Posts Tagged ‘311’

In which The Gay Recluse rather quickly dies of lung disease. Although there are countless slumlords offenders in Washington Heights, this building is one of the worst. We’ve written about this building before — and for a while it seemed to get better — but now that it’s getting cold, the smoke is getting worse, […]


In which The Gay Recluse rather quickly gets lung cancer. Time and date of photographs: March 26, 10am (ish). [We would have posted earlier but had a backlog of hot gay statues to attend to. (Plus we had to go to Pittsburgh for the weekend for a celebration.)] We’ve repeatedly documented the monstrous plumes of […]


In which The Gay Recluse rather quickly gets lung cancer. Time and date of photographs: April 2, 2008, 7pm (ish) Although the worst offender seems to have abated after we called 311 a few weeks ago, there are regular emissions of nasty-looking black smoke from almost all of the rooftops. At least when it gets […]


In which The Gay Recluse does some investigative reporting and follows up with a complaint. As we’ve documented many times, thick black smoke — a function of improperly maintained or outdated boiler systems — is pretty much a constant of life in Washington Heights. (No coincidence, asthma rates are pretty much through the roof.) Although […]


In which The Gay Recluse rather quickly gets lung cancer. Time and date of morning photograph: March 21, 2008, 7:54am. Time and date of evening photograph: March 21, 2008, 7:34pm The oily black smoke of 100-year-old boilers disperses daily across the rooftops in Washington Heights, heedless of those who suffer from pneumonia, asthma and tuberculosis. […]


The thuds you hear on the roof? No, it is not rain or sleet or thunder, or at least not in the meteorological sense of these terms; rather, it is a rain of debris brought down upon us by the merciless gods who throw garbage from the windows.


On Walt Whitman

21Sep07

On Broadway last night we passed a man, older and bearded, wearing a broad-rimmed hat. We felt his eyes on our back and then — more alarmingly — a hand on our elbow. But the grip seemed far more imploring than threatening, and so we did not protest as he guided us toward the nearby […]



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