Author: ruhlwrite

Just when you think you’ve heard everything odd about Astoria, Marie Carter starts telling stories. Marie’s a tour guide for Boroughs of the Dead. Did you know that the ghost of Roaring Twenties matinee idol Rudolph Valentino downs martinis in The Astor Room? Have you seen the pregnant shrouded spirit who floats around 34th Avenue at 44th Street? And have you ever had a close encounter with the garroting ghost of Old Astoria Village? Marie’s a freelance writer and editor. He strangled…

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Steven Shane Wolhar is trying to drink his morning coffee, but every time he’s about to take a sip, his cellphone interrupts. A client calls; a client texts; another one or two or three email. Steven works for Halvatzis Realty. Steven, an agent for Halvatzis Realty, makes his living selling houses and renting apartments. In New York City, these transactions are not simple matters, so it’s Steven’s job to make them seem easy. He spends so much time on this job — and on his…

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You can’t miss Sergio Furnari’s pickup truck. It’s the dusty-silver 2002 Dodge Ram carrying 11 passengers on its roof. Sergio’s . Sergio climbs into the cluttered cab and drives toward the East River. When the skyline comes into view, he stops the engine and scales the scaffolding to take a seat with his pals on the I-beam. He unfurls the flag and lights a Marlboro. Sergio: sculptor/producer/dreamer. It doesn’t get any better than this. In case you don’t know…

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Jane McGinn has always had a sweet spot for ice cream. She loves it in and of itself, but her affection for the beat-the-heat summer treat is more than cream deep. Jane grew up on ice cream. You see, her grandmother married her grandfather because of ice cream. (OK, he also was a good dancer, but that has nothing to do with this sweet story.) Their melt-your-heart romance began when he took her on a date and they shared a dish of the decadent dessert. Sweet Janes is on 24th Avenue at 27th Street. When…

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A decade ago, when I settled in Astoria, there was a saint squatting in my front yard. Mary, lashed to the fence. She was standing right next to the pink flamingo and the one-eared Lamb of God, which non-religious folks call a sheep. Although I saw her every day, our paths did not cross, so there was no occasion for us to speak. But I felt her eyes staring at me, imploring me to make the first move. On the winning team. Someone told me her name was Mary. I never found out more about her, although…

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