Feces… possibly of canine origin…

July 16, 2006 ·
Filed under: Dog Shit, Dung of the Day 

My career (if you can call it that) is one that is firmly grounded in the customer service industry. This is not so much the result of conscious decision-making as it is the consequence of having two degrees in a field that no one on the outside (of the field) gives a damn about: fine art. I find this ironic, as the sophism bullshit I beheld in the many student critiques I have had the (mis)fortune of attending over the years in art school, can does qualify me to work in the upper echelons of public service. There is no better place to learn how to spin shit into Shinola than art school. Period. That said, I do not think even I could (or even care to try to) redress the damage our current Chimp in Chief has unfurled on the international community. So it goes.
While the pay to be had working in customer service is generally poor, as are the working conditions (disgrunted lunatics yelling at you 40+ hours a week), it is not entirely without its benefits.

Case in point:

Having nine months to burn between completing my BFA and starting my MFA, I entered the world of temporary employment. The first (and only) assignment I had was in a workmens compensation unit whose clientele consisted of fast food restaurant employees. This unit had gone through at least five temps (one of which went into labor on her first day and another arrived one day wearing a tiara); I (with my stellar 35 words per minute typing speed) proved to be the right “fit”. The people I worked with were fantastic, by far the best I have ever had encountered— which was a good thing, given the (bull)shit we all had to deal with every day.

It is a commonly held belief that fast food workers are not the brightest bulbs to be found. My experiences at this job did absolutely nothing to refute this. If anything, it (re)affirmed this urban myth in spades. Every day I fielded phone calls and retrieved the new claims that copiously spewed forth from the fax machine. A few of my all time faves are as follows:

  1. An employee who (for reasons one can only imagine) burned his ass with oven cleaner.
  2. A fist fight between two female employees who harbored amorous sentiments towards the store manager.
  3. A drive-thru window employee who got punched out (through the drive-in window) by a customer.

The list goes on and on…

I also handled a lot of inquiries that were erroneously sent to my unit’s office. Customer claims, mostly. I do not think I will ever forget the day I was eating my lunch (Mexican food) at my desk when a call came in: it was a manager asking who he should contact regarding a customer’s complaint of having “explosive fits of diarrhea” after eating his restaurant’s product. After ditching the remains of my lunch in the garbage can, I told him who to call. But this pales in comparison to the following “turd” that circulated in my department.

Per the nastygram I opened from some attorney’s office, it seems that a woman in Rio Rancho, New Mexico bought a take out meal from Taco Culo* and took it home to her family. After taking a second bite into her taco, mamasan discovered a bad taste and “unusual” texture. Not being able to decipher the source of said bad taste or unusual texture on her own, she summoned the professionals: the New Mexico Department of Health. Being the crack professionals that they are, the NMDOH concluded that the foreign object in this taco malo was a “long piece of feces… probably of feline origin”.

My husband and I (collectively) have five cats. Yes, cinco gatos. And to this day I (still) find it incomprehensible that anyone, A-N-Y-O-N-E, would require more than a sniff— much less, more than one bite— of a food item in order to determine that it has cat shit in it.

Which brings me to the “Dung of the Day”. I found this big boy next door to our apartment building. My husband says it’s human, but I’m not too sure. It looks too firm to be bum shit. Enjoy!

fat man

*As it happened, years later my parents moved to Albuquerque, New Mexico. One of the first things I did when I visited there was dine at this very establishment. My mother drove me, as I did not have a valid driver’s license. There was no shit, human, feline, canine, or otherwise, to be found in my food. Then again, I was very, VERY polite to the restaurant staff. I didn’t even complain when they fucked up my order.

liberte, egalite, fraternite… and poopie?!?

July 16, 2006 ·
Filed under: Area 51, Dog Shit 

Last Friday (Bastille Day) my IT support (READ: husband) knocked around the “back-end” (heh,heh) of my blog. After he made some upgrades, we both got curious and looked at the activity for “New York Shitty”. Neither of us was prepared for the data that awaited our perusal.

Below is a pie chart outlining the top search terms generating traffic to my blog…

pie chart

“Shitty drunk teen girls” (and the men who love them) is a demographic I had never honestly considered. I didn’t even know it existed, to be perfectly frank. Now I know better.

Perhaps that explains the curious amount of hits I am getting from MSN France?

I want to give a “shout out” to my French homies: MERCI! The way this country is going, I’ll probably darken your doorstep soon enough. I’m looking forward to seeing those machines you have that washes garbage off the streets.

Greenpoint Cinderella

July 14, 2006 ·
Filed under: Area 51, Crap Map, Dog Shit 

Not too long ago I was a real estate agent. The neighborhoods/areas I specialized in were Chelsea, the East Village/LES, and North Brooklyn. Despite this, I would occasionally get the odd client interested in the Upper East Side. If pressed to give one common denominator to be found among all these folk, I would say it is this: I grew to despise damn near every single one of them.

More often than not, these apartment-seekers were single women, mid-30’s at the very oldest, holding low-to-middle level admin jobs with commensurate pay (READ: chump change). Lest you harbor any notion that I look down upon women (or anyone else for that matter) who work(s) in administration, I do not. I have held numerous administrative positions myself; I understand how hard (and thankless) the work is and how difficult it is to make ends meet with a $35,000/year salary (if that) at your disposal. Do I ever…

For this reason it is quite remarkable that the intransigence, haughtiness, and overall inability to face facts (e.g., apartments on the Upper East Side can be had on your budget, but they are going to be east of 2nd Avenue) these women had was enough to completely alienate me. Much less, sufficient to foster abject hatred from me.

To the best of my understanding, these woman all wanted to live in a safe neighborhood and their concept of a “safe neighborhood” was the Upper East Side. Faulty logic, but comprehensible— even to me. That said, there are numerous “safe” neighborhoods to be found in New York City (some are even in Manhattan), but when I tossed out these possibilities, my ‘clients’ recoiled in a histrionic disgust rarely found outside B-grade horror movies.

It didn’t take too (terribly) long for me to “catch on” to what these women were really looking for (consciously or unconsciously): prestige. It didn’t matter if the apartment was a total shithole, they wanted to hob-nob with the elite. The thought clearly had never crossed their collective minds that the elite may not want to hob-nob with them, but I digress…

Yesterday I had the pleasure of vulgarizing the Upper East Side with my presence. I rarely go past the East River, much less north of 40th Street, if I can help it. But when I do it is always for a damn compelling reason. The reason du jour yesterday was a job interview. The chamber of horrors I beheld strolling the streets of mid-60’s east-side Manhattan made me recoil and ask myself: why in would anyone want to live here? I saw:

  1. A heavily pregnant woman clad in yoga pants and a tank top chattering away on her cellphone while smoking a cigarette.
  2. (Too many) women (old enough to be my mother at least) with faces pulled tighter than Donald Rumsfeld’s asshole. You could bounce a quarter off of ’em for chrissakes!
  3. Filipino nannies pushing humvee-sized strollers teeming with frankenkids.
  4. The remains of Dr. Bartha’s abode…gastastic
    DAMNNNNN!
    Call me plebian, but I don’t want to live in a neighborhood where people blow-up shit. Even if I am only steps away Hermes or Chanel. I bet the local neighborhood association loves Mr. Bartha. Sarcasm aside, I am sure realtors do: he pulled a Guttman (albeit due to mental illness, not greed) and came damn close to doubling the value of property by doing so. Kudos to Bartha— but I would prefer to keep an arm’s length or more (the East River and straight-jacket) away from him.
  5. Dog shit. Plenty of it. Guess what? Upper East Side designer doggie doo stinks as bad (if not worse than) dog shit to be found in the outer boroughs or *gasp* New Jersey.

Boy was I happy to get my K-Fedtastic-ass* self back to the G-Point. Big Time. I got on the E train at 51st Street with a renewed sense of purpose: get me the fuck out out of here. When I arrived at Court Square, my fairy (angel dust) Godmother was there to secure my passage to the home of Queens (Kings County, DUH).

My fairy Godmother was exquisite. Beyond description (and too dangerous to hazard photographing)— but I will try, nonetheless…

She was about 5’6″, 130 pounds, and of African-American descent. She was clad in a dress (black) that was about 2 inches too long to qualify as lingerie, footless fishnet hose (black), and 4 inch pumps (black). Her person was impeccably groomed and ‘high on life’ or something else. Who knows?

What I do know is that she did a dance while giggling inanely (people walked around her) and the G train appeared. (Undoubtedly conjured from seven sewer rats, regurgitated vodka, and four empty tins of pickled herring in mustard.) And when it did, my Godmother saw fit to “hail” the mighty G train like a cab— as if to say “take my downtrodden sister” home. And it did. I love her.

*One who prospers at the benefit of an another, be it actual or perceived.

A Crap Map is Born!

July 12, 2006 ·
Filed under: Crap Map, Dog Shit, Dung of the Day 

Unless you have been living under a rock (perhaps one volleyed from 34 E. 62nd Street), I’m sure you’ve heard about this guy. I am sure I will regret what I am about to write, but I’m going to write it anyway…

I do not condone blowing up buildings; I really feel for those who lost their homes or were injured due to Mr. Bartha’s hijinks. That said, the tale does say something about tenacity and follow-through: here’s a man who said he was going to destroy his house (so as not to fork over it in a divorce settlement) and he actually did it. In Texas there is a saying: Don’t cut checks with your mouth that you ass can’t cash. He cut and cashed his own “check”. That takes balls. Texas-sized balls.

I’ll forgive the suicide angle. Nobody’s perfect (he’s a doctor, not a demolition expert after all). Besides, Mr. Bartha might want to live after doubling the value of his property. I for one hope some of that money goes towards getting the psychiatrist he so clearly needs.

On that note (tenacity and follow-through), I am proud to offer you the following “Test” Crap Map: Dog Shit on Kent Street. It isn’t a Google Map, but it will do until I (or more likely, my husband the “IT” professional) fix a few very vexatious problems. Admittedly this is long overdue, but upgrades on this blog get done the same way anything in my apartment gets repaired: slow, sloppy, and not up to code.

More to follow…

Finally, some dog shit that doesn’t stink!

July 11, 2006 ·
Filed under: Area 51, Dog Shit 

I found this little gem surfing the internet yesterday. Too bad there are not additional options, e.g., smeared dog shit, dog shit with cigarettes on/in it, dog shit with dirty rubbers, etc.

On a (semi) related note, I also found this bad boy. I wish I had a handle to hold onto and cheering section when I use the bathroom. For now I’ll just have to content with this. People in Japan have all the cool stuff

There is no refrigeration, only Zuul

July 9, 2006 ·
Filed under: Area 51, Greenpoint Magic 

DANGER

Those of you who have seen the movie Ghostbusters or happen to live in a rent-stabilized building in New York City will understand the following tale. The rest of you will probably find it entertaining nonetheless…

My refrigerator died June 19th.

Sadly, I am no “Dana Barrett”. There was neither a hot celloist nor a bonafide demon to be found in my sub-bluechip apartment: just me, my husband, two bouts of food poisoning, a slew of rotten food, TWO defunct refrigerators and a parade of idiots whose mission was to “fix” the problem.

The area code of choice for pure evil is 212. The rest of us, e.g., “718-ers” (or worse, “201-ers”) get the “B” Team: no death, no pillars of salt, no wrath of God shit, just an uneasy feeling in your bowels. Thankfully, God saw fit to invent Kaopectate.

After my refrigerator experience, I’d be delighted to have Zuul reside in there. Especially if it meant my dairy products and produce are protected. Narrow-minded folk would call the aforementioned situation extortion, but I call it insurance. This is New York City after all…

Zuul and I could have worked out an arrangement. When I am asleep, he can conjure up the bowels of hell and do whatever Lucifer/Gozer/Whothefuckever does (in the confines of my refrigerator) for the very reasonable price of $500 per month. Plus utilities. Cash only. No pets. Drug and disease free. NO fatties or uglies.

I would be doing Zuul a favor by letting him have a share in my apartment because it is in such a cool neighborhood. Zuul, being a hell beast, should feel honored that I allow him to share my benzene-laden, struggling artist air. Nothing screams authentic artist like Existentialist angst, student loan debt and rejection letters from potential employers. Carcinogens hereabouts are, as Paris Hilton would say, HOT. Iron lungs and chemotherapy are the new black (lung). Geriatric chic is the wave of the future, so strap on your surgical stockings and colostomy bags hipsters and work the irony!

Zuul would not make much noise. Zuul would leave the toilet seat down. Zuul would not invite his girlfriend to stay over indefinitely. And above all things, Zuul would make damn sure my food is refrigerated at 36 degrees.

I am not so lucky. I live in a craptacular building (in a hot location) whose s(t)uperintendent is either a walking study in laziness or abject stupidity. Probably both.

I got a new (READ: refurbished) refrigerator June 24th and it died July 2nd. July 6th I had the pleasure of having twocount ’emTWO, repairmen futz with it.

monkies

The first one (who I will henceforth refer to as “Chong”) seemed to be high (or very mellow). Chong listened to my explanation of how it croaked (the refrigeration section went first, then the freezer) and he diagnosed the problem very quickly. It needed a new timer. Chong rigged it so I could manually turn the timer until he came back the next day to install a new one. As he left I thanked him, and noting the Texas plates on his car, I asked, “Are you from Texas?” Chong’s answer was “Sort of”. Uh-HUH.

Sort of“: either the papers for his person, the car he was driving, or probably both, are “iffy”. Frankly, I don’t not give damn if it means I get an operational refrigerator.

Cheech

Immediately after Chong left, another man (I’ll call him Cheech) knocked on my door. Cheech said he came to fix the refrigerator. I told him Chong had already been by. Cheech leaves.

I get a call. It’s from the S(t)uper. The St(u)pe tells me that Cheech is going to finish the repair job on our refrigerator. I let Cheech in, and shortly thereafter, he proceeded to do things to this appliance that Chong (stoned, but probably licensed) would look dimly upon. Cheech tore into my poor refrigerator with a ferocity that can only attributed to having a few more— or more likely— a few less, chromosomes. The opening sequence to the movie 2001 is not unlike what I beheld, except this primate had an allen wrench. Scary.

dumbass

Cheech pissed me off. He needed access to an electrical outlet (so he could use a hairdryer to melt the ice caked on the coils in the freezer— a big “no-no” per Chong). I gave Cheech an extension cord and showed him the outlet. He told me to “plug it in”. *A-hem* I am not the one being paid to “fix” this problem. I will provide tools (necessary by virtue of Cheech’s lack of preparation) but I am no man’s handy tool wench. PERIOD.

lazyass

That’s when I took a tepid bottle of Ruinite into the living room. I stayed in the living room until I could lower my IQ to the necessary level. Twenty minutes later I was summoned into the kitchen by Cheech. He told me that I must leave the fridge on “X” setting and the freezer on “Y”. “Y” is a demarcation on the dial that the manufacturer saw fit not to designate. (What would General Electric know about appliances anyway?) Cheech’s work was a true ghetto-ass masterpiece: one which, strangely enough, does work. For the time being.

July 7th, 5:00 p.m.: Chong comes by to fix my refrigerator. I tell him that it is fixed, but I suspect that Cheech bypassed the timer. Chong looks at it, tells me that it has a timer, gets royally pissed off, and leaves.

I felt bad about this at first, but then I remembered that Chong took one of my flathead screwdrivers. Now when the timer goes off an annoying noise (a noise not unlike what one would normally attribute to shocking lab monkies or the game “Operation”) is generated for my pleasure. At all hours. I’m getting used to it and almost find it comforting. It’s akin to holding up a mirror to an unconscious person’s mouth to determine whether or not he or she is breathing: shrill noise = a working refrigerator. I still would like my screwdriver back though…

Gold Coast?

June 29, 2006 ·
Filed under: Area 51, Greenpoint Magic 

I recently read an article that quoted some shill as saying the Greenpoint waterfront is a potential “gold coast”. There is no potential about it: the Greenpoint waterfront is a gold coast. When not on fire, it reeks of piss.

I have lived here long enough to accept the fact that some of the local populace do not/will not/cannot grasp the distinction between “private space” and “public space”: one man’s front yard is another man’s bedroom, kitchen, living room, motel room, and of course, bathroom. It’s entirely a matter of perspective.

Even I have to admit that it easy to get your signals mixed here: the sidewalks are filled with dog shit and you see stuff like the following on a regular basis.

Huron Street

I have heard of hotels leaving mints on your pillow, but Corona?!?
This is truly innovative.

West Street

partytime

This must have been one hell of a gathering: upholstered chairs, a plank, a crutch, and… Kansas University?!? Clearly it was B.Y.O.B., and “Dennis” made sure everyone knew damn well which bottle of hooch was his…

dennis
West Street Street (again)

lid

And again…

lid2

Manhattan Avenue

lid3

What is it with the stray toilet seats in this ‘hood?!? Aren’t they secured to the bowl with bolts or something? Surely they cannot be very easy to lose? On second thought, I have met people here who could break an anvil if left to their own devices. A few Superintendents I have had come immediately to mind. Oh well…

West Street (Isn’t this the 4th item I have featured from this street thus far???)

pottychair

Greenpoint Avenue

pottychair2

To be continued. For some reason I feel the need to go to the bathroom…

Britney Epiphany: Oops, I did it Again (and again)

It’s been rainy and I have been combing my wee wittle brain for non-dogshit related infotainment… Enjoy. Or not. Frankly, I do not give a shit either way.

Britney Spears has gotten a lot of flack of late and it is starting to get me a bit angry.

I do not like someone I consider brethren being drug through the mud for ‘being real’. Wearing rollers, eccentric apparel, and/or toting a child in one hand with a beverage in the other (preferably while wearing high heels) in public is, by Greenpoint standards, *quite* real. It’s normal, actually— and that’s why I live here.

If you’re listening out there Britney, you and your loved ones can visit me at Half-ass Junction anytime. I will not judge you. I got laughed at once while submitting art to the small works competition hosted by NYU (in Manhattan) while wearing hair rollers. My art speaks for itself and my person was getting prepped for other things, thank you.

The fact that the person taking submissions and I got into a rather heated debate over whether or not the electrical cord attached to my device (constructed of an old vibrator, pot scrubber and night light) factored into the overall dimensions (12″ or less in ANY direction) is probably inconsequential, but the outcome was funny as hell. A curator was summoned to settle the argument and with Solomon-like wisdom she rendered her verdict: well, if it was a toaster, you would need the cord in order to plug it into an electrical socket. None of my works made it into that juried show, but victory was mine. I won the battle, but lost the war.

When did I get my affection for Britney, the rest of you ask?

My answer is very simple: when that Pepsi ad with her and Bob Dole aired. Eons ago.

That ad made me laugh my ass off because:

  1. (I suspect I am speaking for the general public here) the fact that Bob Dole rectified his ‘droopy hose’ problem (via Viagra or Pepsi) is decidedly not something I wanted or needed to know. No doubt it made Elizabeth work harder to establish her political career (if you know what I mean).
  2. I am very fond of the caveats for such “E.D.” drugs: especially priapism (an erection lasting more than 4 hours) and blurred vision. I have giggled myself silly many times at the thought of Bob Dole trying to dial 911 (with blurred vision) because he’s gotten up and can’t get down. Maybe they should make panic buttons for this sort of eventuality; with baby boomers retiring, the demand is only going to go up (no pun intended).
  3. Slobs knocking wood to the visage of an unattainable woman is par for the course. I know this because I am female, have a pulse, live in New York City and use the subway.

Apparently, the New York Times and MTA have recently caught on the aforementioned point as well.

Speaking for myself, I have had three encounters with subway masturbators. None of them ventured to touch me and for that they can thank their good luck. I take my personal space very seriously; as Jim Morrison would say, “no one gets out of (t)here alive”.

  1. After visiting friends in Greenpoint (back when I lived in *gasp* Kensington), I took the G down to Lorimer St. to catch the L to go to Manhattan. As I was putting on lipstick, I see a man a yard away from acting strangely. Is he scrounging around for change in his pocket? No. He is actively flogging his kielbasa. I caught him in flagrante delicto. Great.In a subway car of thirteen people, men all, I was the Judas Iscariot (replete with albeit FAKE, red hair); I got up and pointed out to every MTA patron in the car that this guy was tossing off. Most ignored me, but a couple of guys chose to help. I am eternally grateful to those men. As politically-incorrect as the following may sound, it is the simple truth: a Polish man jerking off on the G train will invariably find a middle-aged black man laughing at him (and calling him a “Sick Fucker”) a buzz-kill. Joe Tossoffski bolted at the Nassau Avenue stop and my life reassumed its relative normalcy.
  2. Riding the G, Queens-bound: I see this paunchy, middle-aged Hispanic dude staring at me and a couple of teen-aged chicks. He is playing ‘pocket pool’. I tell the girls this and they laugh at him. Nothing happened.
  3. (Strike Three): May 2002. I was coming home from a date in Astoria, Queens. I was riding the Manhattan-bound N train in order to transfer to the 7 and (eventually) catch the G to the mighty Greenpoint. It didn’t exactly work out that way.

When the N train hit 36th Ave., (once again) I see a man acting strangely. Once again, I have managed to cross paths with a man jerking off on public transportation. And (once again), I make the patrons of said car aware of it. Three men (whom I like to call the magi) acknowledged this: one gets squeamish, the second laughs at him, and the third is stone-faced, but watching. 39th Ave. goes by. Nothing.

Queensboro Plaza: the stone-faced man makes sure I exit the train. I did. The giggler and squeamer stay. The conductor of the train shouted something at me— to this day I have no recollection of what he said— but I shouted back “There’s a guy jerking-off on THAT train!”

Conductor: which car?

Me: THAT ONE (while pointing to the second or third car from the front— my memory fails me at the moment).

The N train pulled out (towards Manhattan). Two or three cars, just enough. Then it came to a screeching halt. Sirens go off. Very, VERY, scary. Over a dozen policemen (plainclothes and otherwise) storm the car. I hid behind a column.

They apprehend the man in question and an officer locates me. He tells me I have to file a report at HQ. I tell the officer that I am unemployed and have plenty of free time.

The officers interviewed the masturbator (who claimed he was scratching himself) and then they interviewed me (the man in question was, most decidely, NOT scratching himself). They pat down the perp and he has drugs on him. I did give them probable cause, after all.
So it goes…

The train (finally) pulled away 20 minutes later. As it did, I saw the ‘giggler’. He was jumping up and down, waving, and giving me a “thumbs up”. It took all my restraint to keep from waving back.

I spent the entire evening (until 4:00 a.m.) at the Queens hub of Transit Police HQ. Briarwood, Queens to be exact. And what followed was the most entertaining evening I have ever experienced. Period. The fact that it was financed by tax dollars (my own included) made it only that much sweeter. When you grouse about paying taxes, remember the following…

I was driven by police car from Queensboro Plaza to Briarwood by the head honcho himself. In transit he tried to deduce if I was drunk or otherwise acquainted with the perp: no on both counts. Sure, I had a couple of beers— two to be exact— but that was over 4 hours ago. I had comsumed four cups of Greek coffee in the meantime. The officer grilled me as to what “Greek coffee” was. I told him it was basically the same thing as Turkish coffee (high octane coffee, no alcohol), but don’t tell that to a Greek person— they’ll find that offensive. He asked me why and I gave him middle-eastern history primer.

By the time we got to Briarwood, he knew I was not drunk: a weird chick wired on caffeine with a command of history to be sure, but not a drunk one. A person who is highly unlikely to run in the same social set as the dude they apprehended.

They made sure the perp did not see my face; they put him in lock-down before I even entered the station. I got to hang out in their office space while they negotiated the paperwork.

Clearly these men are not acclimatized to dealing with women who are not perps, e.g., some (hot-ish, heavy on the “ish”) broad hanging around in their quarters who is a plaintiff. Once they got used to me being there they opened up— and we had a shitload of fun.

They asked me why was there and I told them. We laughed.

They asked me who was on the back of my jacket. Mao Tse Tung, I answered. A couple of them knew who he was, but most were puzzled.

I asked them whose cube had the picture of Clint Eastwood in it, but they wouldn’t tell me. Oh well…

If any of you out there are wondering what transit police deal with (and vice versa), I’ll tell you:

  • First and foremost, you should be mindful that anything that goes down on rapid transit falls under the jurisdiction of the Port Authority, a peculiar inter-state entity. And copious paperwork will follow.
  • Secondly, a lot of very weird shit goes down on the subway system. I learned this firsthand, as some dude pre-empted my complaint on their docket by trying to set a token booth on fire with a Mr. Bubble bottle filled with lighter fluid. The officers also told me some of their work stories, and if there is one moral to parsed from the whole lot of them it this: do not fall asleep on the subway. EVER.

    If you’re lucky, you’ll be pick-pocketed. If you are unlucky (and male) you may wake up in the drunk tank and have an officer tell you that a man was administering fellatio to your person while you were passed out. Whole bunch of no fun.

By 4:00 a.m. the police gave up on interpreting the new paperwork from the D.A.’s office and I was driven home. I got home around 5:00 a.m. and was so hopped-up on (free) Diet Pepsi I could not go to bed. I finally fell asleep around 7:00 a.m.

I was awakened at 8:30 a.m. by the Queens County D.A.’s office. I answered her questions. Shortly thereafter, an officer came by my apartment to have me sign a statement. I read it and signed it. The arresting officer would testify on my behalf. Good. I go back to bed. About 30 minutes later my mother calls and berates me for sleeping and not looking for work.

No good deed goes unpunished. But then again, I think I earned my severance pay that day (and then some), thank you.

Syntax: 97 Green St.

You know you have either hit a very high or a very low point in life when you ask yourself: where’s a pile of canine diarrhea when I need one?

I have been asking myself this very question for the last month. Sure, I have found dog shit. (Lots of it.) I have even found homemade pornography right outside the front door of my building recently. But diarrhea was not to be had. That changed today.

After getting a sandwich at the Franklin Corner Store (and waiting behind a dude who was so drunk he didn’t even remember the cashier giving him back change for the beer he bought at 1:20 p.m.), I walked by 97 Green Street.

I have featured this location a number of times in the past, and once again, it didn’t disappoint.

dogbombs

And “dog bombs” were indeed to be found, along with some diarrhea…

hooray

…and some edgy ‘street art’ made by our local (and ever increasing) corps of artsy hipster types….

fuckdapolice

This kind of shit never ceases to amaze me. Seriously.

Was this to be found in East New York? No.
Bedford Stuyvesant?? No.
East Flatbush??? Once again, no.

I found this missive in front of an artist’s loft in a rapidly gentrifying section of Greenpoint (a redundant phrase, I admit). In what manner has this person been oppressed by “the man”? Did he (or she) get admonished by the police for playing music too loud? Drinking beer out of an open container? Not cleaning up their dog shit??? I’d really like to know.

I do not always agree with the tactics or mentality employed by some of New York’s Finest. That said, in a civil society, the job of the law enforcement is probably the hardest to be had (I couldn’t/wouldn’t stomach it). And we are (still) a civil society, despite the efforts of some of our leadership, but I digress…

I would not bite the hand of an organization which is saddled with responsibilties as various and sundry as defending public safety and personal property (the latter of which includes keeping a registry of i-pods so they can be returned if/when reported stolen). Such protestations by people who (for all intensive purposes) have the world on a string mock the very real and aggregious problems had by those who are not equally served by law enforcement.

‘Nuff said…

texas

Hmm. I am guessing the message here is “Texas Sucks”. While hardly original, I imagine very few people (hereabouts, especially) are likely to disagree. It’s sort of like saying “I hate people who burn puppies, what about you?” No sir. No disagreement here.

I do wonder, however, about the motivation which underlies the creation of such a work. Has this person been so scarred by Texas that he (or she) had to make it known via a sidewalk chalk drawing… 1,377 miles away? That’s some serious shit. And I thought being born in Waco sucked. (It does— especially since that whole Branch Davidian thing.*).

In closing, I would like to say this post was long, long overdue. And I would like to thank BARC for featuring my blog on their blog. I strongly support their cause and encourage you to do the same (I am anti-dog shit but 100% pro-dog). I am so inspired by what I have seen today (and want to share the Greenpoint love), I will leave you with this…

mr. shithead

*If you are wondering, and want to learn from somebody truly ‘in the know’: the worst thing about Texas are Texans.

Back with Flack

June 1, 2006 ·
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic 

Apparently my piquant commentary regarding the recent “ugly-ass” renovation at 198 Green St. (as linked by Curbed.com— thank you guys and gals) hit a nerve: the so-called ‘architect’ of and soon to be resident of this atrocity saw fit to defend himself.

Mr. Modernist can sheath that turd in stainless steel to his heart’s desire, but it is still a turd, my dear. That block is a HELLHOLE. Unless you are dealing or consuming, it is most decidedly NOT a place to live. As he (or she) will learn. Soon enough.

BTW Curbed detractors: I am a “she” not a “he” thank you.

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