Colorful memories of artist
A story on Victoria MacKenzie-Childs who just left us at 77. Society knew her. Devotees of Zero Crapdammy who’d lived in a one-room rent-controlled apartment didn’t. She was my friend.
MacKenzie-Childs’ 57th Street shopwas famous. Unique. All one-of-a-kind expensive quirky handcrafted dishes, tables, lamps, chairs — designed by her, handpainted, made by her and her husband, Richard. You could buy a set or one-of-a-kind, like her whimsical black-and-white checked teapot with matching cups. Sit on her tufted jewel-studded chair sipping tea. You could — and you did.
A short ferry tale
She was no accountant. In 2000, bankruptcy. Hostile takeover. She, Richard — then frail — moved on to all they could afford: a broken old ferryboat. The creaking wreck, named Yankee, was tethered on Staten Island. Ellis Island’s last ferry. Born in 1907 — even before Biden, and we replaced him — it transported immigrants, served in both world wars. I’ve visited that boat repeatedly, watched MacKenzie-Childs cook dinner for family in its tiny kitchen, serve a four-course dinner on a table flanked by handpainted, quilted chairs priced once at thousands. I, shivering in the chilled damp ship, was offered a cold overnight stateroom the size of my lipstick.
She owed money. She had none. She’d invite creditors to their upstate warehouse. Expect her check to take home? No. She gave you a multicolored embroidered silk tasseled pillow. She traded her treasures for her bills. All the while with multicolored unmatched ribbons in her hair.
The shop she created which moved to Soho is still there. Her designs are still being re-created.
Barking out at pup ranks
I love the New York Post. I read the paper even when Alexander Hamilton founded it in 1801. However, I’m upset!
Last week, lifestyle reporter Marissa Matozzo wrote a half-page story, plus a photo of some type of hound. Not my gorgeous wonderful creature. Just a plain dog dog. Headlined was “The Wiener Is . . .” then listed American Kennel Club’s rankings as: No. 1 French bulldog; No. 2 Labrador retriever; No. 3 Golden retriever; No. 4 German shepherd.
No Yorkie?
My Jellybean, 6, was offended. He paid this writer back by peeing on her story, while standing on my kitchen floor. Unfortunately, I was also standing on my kitchen floor.
Enough problems with humans abroad. Now their animals? My gorgeous 6-pound Yorkie Jellybean sidelined for foreigners?
There’s Pomeranians, pugs, spaniels, Maltese, bichons, Airedales here from England, France, Mexico, Japan, Argentina, Korea? I know one Irish setter in Flatbush who doesn’t even have his papers.
Jellybean is upset. My devoted family member slowed down only when remnants of a lamb chop appeared.
All civilization knows I am no selfish greedy person. I am not barking on behalf of breeds like Scotties, beagles, Chihuahuas, collies, Pekingese, Great Danes, St. Bernards or Havanese. I am simply, doggedly, trying to improve the situation.
New York. Capital of this planet. Our world’s most famous city. One big gridlock. Areas where there’s no stopping, no unloading, no parking, no housing, no kidding, no driving. But living on water off Staten Island, facing the least attractive streets of our town, you could.
Only in New York, kids, only in New York.
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