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

WINCHELL

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.

LOUISE

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?

Verdict: