Greenpoint
Cafe Cito Bogota
Miss Heather’s First Piece of Hate Mail!
Filed under: Crazy People
“Bert Schuck” (if that his/her real name) writes:
Fuck you!
Fuck you!
Fuck you!
You just don’t fucking get it. Even shit PR just helps push all the rents in Greenpoint higher.
Ever here the phrase “don’t shit where you eat”? Don’t PR Greenpoint and then complain about the rents going up.
What art school did you go to anyway?
A blog about dog shit is the best idea you could come up with?Go back to whatever lame ass suburb you were spawned in.
Trendy bitch.
Do I detect a little envy? This dude needs to learn to lighten the fuck up— and not be so reliant on Microsoft’s spell checking function. I have one word for this guy: dictionary. Look it up…
Hugs,
Miss Heather
P.S.: Thanks “Bert”. You have the honor of being featured on this, my 200th, post. Mazel Tov!
McGuinness Boulevard
Filed under: 2007 Crap Map, Bum Shit, Crazy People, Dog Shit, Dung of the Day, Greenpoint Magic
Lest the subject matter of this blog does not make it clear already; I have unusual tastes when it comes to entertaining myself. After busting my ass last week, I finally got some ‘down’ time Sunday. Some people spend their leisure time by taking vacations to such exotic locales as Tahiti, Martha’s Vineyard or even Florida. I for one am perfectly content with strolling McGuinness Boulevard. Your eyes are not deceiving you: you just read McGuinness Boulevard.
The way I see it, McGuinness Boulevard epitomizes what is so wrong, and yet, so right about Greenpoint. Like a whore past its prime, this throughfare is highly-trafficked, noisy, and more often than not, filthy. But (under the right circumstances) it does have its charm.
Have you ever witnessed a 40-something couple who— man and woman alike— bore a strange resemblance to Barry Manilow making out in front of a Hess Station?
I have.
Do you like to watch an old man work his dentures like a wad of cud, pop out his top plate and suck it back in— hands free— while dining at Taco Bell?
I do.
The gentrifiers of this ‘hood can keep their waterfront parks, humvee-sized strollers and triple mocha lattes. The Dog Shit Queen of Greenpoint wants entertainment— and Mickey G’s is where it’s at! What’s more, the very namesake of this fine boulevard, the honorable Peter. J. McGuinness, was pretty damned entertaining in his own right. As I learned recently.
When queried about nominating himself as the Assistant Commissioner of Public Works during Seabury investigation, his answer was as follows:
Well, as the leader of the Greenpernt People’s Regular Organization of the Fifteenth District I couldn’t pick a more better person to suggest for for this job than myself. I drove nine gypsy bands out of Greenpernt, as well as three hundred Chinese coolies, and all the cats and dogs that used to run down the streets. I got Greenpernt three playgrounds, the subway, the one-and-a-half million bridge on Greenpoint Avenue, and two million dollars’ worth of paving… I done good. I thank you.*
Not to sound like I condone racism (I don’t), but thanks to Mr. McGuinness’s hard work I have yet to see any gypsy bands or large numbers of ‘coolies’ roaming the streets in my seven years of living here. However, it does beg one to question whether he knew anything about the large number of Polish people reputed to live here. I suppose Pete took that one to the grave.
As for the two million dollars worth of paving, I am certain the seemingly endless cycle of destruction/construction on Franklin Street would make Mr. McGuinness proud. That public works project (if one can call it that) reeks of graft. Or, at the very best, extreme incompetence. Oh well.
Aside from the odd stray cat, there isn’t much in the way of feral animals running the streets now. Not on four legs anyway, but I digress…
Pete may have been the beacon of progress for this fine ‘nabe, but there is one form of blight he obviously missed: dog shit. And that’s exactly what I found during my leisurely stroll along his boulevard. Lots of (sh)it.
A comprehensive photo record of my findings can be viewed on my Crap Map, but here are some hightlights.
Dung of the Day: DEP
This may very well be the best “Dung of the Day” I have ever found. This ironic pile of poop was located at 381 McGuinness, which is also where one of the finest buildings in Greenpoint happens to be located.
Or perhaps a better term for this architectural masterpiece is “bunker”. Note the metal slit in the doorway. I wonder if you have to give the secret password to get in? If so, I wish I knew what it is. Not too long ago when I was apartment-less and jobless I seriously mulled over listing 381 McGuinness as my address on my resume. Wisely, I elected against it.
For now, anyway. Who knows what tomorrow will bring?
Poopy al fresco
I found this ad hoc bathroom on Ash Street under the Pulaski Bridge. Not only was it thoughtfully appointed with a magazine, but it had an exciting array of hygiene products necessary for the urbane bum-about-town. I envision the person who patronizes this lavatory to be the Hugh Hefner (or Alistair Cooke) of bums. After awakening in a pool of his own vomit, ‘Hugh’ adjusts his fez, puts on his loafers and proceeds to bathroom to ‘freshen up’ for the ladies.
Condoville
No post about Mickey G’s would be complete without mentioning the prodigious quantity of condos being built along it. As the Gowanus Lounge indicates in this post, the median price for an apartment in Greenpoint has increased by 65% over the last year. Ouch!
Then again, does anyone (save the developer or a real estate agent) honestly believe that the following turd is going to command top dollar? Really?
I call the above exercise in wishful thinking, Fort Apache, The ‘Point. I cannot for the life of me imagine who would want to purchase one of these condos. For starters, the building is ugly as shit. Secondly, the point of having a balcony (as I understand it) is to enjoy a scenic view. Here is some of the scenery that will come with that top corner unit’s (undoubtedly inflated) price tag.
NICE. All you taxi cab and dumpster fetishists out there will have to wait: this building isn’t ready for habitation. Sorry.
But easily the most provocative discovery made during my adventures along McGuinness Boulevard cum Condoland was here.
I call this monolith the “Blockbuster Condo” because it is located behind the shuttered Blockbuster Video on McGuinness Boulevard. In many ways this building resembles the strip mall in front of it: both are over-sized, boxy and very grey eyesores. In addition, (just like the Blockbuster in front of it) this condo has some added-value the real estate brokers probably won’t tell you about…
A scenic view of Bum Shit Central!
I cannot tell a lie: if I had the money, I might pay the asking price for this blue chip view. I cannot think of a better way to start my morning than to sip coffee while gazing out my window to sight of homeless people shitting and masturbating. Constantly.
Miss Heather
P.S.: Check out this nifty mug I designed last weekend!
*From Once Upon a Time in New York by Herbert Mitgang
Meanpoint*
As it happens, my upstairs neighbor started a blog recently. I am very happy to see this, as he is one cool guy.
When I looked at his blog this morning, I came across a short film of a drunk Polish Nazi (yes, I just wrote “Polish Nazi”) he made recently.
This man is most decidedly NOT cool.
I can’t believe anyone (outside of perhaps, Iran) would say such things. Someone should take a brickbat to the side of this asshole’s head. Preferably one of the concentration camp survivors who reside here. (I do not see them often, but they do exist; the numbers tattooed on their arms say it all.)
Unless my high school history classes were wrong, I do not recall the Nazis as being particularly kind to Polish people either. Fucking idiot.
*UGH*
Miss Heather
*A term coined by my ‘nabe. Liked it so much I just HAD to use it.
The Kings County Supreme Court Experience
This morning I made the trek to 320 Jay Street to report for jury duty. The weather was abysmal and my attitude wasn’t any better. My fashion du jour reflected this mindset: an overall ‘look’ best described as a mix of Tania, the Baeder-Meinhof gang and crazy homeless person. I elected to tote along a copy of Robert Young Pelton’s “Dangerous Places” to round out my ensemble.
Thankfully, some perp’s decision to cop a plea bargain precluded me having to put my fashion crazy to the test and I was sent home. No questions asked. After five hours of waiting and being indoctrinated educated about how the judicial system works, mind you. Not being the kind of person who will let wasted time go to waste, follows are some of the more choice experiences I had during my jaunt at the Kings County Supreme Court. Enjoy!
Sisyphus
The best way I can describe what it is like being processed for jury duty is being tossed into a bureaucratic Cuisinart manned by civil servants. A giant cyclotron that mixes human beings (in varying states of ripeness and rot) with no regard to race, creed or religion. As I waited to go through the metal detector the man in front of me gave his buddy a high five and shouted “Yo, I’m on probation!” Mazel Tov.
Once I was screened I was to sit in a room until I was told to go into another room. Once I was in that room I was told to stay there until directed to do otherwise. In other words, it was exactly like being in elementary school. I was genuinely depressed by how many people seemed to be perfectly acclimatized to being treated in this manner. Sheeple.
Orientation
I underwent orientation 1 1/2 times. This is because I went to the wrong room the first time and was told to go to another room. I went to the ‘correct’ room and waited to undergo the process in its entirety. I’m glad I did; the video they showed us about how the legal system works was one of the most (unintentionally?) hilarious moments during my entire stay.
After the appointed monitor made sure everyone was in the right room, we watched a film called “Your Turn”. This movie opened with a scene that is markedly similar to one from “Monty Python’s Holy Grail”: a horde of burly barbarians take a bound man to the river and throw him in. As this re-enactment of a trial by ordeal flashed before my eyes, an authoritative voice explained what I was witnessing and why it is bad. He implored us to question as to whether this was “fair and impartial” justice. Frankly, I still have lingering doubts as to why this practice is any worse (or less impartial) than some of the shit I read about nowadays. Death isn’t partial to anyone.
As this sad sack was tossed into the water some medieval grunt (who bore an uncanny resemblance to Terry Gilliam) let out a roar. A roar like the one at the end of AC/DC’s “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap” (or those to be found in many an Andrew W.K. song). I laughed out loud. The people around me looked at me like I had eight heads. Those of you who may be wondering, you might be relieved to know that the man sank in the water (proving that he was not made of wood and thus was neither a duck nor a witch). He was rescued by his cohorts.
I got pretty psyched after this opening sequence, but regrettably the rest of the show was pretty disappointing. Watching Ed Bradley narrate the film made me sort of sad (because he died recently). Hopefully having to narrate such a film secured him a better place ‘upstairs’. Then again, listening to a prim yuppie woman (in a powersuit no less) air her concerns about possibly being exposed to subject matter that was “unpleasant” cracked me up. This woman (whoever she is) clearly does not reside in my neighborhood. Or New York City Shitty for that matter.
Paperwork
After the movie ended we filled out our juror forms. It was at this time that we were told (in English) that not being able to read or write English won’t disqualify you from jury duty. All that is required is a “grasp” of spoken English— and if any prospective juror felt that he or she could not meet this requirement, they needed to get in line to talk to the junior court clerk. I shit you not, every single asian person in the room (save one) high-tailed their asses to get in line. Most were told that they were fit to serve and sullenly went back to their seats; one chick marched out of there with a big shit-eating grin on her face. She knew damn well what she had just pulled off. Bitch.
It just goes to show you that Sarah Silverman was wrong: merely stating that you “hate chinks” will not get you out of jury duty. Drop as many c-bombs, n-bombs, k-bombs as you want— hell, go ahead and piss on the American flag— the result will still be the same: you’ll be told to sit down and wait your turn. Being a ‘chink’ (and/or acting like one), however, does appear to be somewhat effective when it comes to evading jury duty. Go figure.
Once it had been established who was semi-literate enough to be a juror, a dishevelled and very confused Pakistani man came rushing in. This dude had no idea what the fuck was going on. He kept pointing at his juror summons (which had “non-compliant” stamped on it) and implored the woman next to me to help him figure out what parts he needed tear off. I honestly believe this man deserved to be disqualified as a juror. If he didn’t understand English, he did such a damn good job acting clueless that he (in my mind) deserved to be discharged. He was also really fucking annoying.
Waiting
Once the forms were filled out we were told to go to the “Jury Assembly Room” or the adjacent lounge so we could wait (once again) until our names were called. To their credit, the powers that be do try to give prospective jurors some perks: cable t.v., vending machines and Internet access. I really appreciated the lattermost as I had replied to a couple of very important emails EARLY this morning and wanted to see what (if anything) I had gotten back in the way of a response. I knocked out my personal business in five minutes, got bored, and then wondered if I could do a little work on New York Shitty. My inner voice told me that a url such as mine would probably be blocked by whatever web nanny they use. It wasn’t.
This in turn piqued my curiousity as to WHAT ELSE I could dredge up. I picked the most repulsive term that came to mind: donkey punch. I ran a search and lo, up came the results! I didn’t bother parsing through them (because I didn’t want to get grossed out and/or pissed-off), but I did read the Wikipedia definition for this act. I was quite proud to learn that I had selected a topic that even they deemed as being offensive. Good for me.
Drunk on my own mischief, I then ran a search for “Juggs”. Up came the home page for Juggs Magazine (replete with an image of actual ‘jugs’). I giggled inanely. When I noticed that the top bar of the brower window read “Welcome to Juggs Magazine — New York State Supreme Court— King’s County” I laughed my ass off. I minimized this find and quietly walked away. Shortly afterward I heard a very loud fit of laughter coming from the computer room. Hee, hee.
Homie
At 1:00 p.m. we were allowed to go to lunch. I was to go to lunch at 1:00 p.m. and return promptly by 2:00 p.m. or my ‘service record’ would become null and void. The lackey charged with keeping tabs on us peons came in at 2:15 p.m. I was not the only person who noticed this. After four hours of limbo, patience (including my own) was wearing thin. The peeps were getting angry. Very angry.
A hoodie mac stomped out of the interview room, slammed the door and exclaimed:
They’re postponing their cases in there. We’re all sitting around like a bunch of idiots. $40 a day— that’s less than minimum wage, man!
This was greeted with laughter from us and a swift response from one of the court employees. “Homie” was told not to slam the door or he would face a fine. To wit the he said:
I’d rather pay the $1,000 fine.
As this transpired I realized that earning $40 a day is a pretty sweet gig for someone (like me) who has little-to-no income at all. I could work on New York Shitty in the computer room while I wait. I could effectively be paid (albeit meagerly) for writing about dog shit and surfing Internet porn. WOW.
But alas it was not to be. I was discharged at 3:30 p.m. Maybe in another six years…
Miss Heather
*This post is not intended to offend people of Asian/foreign origin. Though I am certain it will. Rather, my desire was to showcase how completely fucked up our fair city’s jury duty selection process is.
Don’t Put Strawberry Jelly on my Bagel
(…if I have jam in my pants)
After tossing and turning all night, I attempted to operate on four hours sleep (and two cups of coffee) today. My morning consisted of doing two loads of laundry and scouting the far north end of Manhattan Avenue for dog shit. Between the two previous tasks I ordered a toasted bagel from New Tulcingo.
I said I wanted a bagel with just a little cream cheese. And I got just that— with a fat glob of gelatinous sweet red slime to boot! I discovered this at the intersection of Freeman Street and Manhattan Avenue and got enraged. Instead of doing the rational thing (returning it and asking for another one) I flung the jelly off and cursed with total abandon.
For reasons unknown, a cabbie on Freeman Street found my spasmic fits of profanity interesting. Maybe he thought I was trying to hail him, as incomprehensible as that may seem; I was shouting, shaking a bagel and flinging jelly for chrissakes!
He pulled over on Manhattan Avenue and stared at me.
Me (shaking the offending bagel): Do you have a fucking problem!?!
Nothing. He kept staring.
The cabbie finally got the message when I started flinging jelly at his car.
In the clarity that is 20/20 hindsight, I suspect my menstrual anti-jelly demonstration is penny ante shit compared to what this man sees in Williamsburg, Chelsea or the East Village on any given day night. Except I wasn’t a kinked-up/coked-up nympho looking for a ride home: I was one very PISSED-OFF Greenpoint Gal trying to get that jelly THE FUCK off her BAGEL!
Please accept my sincerest apologies, cabbie. I meant no harm: you just happened to offer your services to the wrong person, at the wrong place and at the WORST possible time. You guys (and gals) have it hard enough as is. I am sorry if my mixed signals confused you.
When I got home I noticed my little friend surprised me (yet) again. I’l be serving up red jam toast for the next 3-4 days. Yummy. My husband will be delighted.
Miss Heather
Green Street Shouter
Last weekend my husband and I took a day trip to Long Island. Not only was our destination eerily bereft of dog shit (or any kind of shit, for that matter), but it did not have the bountiful array of exotic (and noxious) aromas and sounds I have grown to savor. In other words: it was nice. A little too nice.
This sentiment was later confirmed when I read the local newspaper. It is my belief that:
- Most people need to be kept occupied at all times, otherwise they will find the least constructive means possible to busy themselves and
- having no greater problems to tackle, most people will become pathologically fixated some bit of minutiae which (for some god-forsaken reason) they feel compelled to share with others via the local media.
The end product (to an outsider like me) is downright hilarious by virtue of its sincerity, hyperbole and syntactical fuzziness. Case in point:
I have found things much more disturbing than “a strange dog” outside my back door. In fact, most creatures that scare the piss out of me have two legs, not four. Perhaps it is New York City’s failing school system, but I was under the impression that dogs can’t read. Therefore, a sign admonishing them to stay off school property is useless.
The “Crime Blotter” section offered up this choice morsel.
Render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar’s, and unto God the things that are God’s.
But if you want the son of God gracing your front yard it will cost you $100. Master Card and Visa accepted. No checks.
And as with any society you get malcontents: brave and inbalanced souls who persist against overwhelming odds in ripping the man (and his bullshit sense of propriety) a new asshole. My kind of people, like this fine gentleman.
I think Mr. Greenwald needs to find his way to Greenpoint. We have numerous yellers here (Spanish-speaking, Polish-speaking and English-speaking) he can exchange yelling tips with or talk shouting shop. Perhaps he can apprentice to become a bi-(or tri-)lingual yeller? This would expand his aural abuse potential tremendously. Who knows, he might even find a nice yelling woman to settle down with, have a few l’il yellers and they’ll shout away into (at?) the sunset together. (And husband says I am not the romantic type. PAW!)
As it happens, my very own block (Green Street) has a yeller-in-residence. He makes his presence known about once a month. What this man is so worked-up about is anyone’s guess; his oratory sounds like something belched out by the “Walrus Man” in the movie “Star Wars”. Completely unintelligible, but laden with heart-felt emotion.
Last week “Walrus Man” demonstrated his newfound command of pronouns. At 11:00 p.m…
Fuck you! (loud crash) Fuck this!
and 12:15 a.m.
Fuck it! (loud banging) Fuck you!
I craned my head out the window, but couldn’t see him. The next morning, however, I found this next door to our building. This man is such a BAD ASS that even his imaginary friends draw blood.
Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, Long Island!
Miss Heather
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