#342: Endangered: East Village Quirk

East Village, NYC

And these, my friends, these are the numbers I love to hate. Crass colors, ham-fisted paint jobs, and a palette so appalling it makes an LSD trip look like an Ansel Adams. And yet. There's that word again: character. I'm starting to think of it more, particularly as I watch the boutique-ification of the Lower East Side start to spread its glass enclaved dynasty into the rough-around-the-edges East Village. I was all right with it till y'all took away Mama's, home of the giant platters heaped high with mashed potatoes and the garage sale portraits of cross-eyed housewives lining the walls. But now? It's war.

If the all-time diviest dive Mars Bar -- known far and wide for its ability to transmit infectious diseases by simply looking at a photograph of it -- can be converted into a sanitized TD Bank, as was recently announced, then it seems most anything can happen to EVil, including the eradication of these little character pieces. In fact, for all I know, these numbers have already been converted into a Trader Joe's. Is it time we chained ourselves to every last purple, yellow, and green residence, crying for preservation? Probably not. But it's nice to retain a photo of the atrocity, just in case.

#363: Replete With Tree & Garden Gnome

Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn

In keeping with the holiday season, I thought I'd post another cheery neighborhood wreath pic. The harsh winter light on a sunny January afternoon makes a walk through Carroll Gardens all the more beautiful, one of many reasons I have no problem bragging about this neighborhood I almost live in. (This "almost live in" has nothing to do with me being nomadic. Technically, I'm on the border of about three neighborhoods, so it always feels disingenuous to lay claim to only one.)

You know who else has no problem bragging about this neighborhood? Realtors! And just because I'm curious, I sometimes do a quick scan online of some of the buildings I pass by to see if I can learn anything about the apartments whose souls I ignominiously snatch with my camera.

Because I can't afford to do anything with a Brooklyn apartment apart from, say, replacing my mailbox key, I sometimes get caught up with other aspects of real estate, like marveling at the hyperbolic writing and strange verbal contortions found on realtor's websites. Call me a simpleton, but I liked this building from a quick gander at the cool red door and brickwork, but did you know that this place boasts "a rec room large enough to house a california king"? Or that there's an "intimate front yard, replete with tree and garden gnome"?

Now whether you think "intimate" is the adjective you want duct-taped to your "yard" is a personal matter. But imagine my sadness when I learned that this co-op with its "most valued vestage of American Living: YOUR OWN HUGE GARAGE" was already sold, thereby banishing me to the cruel sidewalks once again. Oh Brooklyn I love you, but you're bringing me down.

#24: Hey Buddy! No Parking.

Greenwich Village, NYC

Here's one thing about New York City: We really, really don't want you to park in front of our garage doors. Ever. So while we can't guarantee you'll obey our orders, we do make our prohibitions pretty so at least you'll pay attention. Forget those unimaginative orange traffic cones and ho-hum street signs erected by less creative types. These numbers, graphic and eye-catching, are the last frontier of No Parking warnings. Enjoy this fine collection of 24's -- most of which hail from the no-parking haven of Dumbo in Brooklyn -- quick. Before we tow ya.

Is that a "Z" or is it a "2"? No time for typography talk now -- I hear the tow truck a-comin' round the bend.

A bit of yellow, a splash of neon pink, and great swathes of black on gray: kickin' it old skool in Dumbo.

Like, actual effort went into this one. Check out the careful shadowing on the text of "HOURS." We take our No Parking garages seriously in this borough.

Umm. Guy in Red Hook? With the stencil and the black spray paint? I don't know how to break this to you, but–

And finally, the winner: I'm not sure what stencils were harmed in the creation of this one, but I approve of the outcome.

#131: Spider!

West Village, NYC

It happens to be missing some of the requisite eight legs, but I'm fairly sure my spidey-sense is correct in identifying this one. It could be artistic license, this leaving out of the limbs. Then again, maybe the poor thing is after auditioning for that ill-fated Broadway play. Ah, forgive me. I really should "turn off the snark."

#270: The Eyes of Dr. DJ Eckleburg

DUMBO, Brooklyn

Like popcorn and whiskey, I've always appreciated an inspired ill-pairing. A bluegrass version of Pink Floyd's "The Wall" shouldn't work, but it does. (Luther Wright & The Wrongs' "Rebuild the Wall" is what I'm talking about, and if you haven't heard it -- "Are there any deer in the theatre tonight? Get them up against the wall! That one in the headlights, he don't look right to me" -- it's well worth the hour of suspended disbelief.)

So if Sean Donnelly, AKA MC NxtGen, the singing binman from Loughborough, can rap about the National Health Service, surely there is room in the world for Dr. DJ Eckleburg, Dumpster-diving DJ to the literati. He raps about Gatz, he drops beats about Keats, he gets everybody in da house to put their hands up in the air for J-Franz, and I found him -- right here in DUMBO.

Dreaming up fake MC names is almost as fun as making up roller derby names, and while I've no skillz with two turntables and a microphone, it doesn't stop me from thinking of what I'd call myself and what I'd rap about if I had no shame at all. Just wait till -- in the guise of MC SMLXL -- I drop my album "Rapping About Architecture." (Anyone got a good rhyme for "Mies van der Rohe")? Or better yet, I can just set down my t-square, jump ahead to "The Blueprint 4," and beat Jay-Z at his own game. I may do it myself, I'm so Brooklyn.

#293: Neighborhood, Abbreviated

Tribeca, NYC

Snappy names: all neighborhoods need them, and if you don't believe me, just ask a New York realtor. The patch of land in Brooklyn where I live has been called, depending on who you ask, Cobble Hill, Cobble Hill West, Red Hook, Columbia Waterfront District, Salt Pile District (just made that one up), and surely many more are being proposed as I write this.

A clever acronym or desirable set of syllables can go a long way in describing a region, and I know I took some delight in learning what all the New York acronyms stood for when I first moved to the city. You've got Tribeca (or TriBeCa, depending on your copyeditor) for Triangle Below Canal street, SoHo for South of Houston, NoHo for North of Houston. Brooklyn's got DUMBO (Down Under Manhattan Bridge Overpass) and the thankfully never-caught-on BoCoCa (Boerum Hill, Cobble Hill, Carroll Gardens), the silly acronym the Village Voice once tried to pin on my band. It can all seem ABiMu after awhile (A Bit Much).

Fortunately, there is the AIA Guide to New York City to the rescue, which I frequently flip to for its scintillating research, delightful history lessons, and just enough snark to keep me glued to each entry. The guide is divided up into neighborhoods and, when real names just aren't good enough, they never hesitate to present some viable options. Because of the AIA guide, I now enjoy wandering not just through Tribeca but through the Glass Box District, and perhaps my favorite (architectural tongue firmly in cheek): HoTunA (Holland Tunnel Approach), the so-called neighborhood with enough car exhaust to asphixiate a casual passerby.

So whether your neighborhood has a sanctioned name or not, what's your take on all the fussy nomenclature? And what, if you wanted to mess with your realtor's PR department, would you dub the place where you dwell?

#311: New York City Grievance Hotline

Upper West Side, NYC

311 is, of course, the number New Yorkers are advised to dial when they have a not-quite-emergency question and/or a community grievance that needs attention. Less serious than 911 and more New York-centric than your average 411 operator, 311 is one of those services I've never really taken advantage of. Or, for that matter, understood. It offers itself as a government information hotline, but who needs that when you've got Julian Assange? At best guess, and knowing what I know about New Yorkers, I'd say 80% of the 311 queries deal with alternate side of the street parking, a New York obsession. The rest of the time it acts as a Hydra-headed Snow, Garbage, Potholes, Schools, and General Complaints hotline. Of which there are many.

I haven't availed of 311's services, or at least never dialed in a request myself. But it's not because I've never had cause to. Reflecting back on my ten years here as a New Yorker, I'd say I've accumulated my fair share of grievances, queries, and complaints that might have warranted a phone call -- if only I wasn't too demoralized to pick up the phone. A sampling of actual, real life situations to illustrate this point, you say? Glad you asked. A few highlights:

DEAR 311 OPERATOR:

• There is a large flying cockroach on my bookcase. It has just disappeared behind Goethe's Faust and the poems of Paul Celan. I am home alone and deathly afraid. Please advise.

• The current tornado has just caused a portion of my roof to fly off. I can see the sky.

• A family of hornets appears to have built a hive in the skylight of my bathroom. Can you help?

• The drug dealer and/or highly impatient person who sits in a car outside the building and honks the horn repeatedly at various inconvenient hours of the night appears to be working on a site-specific noise piece. I should like to see it stopped, or at the very least, moved elsewhere. Yours, etc. Sleepless in Brooklyn

• What's up with the giant salt pile on the waterfront? Do you realize it's blowing into people's eyes at an alarming rate?

• My landlord sent over Laurel & Hardy to drain the radiators in my apartment. Black, boiling water is being released onto my bedspread, walls, and desk. Does this fall under your jurisdiction?

• The worker currently installing my carbon monoxide detector is talking to me gregariously about his jail sentence. He's been incarceration-free for over 20 years. Ought I worry? P.S. He loves books.

I'm sure there are others, but you get the idea. In the meantime, if you have a city grievance story you'd like to share -- either one that required intervention or one you let slide -- I'd love to hear it. Even if 311 doesn't.

#325: Mastering the Art of Number-Munching

Upper West Side, NYC

Like sushi or caviar, it's an acquired taste, but I hear the 3's on the Upper West Side are particularly delicious. For those with adventurous palettes, nothing beats the first crunch of a fresh serif from a well-prepared Manhattan address number, particularly when paired with medallions of plaster and marinated in a fine rust reduction sauce. Bear in mind that these delectable prime numbers are best consumed during months containing an "R," so there's never been a finer time to indulge than right now. Bon appétit!

#329: The Wire

Tucson, Arizona

"You read this painting's composition from left to right. But you read the emotion from right to left."

There I stood, bleary-eyed and somewhat hungover, in the gallery of the Hugh Lane, an earnest voice off in the distance cravenly beseeching my attention. My head throbbing with an unnameable pain, I shuffled closer.

In search of the museum café, I had instead stumbled unwittingly onto a lecture in Post-Minimalism. I was not there for the Post-Minimalism; indeed I had not heard of Post-Minimalism until that very moment. Modern art inspires me and the Hugh Lane had been my destination before. I was not in totally uncharted waters here. But to be fair: this was a lazy Sunday. I had gone for the free Debussy concert and stayed on idly to wander the grounds. Craving a croissant and coffee after a stroll through Francis Bacon's paint-spattered, tornado-swept studio, I was ready to call it a day. Nevertheless, I found myself cocking my head like the RCA dog and bending down my ear.

"So what you see is something full of incident . . . up close!"

Full of incident? Indeed, the night before had been full of incident, spent in high spirits with a roomful of friends new and old at a pub in Stoneybatter. Consumed were several Belgian ales, dozens of conversations, and at least one homemade Rice Krispie treat. Cycling home along the quays at 2.00 a.m., a reflective belt over my overcoat, I received drunken come-ons from dim-witted lugs in speeding taxis and laughed as I failed at flipping them off, my mittens thwarting my best efforts to have the last word. Happy but decidedly worse for wear, I had dragged myself out of bed that next morning after a fitful sleep, reasoning that a bit of culture would have to be my hair of the dog.

"But backing up, we see that it becomes half atmosphere, half system."

I backed up and blinked, along with the silent majority, at the blotchy gray-white painting that hung on the far side of the room. I didn't see half system, though maybe, I thought, I could make out some atmosphere.

"Now as we move on," continued the erudite voice, "We must think in shadow."

I coughed and saw fireflies. My head was a masterpiece of ache in ten parts. Thinking in shadow was not going to be much of a problem. Still hungry for my croissant and coffee, I somehow found myself taken in by this pied piper of pithy proclamations and led out of the gallery. For reasons I couldn't fully understand -- maybe I liked big words, or maybe I really did need to see what this Post-Minimalist hubbub was all about -- I ignored my spinning head and followed the throng up the stairs. We entered an austere gallery with a single Waterford crystal chandelier where, affixed to the wall, we beheld the wire. Not a painting. Not a sculpture, not quite, and not merely a drawing. This was --

"Something so ineffable . . . so . . . semi-visible . . ." explained our fearless leader.

I squinted hard at the semi-visible. What I semi-saw was single mangled, tangled, ineffable wire, pinned to the wall, and a roomful of quirkily dressed, bespectacled spectators spectating it. All throughout Dublin, hungover revelers were edging sleepily toward their kettles and toasters, shuffling about in slippers, cracking open the Sunday paper.

I was staring at a wire.

"Richard Tuttle's wire sculptures are in stark contrast to Bacon's self-narratives. Here the artist has achieved his goal and left himself entirely out of the work. This wire is, in effect, an echo. It has undergone an entire journey from line to wire to shadow, arriving, at last, to its destination. It achieves a Zen-like evacuation of subjectivity."

As the words hung there in the air, quivering like the wire itself, I felt a sudden shock of recognition. Left himself out of the work. An echo. Thinking in shadow. A Zen-like evacuation of subjectivity. Why bejaysus, I had gone for modern art and ended up with the perfect explanation of a hangover. I suppose you could call that an epiphany.

#364: They'd Sell You the Brooklyn Bridge

Baltic Street, Brooklyn

What with my aversion to Facebook, I don't get a lot of space in the interwebs to flaunt the lurid details of my many leisure-time pursuits. Sure, I've carved a wee niche for myself in the picture-taking department, and I have been known in my spare time to partake in novel-scribbing, accordion-squeezing, university-professoring, and general mucking about.

But what a lot of people don't know about me is that I'm also an entrepreneur. Oh yes. Keeping an eye on the neighborhood's numbers is busy work, but I'm never too busy on these strolls to forget to size up the nooks and crannies of my 'hood and consider ways to capitalize on crap nobody else is interested in. Take this vacant lot at 364 Baltic Street. The poor scrap of land doesn't even have a broken-down brownstone to hang a number on. A vacant lot smack in the middle of the dashingly desirable borough of Brooklyn? Isn't that, like, the sixth deadly sin?

You hear a lot these days about the gentrification of Brooklyn. As one of the landed gentry myself, I try to avoid casting too many stones at my own glass houses, but as an armchair urbanist, gentrification is an issue that concerns me. Having lived in the same tenement building for seven and a half years now, I count myself lucky that I can stay put where I am. Were I just moving into Brooklyn in this enlightened year of 2011, I doubt I'd be able to afford the paint job on the fire escape.

I'm perfectly content to bloom where I'm planted, but sometimes I still get carried away by rakish fantasies of real estate. Who knows? Maybe if the price is right I could pool together some pennies with my starving artist friends and build a nice studio space on this very spot, or maybe commission a novelist's tree house, a modern nest built by Libeskind with northern exposure and lots of pointy detailing. It's a long shot, but rather than stand idly by and watch this ideal slice of property fall prey to the greedy land-grabbers, I decided to investigate. So I did what anyone seeking salient information does: I consulted the internet.

Braced for bad news, I'd been expecting the worst. You can imagine my shock, then, when I encountered these highly competitive going rates for a slab of land on Baltic Street:

Cost of Baltic: $60 (!)

Cost of houses and hotel: $50 per house, $50 plus four houses for hotel (not bad!)

Rent: $20 for one house, $60 for two houses, $180 for three and $320 for four, $450 for hotel

Location of property: Space #3, between Community Chest and Income Tax

Well, dear readers, I had a rude shock when, armed with this enticing information, I wandered into a nearby deli and asked where I could find the Community Chest. It was some time before I realized my mistake and saw I'd been consulting the wrong property listing all along. Ah well. If only I'd played more Monopoly over Christmas break and a little less Balderdash.

#323

#324, Chinatown, NYC

People are concerned about the high truancy rates among New York City's schoolchildren -- and rightly so. School is important, and young people have no place running wild on the streets of New York, taking up valuable sidewalk space, creating havoc, and polluting the air with foul-smelling smoke. That's what shish kabob carts are for.

Higher-ups would do well to consider better ways to lure kids back to school than by painting freaky murals such as this on their industrial brown façades. Seriously -- if you were a self-respecting kid, would you want to go anywhere near this spaced-out, maniacal sun? You can take your fluffy post-apocalyptic blue clouds, Chinatown. I'm going next door to play World of Warcraft.

#264

#264, Chelsea, NYC

Let me get this straight. You're given a doorway like this -- elegant and ornate, dripping with color and Baroque charm, a veritable jewel of a building on a quiet side street in Chelsea -- and you stick faux gold hardware store numbers over your door? I won't deny the utilitarianism of the Peel N' Stick numerals (ahem, see #263), but seriously. Enough is enough. Back of the class, 264. For shame.

#258

#258, Cobble Hill, Brooklyn

Because some days, this is what living in the city feels like.

Not to cast aspersions on A. Mesh, MD, but there is so much wrong with this image. The sign is poorly designed. Spaces between letters and commas are chaotic. Letters and words are squished rudely together. I feel a headache and urgent need to attend the pain clinic simply from looking at this. It's recycling day, or maybe it isn't. The "this side up" arrow is pointing sideways. The garbage cans are all clustered together, crowding like harassed commuters on the rush hour subway.

I searched in vain for weeks for a 258 that would please the eye, only to find a vortex on every block that showed promise: a garden here, a church there, a school that takes up half a city block in every space where a 258 should be. Infinite possibilities turned to dead ends, false leads, frustrations, which in turn led me circling back to this every time. Broken-down boxes and dregs of city living. Neurology, headache, pain clinic. I think there is a message in this.

Because some days, this is what living in the city feels like.

#236

#236, Cobble Hill, Brooklyn

Stoop-sitting in Brooklyn is one of the few pleasures I can think to squeeze out of these infernal New York summers. I think fondly of all the times I've trespassed on my neighbors' front steps, slurping happily on a nuclear-colored ice from Uncle Louie G's while the evening set in, bikes whirred on by, and the street lights started to buzz overhead. A sort of calm settles in, a subdued, heat-induced torpor (damn, I've always loved that SAT word) that lends itself perfectly to doing nothing. Not far from this stoop, though I can't place the exact location, I scored an accordion at a stoop sale for twenty bucks: case and all.

A stroll through a stoopified neighborhood like Cobble Hill is one of endless possibility. You never know what you'll find on your neighbor's steps as you walk to the subway or the bar, what offerings have been left for the casual scavenger to pick up or contemplate. Nothing goes to waste here; it's better than Craig's List. Want a stack of 2004 Architectural Digest issues tied together with twine? It's yours. How about an aluminum tea tin with "TEA" written in Art Deco lettering? Hell yes. Does that pair of worn white knee-high go-go boots fit? They never do: something's wrong with that zipper.

I don't have a stoop of my own, but I do like the communal aspect of them. And while I'm sure that proposal of Frank Gehry's (as part of the ill-fated Atlantic Yards project) to build a giant stoop at the corner of Flatbush and Atlantic Avenues must've sounded great to someone in a board room meeting, how many of you would want to perch atop that chaotic intersection with fifty or a hundred of your closest strangers? The stoop, according to the proposal, would be "visible to 60,000 vehicles that pass through the intersection daily". Um, no thanks. Unless it's coming with a giant Uncle Louie G's and a giant accordion -- and last I checked, it isn't -- I'll take small scale, thank you.

In the meantime, what's the best -- or weirdest -- thing you ever saw left out on a neighbor's front steps? And more importantly, did you take it or leave it?

#200

#200, Lower East Side, NYC

Over the past few years, it's become innundated with improbable high rises and lifeless luxury hotels, but you can still count on the Lower East Side for some good old-fashioned grassroots murals. I've seen plenty of graffiti spray-painted over shop windows protesting the yuppification of the LES, but I'm about style as well as substance, and this wall of misbehaving kitties gets it just right. The full text of the newspaper headline reads: Lower East Side Rejoices as Yuppies Commit Mass Suicide. Not pictured is the syringe by the kitty's side.

#159

#159, Luquer Street, Brooklyn

More off-kilter numbers, this time from the lovely Luquer Street, a quiet charmer of a street on the border of Carroll Gardens and Red Hook that I've written about before. The appealing crackling state of the 9 almost distracts me from the presence of pale peach, which is generally a deal-breaking color for me when it comes to architecture. There are many reasons I will never live in Miami, and this shade is one of them.

Color can really make a difference in buildings -- whether we perceive them as warm or cold, or whether we find them welcoming or not. I'm reminded of some of the scathing remarks about New York from writer Edith Wharton, who was way more of an expert in snarkitecture than yours truly. Wharton managed to take down the beloved brownstones of New York City a few notches by comparing their stately, earthy hues to something dipped in "cold chocolate sauce."

So a question for you, my dear readers: are there colors that attract you to certain buildings, or colors that repel you? Would you ever live somewhere or not live somewhere based on the colors of your surroundings, whether it be in buildings or in nature? And are there times when you'll make exceptions? For me, it was the hideous pink barn of Klemm's nursery (now demolished) in my hometown, a site so filled with fond memories I was willing to be more forgiving. Any colors for you that make or break a place?

#150

#150, Wilshire Blvd, Los Angeles

Not to make light of it, but all of my L.A. photos are basically drive-bys, sniper photography, just-point-the-lens-out-the-window-and-shoot variety. There is no strolling around Los Angeles, there is only driving. The freeway's rock crushes the sidewalk's scissors, so to speak, and if you're lucky enough to see a number under 3000 on a building, then you'd better catch it quick before it's spirited away behind a curtain of palm trees and some suntanned jerk's souped-up convertible. In fact, there was a fourth number off to the left of this one which was conveniently obscured by some blurry obstacle. It stands well on its three good legs and I like that till now, no one else ever looked at this wall and thought, with satisfaction, "150."

Midwestern by birth and East Coast by disposition, I find the whole West Coast lifestyle fascinating. I look at California the way a kid regards a big, beautiful bug trapped in a jar, unsure whether I should let it go free, stare at it all day long, or just tear its wings off trying to dissect it. Not to hurt it on purpose, only because I'm just trying to figure out what makes it tick. I'm Margaret Mead among the Samoans out there in sunny, laid back California and I've got the pale complexion to prove it.

And take the architecture. (No, really, take it.) All that minimalist glass and steel colliding with mission revival houses, that skyline that could be Baltimore, no, Pittsburgh, no, what do you mean this is downtown? zips past so fast there's no time to process it all. There is no center. "Seventy-two suburbs in search of a city," is how Dorothy Parker, ever the East Coaster, christened the City of Angels. As for my part, I shouldn't be too quick to judge, but what fun is that. And I've seen, what: three? Four? Ten of those suburbs? See, I can't even tell.

Anyway, Wilshire Boulevard was just hotel after hotel, palm tree after palm tree, and a handful of signs that told me I was in Beverly Hills. But I'm sure I'd have seen much more to this sprawling, cryptic metropolis, if only I'd had the time to look at anything beside the rearview mirror.

#118

#118, Cobble Hill, Brooklyn

As the days get warmer and the moldy rattle of the air-conditioning unit beckons like a siren song, while the rest of New York takes to the streets with their abhorrent flip-flops and sun dresses, swilling iced coffees and smiling at their good fortune, a seasonal change afflicts me as well. Instead of my usual routine of slipping on a coat and zipping up a good pair of boots, tossing my camera in my bag and embarking on a pleasant afternoon of wandering and picture-taking, I must now weigh the pros and cons of venturing out into what feels to me like a furnace and to others like "a nice day." Say what you will, but I'm not drawn in by the fabulous new clothes on the emperor. I know that madness is afoot and that spring fever is on the prowl, and this can mean only one thing for my productivity: I slack.

Oh, but don't be fooled. You won't see that I'm slacking. No, on the outside, you'll see only the dogged industriousness of a one-number-per-day poster. You'll feast snack on the photographic fruits of my labor and may even chuckle at my occasional smattering of witty asides or string of non sequiturs. How does she do it? you may wonder. How does she continue to post a number a day when every other sane person is outside enjoying themselves, for crying out loud?

Demystification Part the First is complete, as I've confessed before to keeping a running stockpile of photographs from which I can pluck the coming day's number. But Demystification Part the Second is that this arsenal of numbers is far from fully loaded, and I am coming up on deadlines. Days for which I have no number. Rather than panic, I reserve the right to act as any sensible person working under deadline will act. No, I don't mean skip the assignment, and I don't mean make up excuses. Too easy! I'll do better than that. I will distract you with my special effects.

Any student worth his/her salt or any teacher of such a slackadaisical student will be familiar with this pedagogical cloak and dagger. The guidelines are simple. You stick to the assignment's bare bone rules. You show up. You give it a go, you even do it on time. But to compensate for a pathetic lack of content, you decide to dazzle your reader with a dizzying array of fonts, BS, and novelty-laced visual aids. You with me yet?

In this first example, note how the sepia tint to the image combined with the advanced "edge blur" function appeals to the viewer's craving for nostalgia and old-style sophistication while simultaneously granting you, the lazy photographer, a sensible yet artistic air. Never before has looking so authentic been so easy or, for that matter, inauthentic! If writing a caption to go along with that photo, why not try a classic serif font to grant your work a whiff of antiquity? Or how about a cryptic batch of webding to add that special je ne sais quoi to your writing? Substituting a bicycle for the letter "n" hasn't failed me yet, and I think you'll find similarly satisfactory results.

Still not convinced? Here is a sure-fire technique I have culled from years of observation. Why not try a bright, obnoxious color to get your reader's attention? Or how about blurring your numbers and amping up the contrast for a touch of computer-generated psychedelia? By this point, your audience will be so enthralled by your stunning vision, your bold originality and finesse with the color spectrum, that they will not even notice that you, er, don't even have a #119 lined up. Yet.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not endorsing regular reliance on these techniques over the long term. Moderation is key. There's still no replacement for the simple, undecorated image and a thoughtful, simple paragraph or two in response. But the mercury here is rising and deadlines are looming, and desperate times call for desperate measures. Which is why tomorrow's post very well end up looking like this last image. I don't ask for your forgiveness. Just so long as you're prepared for the possibility. Now if you'll excuse me, there's an AC unit I have to be installing.

#75

#75, Boerum Hill, Brooklyn

Doors like these are the architectural equivalent of that "when I am an old woman I shall wear purple" poem, your neighborhood's own equivalent of the old dear tottering around in a "red hat that doesn't go and doesn't suit me". On the one hand, you want to applaud the old broad for not giving a toss what the world thinks of her gobbling up samples in the shops and pressing the alarm bells at inappropriate times. On the other, you want to scream in her ear: "Stop pressing the alarm bells! Terrible shirts are not life's answer to sticking it to the youth-obsessed establishment! Sit down! You are making my eyes hurt!" So you may think similar thoughts as you pass your own neighborhood's "unique" door, sign, lawn ornament, or window decoration.

Lovable eyesores. Every neighborhood has them. I can think of dozens of these from my daily walk: the giant plush German shepherd dog in a window on Clinton Street, the bloated inflatable seasonal displays that decorate the apartment on Sackett Street, this duo of hue-screamers on Bond Street. Then you get, a few paces down, this more sedate, subdued, inexplicably dull chocolate-dipped 75C. It is as if the building had been firmly instructed to tone it down and the owner painted the remaining door the blandest shade imaginable:

Interestingly, it is often the eyesores that I remember most from my youth: that giant 50 near my doctor's office, my next door neighbor's 2-car garage decorated with "HIS" and "HERS" (the clincher was that - the store must have run out of "I"s - the "HIS" half of the garage was actually labeled "H1S". There was also a bright pink barn that was Klemm's nursery.

I'm curious to know: When you think about your own neighborhoods, past and present, what are the lovable eyesores you see? And do you mostly love them or despise them for daring to be, er, unique?

#52

The only thing better than this:

#52, East Wall, Dublin

. . . is its proximity to this:

Sean O'Casey Community Centre,

East Wall, Dublin

Officially, it's the Sean O'Casey Community Centre, but since its completion in September 2008, Dubliners have dubbed the new building in the East Wall "The Cheese". One thing I've learned is that if the Irish take the time to slag you or call you by a nickname you can't quite decide if you should laugh at take offense, they generally think you're all right. If they don't like you or if you bore them, they simply won't bother. This rule applies to buildings as much as people. Statues and landmarks all over Dublin have livelier names than the ones in the guidebooks.

Consider some of the old familiars. There's Molly Malone with her wheelbarrow (the Tart with the Cart) or the now-gone-missing Anna Livia Plurabelle in her cascading fountain (the Floozie in the Jacuzzi). Unfortunately for Anna, the real-life version of James Joyce's poetic embodiment of the River Liffey was not only called the Hooer in the Sewer but also repeatedly vandalized and eventually removed by the Dublin City Council for safekeeping, whatever that means; Ms. Plurabelle's since been replaced by the tall stainless steel spire (the Stiletto in the Ghetto or the Why in the Sky, depending on if you lean toward the sociological or the philosophical). And though it resembles a sporting trophy of some kind, I'm partial to the Phil Lynott propped outside Bruxelles: the Ace with the Bass, of course. As for the East Wall's new neighbor, the Cheese so far stands alone. But the Cheese by the Quays? Mightn't be the worst, if you're feeling rhymey.

Contrary to popular belief (my snarkitectural one-liners have been quoted anonymously, I'm proud to say, not once but twice in the Irish Times, including my level-headed suggestion that an ugly new building beside City Hall be wrapped Jean-Claude Christo-style), I really enjoy when a new building emerges that just gets it right.

On my most recent trip to Dublin in January, this was one of my first stops. The pictures I'd seen looked whimsical and playful and I never pass up an opportunity to go for a cold, rainy cycle through the docklands. Despite a few disappointments -- the view of the ground level was blocked by some ugly temporary hoardings and the center wasn't yet open for an interior look about -- the new building was a welcome sight. How many buildings actually make you smile as you approach? For a community center, the playful vibe meshes well with the functionality of the concrete structure. The "holes" in the wall are porthole-style windows that offer varying views from the different levels inside. The color scheme of faded robin's egg blue, deep red, and honey-colored wood is fresh and unexpected.

I'd be curious to see how the building gets on once the community center opens its doors. In the meantime, well done to architects O'Donnell + Tuomey for bringing an imaginative new structure to the skyline of Dublin and giving me a reason to sharpen my somewhat dull skills in kudos distribution. I'd hate to only be known for my snark. Or would I?

If you see this door, knock and tell the architects "Thank you."