The Ballet Of Candy Wrapper-Dropping Teenagers, Beer-Swilling Longshoremen And Punch Bowl-Pooping Sociology Professors

Not so long ago observers hailed the mayor’s foresight in updating the Jane Jacobs school of thought by both preserving a neighborhood’s character and allowing for smart redevelopment. Jane Jacobs herself seemed to disagree, but whatever — it became a useful campaign talking point. Contrarian voices questioned. Then they finally pooped in the punch bowl:

[Brooklyn College sociology professor Sharon] Zukin — whose own book, “Naked City: The Death and Life of Authentic Urban Places,” was published in December — peered through the window at rows of glass candleholders. “Tchotchkes!” she said. “Oh, the sheer ignominy.”

Ms. Jacobs’s continuing influence on the city is clear. As Amanda M. Burden, chairwoman of the City Planning Commission, wrote a few years back, “Projects may fail to live up to Jane Jacobs’s standards, but they are still judged by her rules.”

But if Ms. Jacobs is much hailed as an urban prophet, Ms. Zukin is a heretic on her canonization. She views Ms. Jacobs as a passionate and prescient writer, but also one who failed to reckon with steroidal gentrification and the pervasive hunger of the upper middle class for ever more homogenous neighborhoods.

The pattern in places like Williamsburg and Atlantic Yards, Ms. Zukin said, is dreary and inexorable: Middle-class “pioneers” buy brownstones and row houses. City officials rezone to allow luxury towers, which swell the value of the brownstones. And banks and real estate companies unleash a river of capital, flushing out the people who gave the neighborhoods character.

Ms. Jacobs viewed cities as self-regulating organisms, and placed her faith in local residents. But Ms. Zukin argues that without more aggressive government regulation of rents and zoning, neighborhoods will keep getting more stratified.

“Jacobs’s values — the small blocks, the cobblestone streets, the sense of local identity in old neighborhoods — became the gentrifiers’ ideal,” Ms. Zukin said. “But Jacobs’s social goals, the preservation of classes, have been lost.”

Observers also love — love! — irony, and any story about Jane Jacobs now carries with it requisite colorful there-goes-the-neighborhood details:

Ms. Jacobs, who died in 2006, waged heroic war against planners who dreamed of paving the Village’s cobblestone streets, demolishing its tenements and creating sterile superblocks. Her victory in that fight was complete, if freighted with unanticipated consequences. The cobblestone remains, but the high bourgeoisie has taken over; not many tailors can afford to live there anymore. Ms. Jacobs’s old home recently sold for more than $3 million, and the ground floor harbors a boutique glass store.

. . .

Ms. Zukin recently acted as tour guide on a stroll through Ms. Jacobs’s urban village, where Irish and Italian grandmothers once watched from windows as children played on the streets, and milkmen delivered bottles as chain-smoking playwrights typed in grotty flats. It began just north of Christopher and Bleecker Streets in the West Village, once a working-class haven, then the black-leather heart of Queerdom, and now something like the back lot in a Paramount Studios version of New York.

There’s the Magnolia Bakery, where perpetual lines snake out the door not so much because of its excellent cupcakes as because of its appearance on “Sex and the City.” There’s Marc Jacobs, where the lines are no less endless. A Ralph Lauren, a Madden, and a children’s store with the most adorable petite $250 pants. Ms. Zukin sighed.

“It’s another Madison Avenue, or the Short Hills mall,” she said, waving her hand dismissively. “Really, did we need that?”

The Real Worldization Of New York City

If you can’t moneymake a waterfront site into a money-making commercial property, try building dorms instead:

Developer Joe Sitt sent shockwaves through a monthly gathering of real estate executives on Tuesday by sharing news that he hoped to convert his waterfront land between the Ikea superstore and the Fairway supermarket into a student housing complex.

“Ask any university, they’re starving for student housing,” Sitt, the CEO of Thor Equities, told the development big wigs at the Real Estate Roundtable at the Brooklyn Historical Society.

“[It could be] quasi-residential student housing if we can tempt a nearby university.”

Location Scout: Revere Sugar Refinery.

A Deer On Governors Island . . . Wow

Just wow:

A police boat in New York Harbor spotted the deer running along the rocky shore of Governors Island about 1:30 p.m. and sped to the rescue.

Cops shot the 10-point buck with a tranquilizer and hauled him off to a nature preserve near the southwest shore of Staten Island.

Deer aficionado David Bookstaver — who happens to be the spokesman for the state court system — said it’s not unheard of for a buck to swim that far given the current of the river and the fact it’s mating season.

Location Scout: Governors Island.

“The Aspect Of Being Out There”

Maybe now that New York has caused the world’s entire economic system to collapse people think the city kind of sucks. And the Yankees’ inability to quickly sign superstar pitcher free agent C.C. Sabathia is the first sign of The End of New York:

On Friday, it will be three weeks since they barreled into the free-agent negotiating period with a six-year, $140 million offer to starter C.C. Sabathia. His response has been silence. Derek Jeter had already called Sabathia by then, and Alex Rodriguez has called him since. Yet the offer sits there, an anomaly in a depressed free-agent market, begging to be accepted but met with indifference.

. . .

Typically, the Yankees do not need to beg free agents to accept. The Yankees’ strategy is usually to identify their target, overwhelm him with an early offer, intimidate the competition and get their man. They have done the first three things, but Sabathia is still a free agent.

“If they went to Sabathia with $140 million, he could go back to them and say, ‘Give me $170 million and I’m there,'” said one major league general manager, who was granted anonymity so he could freely discuss another team’s plans. “He hasn’t done that. The Yankees aren’t his first choice. Why isn’t he jumping on their offer?”

The Yankees have continued to negotiate with Sabathia, and they would like to sign him next week. But they have not sensed the usual enthusiasm that accompanies a splashy Yankees offer.

Mike Mussina signed quickly after the 2000 season, and a year later, there was never much doubt about Jason Giambi’s intention. Both times, the Yankees had just been to the World Series. Both players wanted to be in New York — or in Mussina’s case, somewhere close to his Pennsylvania home — and both had a veteran agent, Arn Tellem.

Sabathia is a different case entirely, and the reason he is stalling, to those who know him, is just as the general manager suspected: his first choice is not New York. Sabathia is from Vallejo, Calif., near the Bay Area, and it is well known that his preference is to play for a team on the West Coast. But the money is elsewhere.

“It’s not that he doesn’t want to be a Yankee; that’s not it at all,” said a friend of Sabathia’s, who was granted anonymity because Sabathia had not authorized him to speak on his behalf. “It’s just the aspect of being out there, his family, that kind of stuff.”

Side note: Red Sox fans, probably still boiling about years of obnoxious “1918” chants from the right field bleachers at Old Yankee Stadium, should consider chanting some aspect of Prince’s “1999” to remind the Yankees of their last World Series win, as in, “Two-thousand zero zero party’s over it’s out of time . . . party like it’s 1999.” Red Sox fans are insufferable yahoos, but this would be funny.

Ironic Brooklyn Just Folded In On Itself

Just like a three-card monte game where the rube walks away a winner:

I was trying to find out from a very harried looking cameraman why a full film crew was following around the worst dressed group of young people at last night’s packed Semi Precious Weapons show at Rebel.

“They’re nobodies,” said the cameraman trailing them around the club. A friend whispered to me that they weren’t just any nobodies, they were the cast of the new The Real World in Red Hook. The lights, cameras, VIP status, bottle service and fawning by wannabe socialites was explained.

MTV had the kids well trained. “I’m sorry I can’t divulge that,” the cast members would tell me when I pressed them for any details on life in the Pier 41 house. But Chet Bannon, the Mormon who the producers are trying to have de-flowered, was too nice not to talk. By far the most suave of the yahoos, he was wearing an H&M scarf, Elvis Costello glasses and had his short blonde hair spiked. Best of all, he admitted that they were indeed the cast of The Real World.

“I love glam rock,” Chet told me as he sipped a Shirley Temple, “you just don’t see anything like it in Salt Lake.” As if on cue, Justin Tranter, the mascara-wearing, teased, peroxide-haired frontman of the Weapons, put a medallion around Chet’s neck, whispered something in his ear, then strutted off.

“Wow, that’s just so cool,” Chet — who’s engaged to a girl back home — gushed.

There was trouble in paradise, however, and the young man needed to get something off his virginal chest. “When we go to Williamsburg we get harassed. The hipsters throw things at us and say ‘Why are you here? Go home! Ten years ago none of them were there either.'” He looked hurt and wondered, “Why are the hipsters so small minded?”