Classy Things (The West Village Edition): Transformation, Homeless Fraud, the Myth of Joe's Pizza, & Penis Turkeys

As I exited a turnstile at the West 4th St. subway on my way to work yesterday, my rumination about affordable three-bedroom apartments was interrupted by two beautiful Latina women lustfully locking lips in front of a Metrocard vending machine. Ten feet away, a cop stationed at one of those bag check tables stared at them with licentious scorn. You could tell part of him was intrigued, almost into it, but his alpha male pedigree set off blaring alarms in his head that seemed to say, “This is wrong.” As he rudely glared at the couple caressing each others bums, I walked passed him with an icy gaze meant to say, “What, you’ve never been to the West Village before?”

While the neighborhood has definitely transformed in the past 20 years, it’s always been a safe haven for the gay community and artistically inclined. Sure, it’s ritzier than it used to be – there’s more lace than leather these days – and the grungy bohemian aesthetic that made it the bastion of down and out artists has become a malleable bohemian chic fit for New York’s bourgeois elite. But a lot of the same stuff is here – rows of tattoo parlors, head shops with walls lined with inventive glass bongs, sex shops that cater to ever fetish and fantasy, and watering holes that smell of stale beer and ammonia. Still, one would have to be blind to disregard the alterations to the Village’s cityscape. Where small coffee houses and bars once stood, now stand exorbitantly expensive vintage clothing stores. Alleys and small streets where junkies used to shoot up, are now littered with restaurants and organic food shops. Shit hole apartments are still shit holes, they just cost 10 times more. And the Meat Packing District, once the dark, aberrant edge of the city with its johns and transvestite hookers, is awash in boutiques and restaurants that you can’t afford. A lot is the same, but much is different. And if this all sounds like an oxymoronic paradigm, it’s because that’s what the West Village has become.


Everyday when I leave my office on Sullivan St., I pass by the same homeless guy in front of the McDonald’s on the corner of 6th Ave. He’s always jovial as he stands by a table and water jug emblazoned with the logo of the United Homeless Organization asking for donations to help fund soup kitchens and shelters. But yesterday he wasn’t there and when I saw the cover of the New York Post, I realized why. State Attorney General Andrew Cuomo filed suit on Monday, charging the United Homeless Organization is a scam run by con artists who pocket most of the change they collect -- hundreds of thousands of dollars a year.
UHO founder Stephen Riley and director Myra Walker take a big cut of the money to fund personal shopping sprees at the GameStop, Home Shopping Network, Bed Bath & Beyond and P.C. Richard, as well as their monthly cable bills, legal papers charge. Riley, a beefy 60-year-old, shamelessly used the donated dollars -- which are supposed to be used to "feed the homeless" -- to pay his Weight Watchers bills.
The lawsuit, filed in Manhattan Supreme Court, seeks a temporary injunction to shut down the UHO, then permanently disband it and keep Riley and Walker from ever taking part in charitable causes. Apparently, the pair, who founded the UHO in 1985 and got tax-exempt status for it eight years later, charge homeless people a flat-rate $15 to $25to rent a table and empty water jug for a four-hour shift.
"In exchange for paying a fee to Riley, UHO workers received tables and UHO-branded materials, including a tablecloth, apron and plastic jug, and the right to claim membership in UHO," the suit charged. They also get a copy of UHO's New York state incorporation receipt they can use to convince suspicious New Yorkers and trusting tourists that they're legit. After deducting the "rent," the table worker keeps all the donations -- up to $80 a shift during peak season.
What a classy example of shameless exploitation. While I’m glad the homeless workers get to keep some of the money, I wouldn’t be upset to see Riley and Walker get the Mussolini treatment – the former dictator was disemboweled and hung at a city square. Excessive? Perhaps…


What I’m about to say may offend some people and certainly some writers on this blog, but bear with me for a second. Joe’s Pizzeria is not that good. The famed West Village pizza parlor, which appeared in Spiderman, is constantly lauded as one of the best, if not the best place to get a slice in Manhattan. Maybe five years ago that was the case, but Joe’s has gone the way of cheapness over quality in the past couple of years. The $2.75 slice you get is thinner than any slice in the neighborhood and it droops and sags like a pair of 60-year-old breasts. Don’t get me wrong, very thin can be very good, but only when it’s crispy and fluffy and made in a wood or brick oven, which Joe’s doesn’t use. On top of that, the slices are always overcooked, leaving the front end soggy and the crust end burnt and harder than a biscotti. With sparse cheese and a very sweet and cheap tasting San Marzano tomato sauce, you might as well be getting this slice at one of a hundred Famous Original Ray’s. And my personal pet peeve, in the past year, I’ve haven’t had a slice at Joe’s that did burn the roof of my mouth and leave an annoying little blister that I obsessively tongue for the rest of the day. Sure, I could wait a second and let my slice cool down, but where? The tiny space is constantly crammed and it’s harder to get a table there than at Dorsia.
I used to love Joe’s and I’ve tried to give it several chances this year, only to be terribly disappointed. The slices are thinner than ever and the ingredients are just plain shitty. Some of you still love it, but I say you’re living in a nostalgic past when Joe was king of his own domain. If you want a really good slice, head up to Sacco’s on 54th and 9th, or if you’re an uptown boy, like myself, stop in at Paul’s on 138th and Broadway. And if you’re in the West Village, try Pizza Box or Pizza Booth – they’re nothing to write home about, but you’ll get a decent slice and somewhere to sit.


The West Village is still the place to come to see things you wouldn’t otherwise see in the city. The picture above is a perfect and finely timed example for Gobbleday. Yes, that’s exactly what it looks like – a cooked turkey with a penis for a head. And what a perfect example of the oxymoronic paradigm which I’ve been lamenting. I’d sit here and explain why, but I think that’d be insulting your intelligence. Instead, I’ll leave you with some random images of cats chilling, brought to you by YW head researcher Shorts. I’ve rambled enough, Happy Turkey Day and go Raiders…