After seeing all the lovely pictures of Christmas decorations featured on The Gowanus Lounge, I
felt KNEW Greenpoint needed to represent. The ‘nabe with the short train should, in my opinion, have Christmas decor that looks like it was made by someone who rides the short bus. And it does.
Don’t get me wrong readers: I like it! This Christmas tree has an overall lack of pretense to it I find endearing. You can tell someone worked on this very diligently until:
1. he (or she) ran out of tinsel
2. he toiled with tinsel for five minutes and said “Fuck this shit, I want a beer.”
Or, most likely, a combination of “1” and “2”:
Perhaps he had to make a decision to spend the remaining money he had left on either beer or more tinsel. He opted for the obvious choice (as any Greenpointer worth his/her salt will tell you): booze.
I am in a curiously beatific (and seriously lazy) mood today. While my time could be better spent doing other things, I am going to take a little time out to give a long overdue shout-out to Marty Markowitz’s office.
There are very few things he and I see eye-to-eye on, but I gotta give the man credit: his constituent services are unbelieveable. As many of you are aware, I have experienced a number of housing problems of late. Easily the most ridiculous (and inexcusable) of them was being without heat and hot water for a week. Out of all the public officials, etc., I contacted it was a woman from his office who got a housing inspector to come over here. THE SAME DAY. As a result, our landlord got hit with a fine and a number of other (well-deserved) citations.
I wrote a thank you email to Marty Markowitz’s office (copying the employee in question), and lo, I got a call from the man himself the next day. I was a bit surprised by this. I was waiting/hoping for a job offer (that is the only reason I will run to the phone if I’m on the toilet), but his going to the trouble to thank me for thanking his office made my day. As “Chip” would say to “Dale”:
No Marty, Thank you!
That said, my problems here are far from over. Honestly, I believe the only way the nefarious activity going on here (which all stem from our landlord trying to kick everyone out of this building so he can raise the rent or sell the building) will only be stopped is via housing court and/or him being prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. I for one hope it’s the latter (carbon monoxide was being belched into my apartment for chrissakes!) but I digress…
At least I can safely say Mr. Markowitz and I agree wholeheartedly on one thing…
In closing, what would a big shout-out of gratitude be without a big “Dung of the Day” to go with it? It wouldn’t be New York Shitty, that’s for certain. I found this pile ‘o’ poop in front of 214 Franklin Street.
Filed under: (s)Hit Parade, Bum Shit, Dog Shit, Dung of the Day, Greenpoint Magic
I had quite the busy weekend. My Saturday morning started at 8:30 a.m. assembling and collating all the material to be sent along with the angry missive to our landlord. This packet ended up being about a quarter of an inch thick. It was not an enjoyable task, but it was a necessary one, nonetheless.
After purchasing the envelope and postage for this turd, my husband and I rushed to the Bust Craftacular to meet my buddy, Judy McGuire. The Warsaw Ballroom was where we were to make a transaction for a really gorgeous clock I made. This came to pass— after I beheld the horror that is the ‘hip’ Greenpoint/Williamburg parenting cadre.
Let it be known here and now that I do not like:
3. crotchlings in all-terrain strollers (if your stroller is bigger than me, it need not be)
4. the parents who see fit to bring the aforementioned crotchlings in said strollers to venues best left for adult consumption
I could have tolerated the loud music, the crowds OR the stroller set individually, but being assaulted by all three at once proved to be a hell for all five senses that even Dante could not begin to fathom.
It’s a matter of space: my personal and psychological space. When did my allotted amount of space become fair game to affluent breeders/space pirates with crotchlings? I’d really like to know. Perhaps, to bastardize Desmond Tutu, this is why:
When the developers came to Greenpoint they had the lawyers and we had the space. They said “Let us prey.” We closed our eyes. When we opened them we had eviction papers and they had the space (air rights, FAR, etc.).
But I digress…
My point is this: why won’t these parents act, well, like parents? Any parent worth his/her salt would have the horse-sense to know that the Bust Craftacular may not be a good place to take their small children. If not as a simple act of common courtesy to the other patrons, because the loud-ass music may be unsettling, if not downright damaging, to their toddlers/infants.
The same logic applies to the happy hours some bars have to pander to the ‘hip’ mommy set. Why can’t these women just stay home and ask little “Timmy” or “Caitlin” to “Mix a drink for mommy because she had a hard day” like the civilized folk? If this practice was good enough for Bette Davis, rest assured it sure as fuck is good enough for them.
Start ’em out while they’re young, I say (because the children are our future): one parent’s alcohol consumption may bear fruit in a lucrative career as a bartender for the child later. Why bother preparing “Timmy” or “Caitlin” for a white-collar career today that will be out-sourced tomorrow? The service industry is our nation’s future, and consequently, their future.
In three or four years I imagine the public schools in Greenpoint/Williamsburg will be inundated with hard-of-hearing children with an attention span of one nano-second— but they’ll mix cocktails guaranteed to knock the teacher on her ass. They’ll cut lines like a pro to boot. The previous may be nice fringe benefits given how badly teachers are paid.
Slipster parents: open up your wallets and hire a babysitter or get off your respective asses and start a babysitting pool like a grown-up. The rest of us (grown-ups) are not the least bit amused by your child’s antics, your adolescent sense of entitlement and overall inability to act your age.
The last time my husband and I ate at Taco Chulo (at 8:30 p.m.) we had the pleasure of being entertained by a todder running amok. This boy climbed atop the sofa, the coffee table and a four foot tall ledge. Had he fallen, he would have cracked his head open or broken an arm. Where was mommy? She was eating and laughing her ass off because it was “cute”.
Until this houseape came to our table (matchbox car in hand, snot flowing from nose) and babbled gibberish at us, anyway. That’s was when (with glowing mommy pride) mamasan sauntered over to our table and told us (while we were eating for chrissakes) that her vaginal dumpling wanted to know what we dressed up as for Halloween.
I told her that what I dressed up as (for Halloween) was unsuitable content for a child to hear and she left. I applaud my husband’s and my own restraint: we were pissed. After she left, my husband and I tossed around answers to this question we would have preferred to give:
1. A pedophile
2. Your REAL daddy
3. Your REAL mommy
4. Your aborted sister/brother who lives in heaven now
5. Your momma’s pimp
6. A child protective services caseworker
This is Greenpoint, not Disneyland (or Levittown, for that matter).
Williamsbreeders: if you want a child-centric/hip-wombyn environment, move to Park Slope. They’ll be happy to take you. You can argue over the gender-ramifications of a child’s hat (via craigslist) to your heart’s contentment. Otherwise, the next time you bring your child into my Greenpoint(less) world, he/she may get a crash course in ‘adult’ repartee.
I may very well show your kid this, which will undoubtedly result in him/her having bed-wetting episodes and night terrors for years.
P.S.: At least my trek to the Craftacular netted me this constellation of dog shit I call the Guernsey Street Octet…
and these select morsels of bum shit just around the corner on Nassau Avenue.
Every dark cloud has a brown lining in New York Shitty.
Recently I submitted a well-intentioned, but inept, submission to Gawker for their holiday gift guide. Therein I suggested that smoke detectors should be provided gratis to all of Josh Guttman’s tenants. I have since rethought this concept and have come up with a more appropriate gift.
Ever since the Greenpoint Terminal burned down, I have noticed a substantial increase of human effluvia and vomit on my block. Developers razing damned near half the block (to build over-priced crap no one in his/her right mind would buy) is not helping matters. For this reason, I offer the following modest proposal*:
We, the residents of
Green Brown Street should send these fruits of ‘gentrification’ to their rightful owners. This piece of shit (which I found in front of 110 Green Street) would be a nice start.
*In the spirit of this. I feel compelled to provide a precedent for my brand of satire because some people (bereft of a sense of humor and/or life in general) see fit to extinguish it.
Filed under: Area 51
I was raised to believe that Winnie the Pooh was into hunny pots. I didn’t know he was a ‘switch-hitter’ (and a size-queen at that).
Then again, just about anything goes in Williamsburg anymore. I wonder if he practiced on Eyeore first? Alas poor Winnie, I knew him well…
Filed under: Area 51
I have some damned cool friends, I just wish they were NOT born in December. I hate cold weather. This is ironic given that I was born in January, but I digress…
My buddy Mark celebrated his 35th birthday party on Monday. I attended the celebration and was not disappointed: Mark and his wife Heather (the only woman I will defer to as being “Heather #1”) were gracious hosts.
Mark is by far the most talented painter I have ever met. People like him are the reason I chucked my paint brushes and went to other means of provocation. Seriously. If you do not believe me, check this out:
A boxing clown. On a lifeboat. Need I say anything else?
But I will (say something else).
This image reminds me of my husband’s workplace tormentor: a socially-inept/surly person who, by forces unknown and evil (READ: bureaucracy), was given a Management position (not unlike George Bush II). My husband’s moodswings are tied to this man’s caprices like my ‘Aunt Flo’ is connected to the lunar cycle.
Tonight we had double hitter. My pants don’t fit right and this jackass pre-empting my blogging time made me mad. MEAN mad. This is my blog after all, and as Britney would say (regarding the previous) it is “My Prerogative” to say such things. What are they gonna do, fire me? I think not.
On that note, I leave you with the following passage (gleaned from a clown manual in Mark’s ownership):
WILL I GET ANY WORK?
After giving a lot of thought to make up, wardrobe and character, the sensible person wonders if anything will come of it. Fortunately, a clown can get many types of jobs. There is more work for clowns than any other type of entertainer— not on the top money level, of course, but with plenty of work one need not worry too much about what is paid for each show.
As many of you know already, I was once a real estate agent. In this capacity I previewed a number of apartments: some were nice, others not so nice. Contrary to what less ethical real estate agents may tell you, a decent studio apartment can be had in New York City (Manhattan) for $1,200-$1,300 a month. I saw a number of them with my own eyes. The one thing I never saw, however, was a $1,200/month studio located in Greenpoint. Until this weekend, anyway.
Miss Heather has experienced much drama of late. My apartment woes have taken upon a life of their own. The latest manifestion of this phenomenon involves a cat. Yes, A CAT.
You see, a neighbor of ours (apartment 6) was hauled out of here by EMDs about three weeks ago. Given that she was paid numerous visits by ACS, it is probably safe to assume her child was removed from her custody. Her cat, however, proved to be another matter.
This woman gave her apartment keys to a man named George THREE WEEKS AGO with the understanding that he would feed her cat until she came back. After repeatedly trying to contact her, George gave up. She had clearly abandoned the apartment, so he gave the keys to me so I could tend to the cat and (hopefully) find her a new home.
What I discovered upon entering apartment 6 was truly appalling. Aside from some serious maintenance and health hazards, it was just plain FILTHY. Mind you, the following pictures were taken AFTER George had done some cleaning. UNBELIEVEABLE.
George filled six garbage bags with trash before quitting.
This is just plain gross.
And of course, here’s the sweet kitty* who had lived in this shitheap for weeks (months?)…
Mind you, I am not placing ANY blame with George regarding this situation. He did the best he could given the circumstances. Rather, I was horrified by the general condition of the apartment. You could tell it had been like this for a long, long time.
I think the term for this caliber of work is “Ghetto Fabulous”.
Water and electricity do not mix.
I just about pissed my pants laughing at this one. I can recollect at least four different types of flooring material put to use in this apartment.
And last, but not least, here’s a picture from the child’s room…
I am certain the more cynical among you are saying “I’ve seen worse”.
Perhaps this is so, but be advised that the previous defects were the only ones I could document because the place was filled to the gills in REFUSE.
The more observant of you are surely asking “What does this have to do with a $1,200/month studio apartment in Greenpoint?”
My answer is this: You just saw one.
*For those of you who are wondering, she is currently testing out a new foster home and it looks encouraging. But if anyone is interested in adopting her lest this arrangement falls through, shoot me an email: missheather (at) Newyorkshitty (dot) com.
Filed under: Area 51
One thing I really like about New Yorkers (and New York City), is that they will tell you exactly where they stand on things. When you ask someone a question, you will not get a simple, thoughtless answer in return. The people here lavish a lot of attention to the human condition and are not the least bit reluctant to offer their two cents. Usually to total strangers and employing the most stark and vivid terminology available.
To put it another way, the average New Yorker’s opining is conveyed in a manner that is substantially more colorful than anywhere else. Case in point:
I found this gem at the 53rd Street stop of the E/V in Manhattan recently.
I give it two (enthusiastic) thumbs up.
As many of you are aware, I recently decided to market my Jihadi Kitty-making services to the general public via my online store. It would appear that this act has offended some of my fellow Etsy patrons— or at least this is what I intuit from the following (hilarious) message I received from their site administrator this afternoon:
Happy to find you on Etsy! I’m writing with regard to the Jihadist Hello Kitty in your shop. Several Etsy customers have registered complaints that they find this item offensive. While I imagine this was not your intention, I need to ask you to change your item description and title. It is obviously perfectly above board to dress a hello kitty doll in a handmade burka or any other traditional Islamic cloathing. However, to include “Jihadist” in the title and attach pseudo explosives to the doll (!— Ed. Note)–equating the Islamic dress with terrorism does not conform to our policy on this site. Please change the title and description as soon as you get a chance.
Yes, dear readers, it would appear that satire is lost on some people.
Needless to say, I have temporarily removed this item from my online store. No worries, after cleaning up the ad copy, I plan to add other Hello Kitty concepts I have been tossing around such as:
- The Patty Hearst/Symbionese Litterbox Army play set
- The Monica Lewinsky play set
- The Clarence Thomas/Anita Hill play set (featuring the infamous tainted can of Coke)
- The Abu Ghraib play set. (I just need to find a doll ugly enough to be Lynndie England. Maybe a Cabbage Patch doll will suffice? Those things are uglier than hammered dog shit.)
And much, much more…
Lady Liberty to world:
Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore,
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!
New York Shitty to Lady Liberty:
Shut up and SHOW US YOUR HOOTERS!
Although I usually dislike cyber-begging on principle, I am very tempted to erect a paypal tip bucket (to take donations) so I can buy this item.
12/1/06, 1:27 a.m.: on second (third?) thought, I want the African-American Lady Liberty bust in the background. She’ll go nicely with the Malcolm X velvet painting in my living room.Â After watching two years of my dreary (and abject) life unfold, he deserves a companion.