No Gas.

The last post, in particular Will Femia’s photo, reminds me that Mobil sign in Will’s photo is no more. Above is a picture I took on 1 July, showing the new chain link fence and the decapitated Mobil sign. The sign itself was lay in the parking lot, freshly cut, the day I walked by. I have no idea when a Mobil (or any other gas) station last operated at this site – never in my Williamsburg life. The service station moved out in 2001 or so (they’re now at McGuinness and Java).

Based on this recent activity, the site is being prepped for work. Shockingly, it will not be luxury housing. The owner wants to open a Tibetan cultural center of some sort. This requires a partial rezoning, as part of the site does not allow commercial uses as of right.

144 North 8th Street (aka The Finger Building)
Photo: A Test of Will

The moment of truth for the Finger Building may finally be at hand. On 22 July, the Board of Standard and Appeals will hear an appeal by community residents on the BSA’s previous decision to allow the construction of the building to go forward. (That decision is still pending resolution of the partnership dispute over air rights between developer Mendel Brach and the owner of the adjoining properties, Scott Specter.) The hearing will be at the BSA, 40 Rector Street in Manhattan, 10 a.m. on 22 July. By mass transit, take the J/M/Z to Broad Street or the 1 via the L to Rector Street.

An excerpted version of Hindy’s longer piece on the lack of affordable manufacturing space in Brooklyn, originally published by the Center for an Urban Future. The original article was in pdf format only, so some may have missed it; even if you downloaded it, its worth a second read to remind yourself that the City is quickly losing some of its most valuable economic resources.

According to the latest NYPD figures, felonious assaults in Williamsburg are up 21 percent this year, from 96 to 116 as of last July 6.

Its hard not to notice the huge increase in beat cops on the street the past few months, and there have been rumors of knife attacks (even machete attacks) in the past few months. In this case, it sounds like a vendetta incident, but previous attacks have been more random.

Nydia Velasquez and Yvette Clarke have endorsed Bill de Blasio for Brooklyn Boro President. Clarke had this to say about her former campaign manager:

No other voice has been as strident about our children’s education as Bill de Blasio.

Clearly, Clarke’s speechwriter needs a dictionary.

Larry Harmon dies at 83.

Only without the benefit of increased mass transit services.

Slick’s in 2006. That’s Mike in the sweatshirt.
Photo: Jac Currie

If you’ve ever eaten at Relish or had a drink at Zebulon, you’ve certainly noticed the motorcycle shop at the corner of North 3rd and Wythe. On summer days, you’d find the proprietor, Slick, sitting out front. Sometimes, he’d even work on a bike, but mostly he was talking about them (and letting Mike do most of the work). In the evening, he’d watch TV on a small black & white set out front. Year round, the line of bikes out front would get moved across the street from time to time in rough accordance with City’s street-cleaning regulations.

Slick, who was well into 70s, passed away a few weeks ago. As best as I could tell from his stories, Slick was originally from Philadelphia, where he got into some sort of trouble that necessitated a move to NYC. That was back in the late 50s. Slick was a hell of a mechanic and also a racer – drag races in the streets and flat tracks in the dirt. For a long time, Slick was a Harley man – he raced them and he fixed them. But as Harley started losing the racing edge to Japanese bikes, Slick became disillusioned with the marque. Eventually he stopped working on Harleys altogether, and switched over to the Japanese bikes (if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em). To his dying day, Slick was disgusted with Harley, or at least with what Harley had become since the 60s.

As I said, Slick was a good mechanic, but he worked at his pace, which was usually dictated by his convenience. About 12 or 13 years ago, a friend of mine bought a KZ 200 cafe racer wheelie machine. The bike was in good shape, but the fork seals were shot, and no matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t pull the seals. We brought the forks down to Slick’s to get him to pull the seals with the proper tool. It was a nice Spring day, and Slick was sitting in front of the shop. He looked at the tubes, looked at the tools around him, and announced it would take him at least three hours to do the job. He didn’t have the tool handy, and wasn’t going to get up to find it. Just as we were leaving, Slick saw something on the ground – the tool he needed to pull the seals – picked it up, popped the seals out in less than a minute and charged us $20 for the effort.

More recently, I was rebuilding a CB 750. I had the bike running well, and was working on the cosmetics. The side covers were painted, but the badges were missing. I stopped by and asked Slick if he had them. “Oh yeah, oh yeah, I got ’em right in here – come back tomorrow night and I’ll have ’em for you.” Tomorrow night, it was the same story, and it continued that way for a good week and a half. Eventually, Slick did look for the badges, and found them exactly where he knew they were all along. A few months later, I sold the bike, and about a year after than, it appeared in the line of bikes in front of Relish. It sat there a while, and then someone bought it off Slick. Six months later, it was back at Slicks a different color, but definitely the same bike. He recognized it and so did I.

Slick was always best when he was hanging out, shooting the shit about motorcycles, the old racing days, and how royally Harley screwed up its racing program. He would talk to anyone about bikes, even me on my European bikes, and even Harley riders. But he wouldn’t work on Harleys – said he sold all his tools and parts years ago. He particularly liked to talk to the kids in the neighborhood, and a lot of kids would take their parents out of their way to see him. He couldn’t always remember kids’ names, but he’d write them down on the side of the store next to usual seat. Even that didn’t help – he never got my son’s name right, but he tried. We’ll both miss him.

New York Slick’s Corner – may he be in a biker’s paradise.