Mean Streets

On SNL's hysterical Bronx Beat (which inexplicably never aired on the Betty White episode) our gals tawk about not having visited Times Square in a decade. Which cracks me up because I'm there EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. -- my condo project is just a falafel's throw from Ripley's Believe It Or Not, Madame Tussaud's, and the biggest Chevy's you've ever seen in your life. Now I'm certain the seventh layer of hell is reserved for slackjawed tourists who barricade subway stairs.

But I have to smile every time I pass a sliver of a building near 8th Avenue, a pre-Giuliani time capsule that makes me feel like Irene Cara with her blouse half off in front of that skeezy photographer in Fame. In a good way. Here's its sign:


Don't we love how the enclosed letter bits are whited out à la William Poll? The lobby is like a miniature Studio 54:


A fire hose enclosure in mirrored tile? Yes, please! I've actually been upstairs because an old friend's auntie lived (or hopefully still does, God and rent laws willing) on a high floor. Wonder if they have office space available for Nick Olsen International?

**NERD ALERT** Yesterday, while in a cab hauling shiz to the aforementioned West Side condo, I saw ROBERT DENIRO AND DUSTIN HOFFMAN just chilling on the terrace at Mr. Chow Tribeca!!!!! I immediately texted my friend Candice, who would still let Bob gentrify her any day of the week.