight, "Oh Mom -- the cathairs!" Well - it's Easter Sunday Morning -- I'm slopping around while the cats are busy shedding (it's spring) and my old t-shirt is covered in cat hairs. I tell the news reporter: don't show the cat hairs, or you're toast. I'll find you wherever you are and sprinkle your fine black trenchcoat with white cat hair."

ONLY IN NEW YORK would the story of a woman squatting in a rent-stabilized apartment, pretending her aunt is dead for years, in order to get a $200-something rent, would make the front page of the NY Post!

A cheap apartment is the Quest, the Holy Grail. If someone dies, people say "Oh, I am so sorry for your loss, is the apartment available?"

So they interviewed man on the street (last night I'm watching Judge Judy and the local news comes on and there's a picture of our building and I think: That looks familiar -- and it is!) -- and one guys says "I'd love to have an apatment at that price in this neighborhood" but some other moron says something idiotic like we should have more rent-controlled apartments in this neighborhood to allow more people to live here at a lower price.

He obviously is not the poor schmuck landlord who is paying $550 maintenance for the apartment the squatter is getting -- rent-controlled -- at $260 (and change. I never remember the exact amount).

When the sponsor converted the building in 1986 to a co-operative apartments (little-known outside of NY) -- where you buy shares in the corporation that owns the building, and with the shares you get a proprietary lease -- by law he had to offer everyone living there to buy their unit, or stay there for life at a fixed rent. So he has five more units, mostly elderly, some who were born here -- but this young woman was simply the niece of the original tenant. One of the other tenants is about 50, was born here -- and so was his mother! So direct family lineage is entitled to keep it forever at the same rent! That's "rent-stabilization."

On the flip side, it's not really fair to someone who's saved and worked to buy an apartment, or rent one at market value, to subsidize an able-bodied woman with a full-time job at cheap rent.

This whole thing was prompted by the sponsor filing suit against her in Supreme Court (after having tried for several years to get her out by other means). Evidently, the NY Post reporter says, they have employees down at the courthouse who look through every public filing (lawsuits, etc) to look for stories, which is how they came across this one.

I think I'll go for a walk and see if I can find anyone else's hidden Easter Eggs.

Test post via email

Yeah! Did it!

Sent from my iPhone

This morning I hardboiled and painted eggs with acrylics . . .

Why?

Why not?

El Neglecto. . .

Neglected the blog a long time for a whole bunch of reasons that would be interesting to write about --  but cannot as of yet be spoken of. . . mysterious. . . The Shadow. . . The Thin Man. . . be patient, dear reader; after May 2 I can tell you everything.

Hi to the Spy Guys who still check daily to see if I've written something about them.

 Yesterday in Union Square, Mr. Softee trucks, springing up on every corner, a sure sign of spring in NYC along with daffodils in tree pits and an explosion of sidewalk cafe tables.

Be patient. Madame Fortuna Will Tell All. Later.

 

 

Spring may be on the way. . .

Woke up and the sun's angle as it rises has changed enough to throw the shadow of our roof on the building across the street, and set one of their windows on fire. Just a hint, maybe, of things to come.

Was it Shelley or Keats? Can't remember. I'll google it later (if I remember):

O Wind, if winter comes/can spring be far behind?

Kitteh notes empty bowl on floor

 

It's not my cat.

Annual valentine message to my daughters

-- as repeated every year for 30 something years --

I love you

I love you

I love you, I do --

But don't get excited;

I love monkeys too!

And then I would tickle them. It becamse the basis of the Ticklebug books. Happy Valentine's Day!

Whitemare, Kung Hee Fat Choy, Winter Colds

So a series of winter colds has finally gone away, I think, and if I find out who sneezed on me in the subway or on the plane home from Paris I will wring their snotty neck.  Then it snowed, and I looked out my window, and Daughter #1, who is the super of our building (whose initials are VPOC) and her husband had carved a "Happy Whitemare" into the sidewalk snow -- which you can see straight down from our window -- as they began their shoveling.

And then, of course, there was Chinese New Year, and we fed the dragons our dollars, ate noodles from a street cart, and left an offering in the Buddhist Temple for Grandma and Grandpa Young. Heidi and Bret came along

A couple of dragons with heads correctly designed to open their mouths and collect money were happy to have our dollars.

But a gorgeous new snake had been created to dance high above the crowd with the dancers holding poles with both hands. Unfortunately, when the crowd tried to give them money, there was no way they could hold up the snake and take the money - no snake mouth to snap it up. The snake designer, while talented, needs to go back to the drawing board.

ICE COLD

is the name of next year's Mystery Writers of America collection of short stories, edited by Raymond Benson and Jeffery Deaver, who are the only two American authors of official James Bond novels. Half of the stories are commissioned and will be written by Joseph Finder, John Lescroart, Laura Lippman, J.A.Jance, T. Jefferson Parker, Sara aretsky, Katherine Neville and Gayle Lynds with John Sheldon.

And ten will be selected by a panel from a pool of blind submission from members of MWA. So I've entered twice in the past, and both stories were accepted. I haven't entered anything for a couple of years -- and I vowed this year to enter. The theme is the Cold War -- and the stories should be tales of mystery and intrigue - spies, shady diplomats, covert meetings, paranoia -- that frigid time bewteen 1945 and 1989.

So I did the bare bones of the story a couple of months ago, and went at it again a few weeks ago, and there has been so much happening that the deadline, which is Friday, has crept up. I worked on it a few hours in Paris, and then it stopped. It's a good story. But -- should I make a full-court press and just GET IT DONE and SEND IT IN -- even if it's not as good as it should be, because I haven't spent weeks polishing it -- just because I SHOULD GET IT DONE AND SEND IT IN -- or should I just bag it: Oh, well, I probably won't be chosen, so why burn the midnight oil and finish it, and besides, I spent a hundred or more hours on the other stories and made $325.

None of these are reasons not to write.

So I had a long talk with myself and I have applied butt to chair and am determined to get it finished and hand-delivered (yes it has to be on paper) to their office by Friday at 4:00 PM.

So it's called "P-38." Anyone know what a P-38 is? Not the gun. The REAL P-38. This is something that only people my age are going to know, because our fathers brought them home from the war and we learned how to use them. I don't even know if they're in use today. But I had one, and could open a can with it, and that's what the story is about. At least that's the working title. It may change by Friday.

Back to the story. Stay tuned.

Jetlagged, back in Brooklyn, will post again regularly. . .

Took several days of going to airport and returning to Denfert and yet another hotel to get out of Paris. Finally got out on a plane that was full of refugees from Somalia, Ethiopia and Eritrea -- gaunt, underweight, children malnourished, all from a camp in southeastern Ethiopia who had walked for days to reach safety, victims of the violence and drought. They were being resettled as part of a "controlled migration" program run by the UN for refugees to try to get people out of the camps into countries like France, Canada, US, and other countries who could absorb them into their economies. It was inspiring.

"We're in America! We're in America! God be praised, we're in America!" And it brought into perspective all of the bitching and carrying on we do about our country.

Interestingly enough, they didn't know how to use the face mask that was provided for sleeping. they put it over their mouth and mose. Plus, the airline food was bewildering (that was for everyone). But the most interestin was the that they could not figure out how to use the video/entertainment equipment in front of our seats. So I showed them how (sitting in a group fo them) Great White Bwana that I was! -- and ASSUMED that they all wanted to hear African music (which I love -- Soweto choir, Cesaria Evora) -- so I found African music for them to listen to -- and they all said NO -- NO AFRICA -- AMERICAN MUSIC. NO MORE AFRICA.

I found Brittany Spears, and they were ecstatic. "American Music." I thought a lot about that afterwards, how I think of myself, and take pride in, equality for all, and various causes -- and I ASSUME I am NOT and have NEVER  BEEN a "white racist" -- and yet -- what was the assumption that since they were from Africa, they must want to hear African music?

What did that mean? I'm doing a lot of thinking about that, and the stereotypes that sill reside deeply in us all. It brings to mind Malcom Gladwell's BLINK -- the instant decisions we make when we meet someone -- the categories we subconciously put them in. Why did I make that assumption?

Thoughts to be pondered honestly. Certainly, I re-realize, as I do again and again, that all of my "problems" are problems of privilege. I have never walked miles through the desert to escape the rape and murder of extremists, and I have never had a baby die in my arms because I was so dehydrated that I had no breast milk -- and had to leave the baby in a shallow grave by the side of the road.

Problems of privilege: no sugar, divorce -- all probems of privilege.

Oh, btw, people have written: how come no watercolors of Paris?

Answer: I have to scan them as jpegs to get them into the Blog.

I do NOT carry a scanner with me when I travel!