Maritime Hotel Cabbies: Shut the Hell Up Already
It was lovely at Ninth Avenue and 17th Street, back when it was just projects and a big weird building where professional Christians liked to touch young boys. Now the neighborhood has fully gone to hell with the Maritime Hotel.
Maritime neighbor and writer Jim Hanas is about to heave some rocks through the portholes, but he's starting with the cab drivers:
True, the traffic sometimes gets a little congested on 17th Street as your taxi-driving brethren wait for loud-talking account executives to coax orange, nasally bobbleheads off their cellphones and into the backseat, or as they stop to eject vomiting schoolchildren, in from Bayside and Bayonne, from their cabs. But this is no reason to lay on your horn for hours at a time, creating the impression inside my first floor studio apartment that my head is stuck up somewhere under the hood of your Crown Victoria, wedged between the carburator and the horn. So, starting tonight, I would like to invite you to please shut the fuck up.
