Roey Ahram on finding picture-taking opportunities in unlikely places.

“From a photographic perspective, New York City is like a few other places I’ve been. The photographic icons have already been established — the Statue of Liberty, Empire State Building, Brooklyn Bridge. But what I love about taking pictures in New York, particularly in the East Village and Lower East Side is the richness and beauty in the parking lots, storefronts, sidewalks, and people — each are icons in their own right.”
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On a recent afternoon in the East Village, the sun shone relentlessly on the sidewalks and streets of the neighborhood — to the dismay of some and delight of others (perhaps having the proper headwear helps?).

A light hat in the style of the fedora, made from paper, polyester or other lightweight and breathable material (one gentleman sported a chapeau of Siberian horsehair!) may be the secret to a stylish and shady summertime stroll.

In one interview, the East Village ambler in question was so attached to his wool hat that he insisted on wearing it year round. He noted that it was a “stogie fedora” because the brim was so small, and he wore the hat as far back on his head as possible. The name for this type of hat is actually the “homburg,” and it is characterized by the brim fixed in a tight, upward curl — an adaptation that suits it for summer in the city.

The Local’s Rachel Ohm reports.

Khristopher J. BrooksSt. Mark’s Bookshop, 31 Third Avenue.

News that an old friend is seriously ill is sure to darken the day. Concern and sympathy are mingled with hopes for recovery as well as thoughts of one’s own precarious grasp on life. Those of us who love books to the point of distraction grapple with a similar set of emotions when a fondly visited bookstore shows signs of slipping away.

It can’t happen; it shouldn’t be allowed; and what about me? Where else can I go?

Robert Contant who, with partner Terence McCoy, is co-owner of St. Mark’s Bookshop on the corner of Third Avenue and Stuyvesant Street, blames his customers somewhat for the store’s current frailty. He has seen them browse through the store, then scan the barcode of a likely purchase with their smartphone only to discover they can order it more cheaply from Amazon.com, or from other online vendors which don’t bear the real estate and staff costs of running a brick and mortar store in a well-trafficked city neighborhood.

Mr. Contant hastens to explain that he speaks in sorrow, not in anger. “It’s hard to tell people not to save money,” he says, especially these days. “We’re not blaming them. We’re not trying to be punitive.” Nevertheless, anyone who has seen a book on the shelves of St. Mark’s, then purchased it online, should feel a pang of guilt reading the notice recently posted in the store window: “Find it here, buy it here, keep us here.”
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Joel RaskinB Bar and Grill, 40 East Fourth Street.

When I sat down the other day to have lunch in the garden courtyard of B Bar and Grill, at 40 East Fourth Street, I did the natural thing. I took a seat facing out towards the Bowery. But then I thought: Why am I looking at traffic when I could be looking at the garden? And so I turned my back on the street.

Here is what I saw: A light breeze stirred the branches of the six great, spreading locust trees which grow inside the courtyard. Straw baskets, some as big and broad as beehives and others the size and shape of Chinese lanterns, hang from the branches, and the breeze had set them in gentle, bobbing motion. It was a warm day, but the broad leaves filtered out the sunlight and cast dappled shapes on the brick floor. The garden is enormous — a 3,000-square-foot space where a gas station once stood — and the sounds of talk and clattering silverware drifted up towards the sky. The East Village is not a serene place; but B Bar is.

There is a very complex, and very charming, interplay between “indoors” and “outdoors” at B Bar. Only one half of the roof is open to the sky; the other half is covered by a bamboo trellis, which leaves stripes rather than blotches of sunlight on the brick tile of the ground — that is, floor; no, ground. The surrounding wall is pierced by wide openings which offer prospects of Fourth Street and the Bowery. At B Bar you are embowered, but your beloved street-world is very much with you. Step through the wall, and you’re there.
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Leonardo Mendez on using photography to find stories with a life of their own.

“My father used to tell my brother and I bedtime stories. Though often lighthearted and warm, we also endured our share of mythology and Tolstoy. What does a child know of Tolstoy! Nonetheless, he was an actor, and he told them so well, that I lived them very vividly in my mind. I photograph, therefore, because I am in a constant search for more stories to live — either through the curvature of the lens, or the lips of an actor.”
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Shawn HokeA Hairless Khala dog stands outside the Westville East — one of the locations where Sarah Shanfield has violently tripped while indulging her brunch habit.

It came on quickly.

I didn’t know I was addicted; I thought I just had a lot of friends. There was that birthday “Kegs & Eggs” celebration for my roommate’s coworker. There was that friend from home that only had a few hours until her return plane ride and desperately wanted to go dine at 11 a.m. at the Boathouse Cafe, “like Carrie Bradshaw!”

And then there was that day I woke up and there happened to be five people sleeping on the floor of my apartment, and the only way to get rid of them was to promise them really good pancakes at the cute little place around the corner.

It’s a sad story, but soon after I moved here, I became addicted to brunch.

I ate so many brunches that I began to choke when I had a piece of fruit that wasn’t drizzled in lemongrass-infused balsamic honey. Friends would joke that my blood was actually just Bloody Mary mix, but after violently tripping on the outdoor tables at Westville East I realized it wasn’t Bloody Mary mix, it was just straight celery juice running through my veins.
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Todd Olmstead The doorway of 34 Avenue A.

I felt very young last week, sitting at the Community Board 3 meeting at 200 East Fifth Street. Being 21 years old, there were surely other attendees my age, or younger. But I could not beat the feeling that our voices and spirits were being silenced. I say this mostly because, as the Community Board again refused to support the application for a new experimental music venue at 34 Avenue A (formerly Mo Pitkins), a project of the music promoter Todd Patrick and Two Boots owner Phil Hartman, I felt like one of the few attendees who genuinely understood the cultural significance of what their proposed space, The Piney Woods, could be.

Imagine my surprise yesterday afternoon, when, flicking through Gmail on my iPhone, I found a response from Richard Hell, musician, punk innovator, East Village resident,and one of the most influential musical figures to come out of the neighborhood, in support of the application. The board is scheduled to consider it again at its meeting tonight.

“The Lower East Side needs a specialized, non-pop music room for musicians who are in it for other things than head-banging or making it big,” Mr. Hell told me. “Headbanging and raw ambition are fine, but there are plenty of venues for that already, and the Lower East Side would do well to maintain or recover its tradition of cutting edge art.”
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Marcia Krause Bilyk Beau — at rest.

“No, Beau is not sick. Beau is not dying. Beau is resting in Madison Square Park while his walker (off camera left) waits for him to get up and poop. Beau had 17 minutes left on the clock. Beau is five years old and lives a privileged life with his work-at-home owner, who will take him out again later if he hasn’t done his duty. Because Beau has food allergies, his owner buys a variety of meats for him to eat, most recently kangaroo. I trust he receives the best of care, but still…what’s up with the sleeping, Beau?!”— Marcia Krause Bilyk

Join The Local East Village Flickr group and share the images and stories of a favorite pet.

Scott Lynch

The conclusion of Brendan Bernhard’s quest to address one of the banes of New York City apartment living: a neighbor’s noisy radio.

The landing was a long, very narrow rectangle of peeling linoleum, about four feet wide, with a continuation of the staircase in the middle of it leading up to the roof, as well as a window that let in some much-needed sunshine. The radio was coming from my right. Two grim apartment doors faced each other at one end of the corridor, painted that soul-destroying brown so cherished by New York landlords. It was obvious which apartment the radio was in and I started banging on the door right away. No answer. I banged some more. Nothing. So I tried the door opposite, hoping to find a sympathetic neighbor trembling on the brink of a nervous breakdown. Again nothing. Was everyone dead?
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Khristopher J. Brooks Ben & Jerry’s employee Bernice Wooden hands out a scoop of Maple Blondie

For days I had been trying to track it down — a large truck with Ben & Jerry’s employees passing out free ice cream. It had been driving around Manhattan aimlessly since June 16 and would leave July 29. I was determined to find it.

I don’t eat most sweets and desserts. Pies, cakes, doughnuts and candy bars taste like a mound of sugar when they hit my tongue. But I fold for Ben & Jerry’s ice cream, especially Strawberry Cheesecake and Willie Nelson’s Country Peach Cobbler.

And so, I went looking around Manhattan for this truck, hoping that the Ben & Jerry’s crew would give me a scoop.

But there was a problem. The truck was part of a special promotion designed to expose New Yorkers to the company’s newer flavors. The truck had no pre-determined stops; it spent most of its time going wherever New Yorkers tweeted for it to be. Taking the subway to catch the truck would have been a sucker’s game.

After some strategic phone calls and e-mails, I caught up with the truck at Pride Fest.
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