It's the unfortunately-named Superior Street. A name like that, no matter the origins, had better be that for the length of its tenure, or people will make jokes. Or do websites. This isn't a downtown, but as you've come to expect, we do enjoy a little faded-big-city-commercial strip from time to time. And by "enjoy" I mean silently weep for the needless degradation of old places.

The world, you suspect, has passed this street by.

The building next door - and you know there was one - is gone. The old bank, isn’t.

Down the street, it’s . . . an old factory, perhaps. Something sturdy stripped down to the bones.


Something sturdy stripped down to the bones.

The glass front was bricked up to protect whatever’s inside; whatever glass remains admits a trickle of light, but is left in place because it’s hard to break.


Some things abide, with pride:


It was never more forthcoming than it is today.

Something of the old fellow remains; I suspect a bay window was carved off.

A face peers out in challenge: y


Mr. Winchell is long dead, and while he might be pleased to learn his structure remains, it’s blinded and tired.

Bar’s open.

“I think everyone likes their own bay window - it’ll be worth more in rent.


The era of stripped-down buildings coincided nicely with property developers happy they didn’t have to pop for lots of frosting and geegaws, I think.


Bones in a box now, whoever she was. There ought to be a plaque.

I’ve . . . I’ve no idea.

Google Street View at its best.

“I think everyone likes their own bay window - it’ll be worth more in rent.”



“It’s my first big architectural commission, as you know - I hate to ask. Can I do a turret?”

“Oh, turrets would be just magnificent.”

It looks to be on the cusp of salvation or damnation, no?





More next week.