|01-25-2008, 01:12 PM||#31|
Join Date: May 2007
^Because it's eggshaped? That's what made me think it strange/unusual/kinda eery (maybe thought by the maker as combination of the two symbols tree-life, egg-fertility??) and thus I posted it.
|02-06-2008, 01:45 AM||#36|
Join Date: Dec 2005
Location: bummed out city
Here is a nice tree- related blog about my friend L wrote.
Tree Hugger’s Revenge
So the laundry monster had been allowed to fester for three weeks and the situation had become critical. Procrastination could be put off no longer.
Doing the laundry is my most hatedest chore of them all. It might not be so bad except that we live in a fourth floor walk-up apartment, and there is no laundry in the building: you have to schlep all your bags around the corner and across the avenue to the Laundromat, where the annoying people who watch bad tv and who bump into your shit and don't say 'Excuse Me' are.
(Did I ever tell you that once, after doing laundry at the Laundromat, I found a note slipped in amongst my freshly folded clothes? It said something to the effect of 'Hi, I think you're cute; and there was a phone number. After much hand-wringing and second-guessing, I dialed the number. Voicemail picked up. It was a guy's voice on the machine. I hung up without leaving a message.)
So, me and Christine are schlepping our stuff back and forth from home to the Laundromat (the longer you put it off, the worse it gets. Three weeks is pretty much critical mass) and on the way back with our empty laundry bags, we saw this Old Bastard hacking away at a tree on our block with a MACHETTE.
Lemme 'splain. No, there is no time; lemme summarize. One of the really nice things about our block is that it is lined with these gorgeous old oak trees (they are about 80 years old, they were planted at the same time all the apartment buildings were put up. There used to be an old lady on the block who remembered when all that happened). The trees are really lovely. For the last year or so we've noticed that somebody has been hacking a ring of bark out of one near our place. (You may or may not know this, but if you cut a full circle of bark from around a tree's trunk, it kills the tree. You are essentially cutting off the tree's circulation). We never knew who was doing it, but it pissed us off. It seemed really ignorant and pointless, in an especially retarded and malignant sort of way. I guess I figured it was some local punk kids. Now we saw who the culprit was: this Old Bastard in jeans and a denim jacket, hacking away at a perfectly nice tree with a ****ing machete.
Christine was really upset. She called 311 (New York City services) and they said they'd put a report in to the Parks Dept and they would be out in 7 to 14 days. I offered to go downstairs with a camera, take the guys picture, ask to see his permit, and generally get in his face. (I have gotten a lot more comfortable with confrontation since I've been working with the ironworkers. Sometimes good, sometimes bad) Christine wasn't cool with that—possibly wisely. So she called the cops.
Christine was off folding when the cops came. Surprisingly enough, for a tree-cutting incident, it didn't take them long to show up. They were a pair that definitely belong in my stories: she a short, generically Hispanic girl; he a big white
I'm quite sure that Old Bastard saw me talking to the two cops, and I'm pretty sure he heard Big Cop going off about how he'd love to bust him. Hope that gave him a scare, or at least puts a stop to it.
I'm pretty sure that what's going on is: Old Bastard owns the apartment building in front of the tree. The tree is in sad crying need of a pruning. Old Bastard doesn't want to pay for a tree guy to come out and do the pruning. So Old Bastard wants to kill the tree so that he can call the city and have them remove the dead tree (at a cost to us, the taxpayers, of some thousands of dollars.)
People suck. I'm glad the cops were cool though. I was afraid they'd be laughing up their sleeves at us. That may be the first actual good experience I've had with a NYC cop.
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