After having a heaping helping of anti-semitism for breakfast, I have decided polish off my day with something that makes me happy: the Franklin Corner Store.
Greenpoint is not very well appointed when it comes to restaurants. Especially if you happen to be a vegetarian (like me). I do not mean to short-change the likes of Casa Mon Amour, The Chinese Musician, or Paloma; all the previous are excellent restaurants.
They simply don’t induce the transcendent state of carbohydrate-overload bliss in my person that the Franklin Corner Store’s “El Mexicano” sandwich does. Nothing does.
I realize this photo is a bit washed out, so I will give you a general rundown of the contents of the above sandwich:
- Two kinds of cheese
- Bean Dip
- Green Peppers
- Jalapeno Peppers (I request this as an add-on)
- Orgasm-inducing flavor
Some of my fellow Greenpointers bemoan how long it takes for these guys to make a sandwich. I don’t. If you want a sandwich made quickly, without tender loving care and entertaining banter, go to Subway. On the other hand, if you want to eat something that will blow your fucking mind, go to the Franklin Corner Store, place your order, park your ass in front of their television and wait for about 10-15 minutes (like everyone else). It’ll be the best $6.00 you’ll ever spend.
Franklin Corner Store
210 Franklin Street
Brooklyn, New York 11222
Phone: per their menu, they don’t have one. (718) 389 – 4575
…and a table scrap or two.
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.
*A term coined by my ‘nabe. Liked it so much I just HAD to use it.
Filed under: Area 51
I found this ‘corrected’ advertisement at the 23rd Street – Ely Avenue stop of the E train recently. It would appear that someone is finding this promise of a 6 minute, 42 second commute to Manhattan a bit difficult to swallow— or (more likely) he fell for this ruse and now has a serious case of buyer’s remorse. Either way, it makes me damned happy I ride the G train.
I for one recommend that these posters be relocated to the 7 line. The advertising copy should be revised to read as follows:
If you lived here you would still be waiting for the 7 train. Sucker!
Firstly, I’d like to give props to Jake Dobkin and Jen Chung at Gothamist for mentioning New York Shitty in a recent feature about (what else) dog shit*. It pleases me to no end to know that when people think of dog shit, they think of me. Speaking as a woman who has been a colossal misfit her entire life, this is a big step up from the nasty (and numerous) epithets I have been called over the years. I have generously offered both Jen and Jake a complimentary pair of Poopyhead panties as a token of my gratitude.
That said, I got up bright and early this morning to go for a walk. Snow works wonders for this ‘hood: it makes even the biggest eyesores palatable, if not beautiful. I also hoped to find an especially provocative offering for today’s post. I did.
This cluster of crap can be found at the northeastern corner of Kent and West Street. Unlike the rest of the block, this area is bereft of snow due to recently-erected scaffolding. This has got to be the most striking example of exactly how FUCKING LAZY the dog owners are hereabouts that I have ever encountered.
I can halfway understand why some people get lax when their doggie dumps in several inches of snow. I don’t condone this behavior, mind you; I simply “get it”. Nothing more. The above shitpile, on the other hand, is fucking ridiculous. If anyone deserves a $250 fine (and good kick to the ‘nads) for failing to curb their dog, it’s this asshole.
*Be sure to read the comments, some of them are priceless. Here’s my favorite:
So who’s gonna pay the fine for not scoopin’ up the big fuckin’ TURD we have in the White House?
P.S.: Here’s an extra treat! Yellow snow from 212 Green Street. Snowcones, anyone?
Filed under: Area 51
Come one, come all! Miss Heather’s Dog Shit Emporium is open for business!
Filed under: Area 51
Hands down, last Thursday was one of the WORST days I have ever had in the over-priced— yet rent-stabilized— shitheap that is my apartment. Period. Hallway puke* is mere fluff compared to the unbridled idiocy I endured at the hands of the â€˜managementâ€™ of this building.
You will notice that I put quotes around the word management. This is because this building is managed in only the most rudimentary academic sense. Much like Iraq or Afghanistan have functioning governments, there is a management company for this building. On paper, anyway. The day-to-day reality tells a very different story.
Words cannot adequately attest to my experience. The following photo does.
This is my bathtub. While I will not profess to being the most fastidious person in the world (the years of caked on grime in this apartment render it impossible anyway), this is not the usual state of my bathroom. Nope, what you’re seeing in the above photo is what happens when the landlord
decides is ordered to repair something: a thorough sacking of my bathroom by scabs.
Every time I think this building is â€œunder controlâ€ (and go about looking for work, making art, writing about dog shit or having a life) some horrendous latent defect (or disgusting bodily discharge) rears its ugly head. I am the resident Confessor/Mensch for the tenants of this building. Do not ask me why this is so; it just is. This is why I know damned near everything that is wrong with this building. My neighbors call me, email me, or knock on my door and tell me all about it. Often.
So it wasn’t really that big of a surprise when a man knocked on my door Thursday morning and told me that he needed to tear out part of my bathroom ceiling so he could repair the plumbing for the apartment upstairs. After years of having to use a bucket to bail out the water from their bathtub (because it will not drain), my upstairs neighbors finally had enough and brought this to the attention on their Section-8 housing inspector. Good for them.
I only have my own presumptuousness to blame for expecting to get any notice whatsoever from the landlord as to when these repairs were to take place. I should have known better. Stupid me.
After staying up late the night before I was awakened by a knock at my door. I ignored it. Five minutes later, more knocking. I answered the door to find two scruffy men looking at me.
The older one spoke: We are here to tear out your bathroom ceiling so we can repair the plumbing.
Repairman: Didn’t the Stupor tell you?
Me: No. He doesn’t tell any of us jack shit.
Repairman: I need to work in your bathroom.
Me: That may very well be, but you are going to wait 15 minutes so I can get dressed.
I close the door and lock it. Fifteen minutes (and one very angry phone call to my husband) later, he comes back.
Me: How long is this going to take?
Repairman: One hour.
Me: Am I going to be able to use the toilet?
Repairman: Do you need to go to the bathroom?
Me: Not right now, but this isn’t exactly something that is within my control, now is it?
The repairman’s assistant thought this pithy response was funny as hell.
I spent the next FOUR HOURS yelling at my husband/friends/neighbors via telephone over the din of this demented duo pommelling the shit out of my bathroom, shouting at each other and repeatedly slamming my apartment door. When they finally completed their task, they had also effectively rendered an entire afternoon spent cleaning the kitchen and bathroom useless. Even after ‘cleaning up’ my bathroom, it looked like it belonged at a gas station. The only notable difference being that gas station lavatories don’t usually have a gaping HOLE in the ceiling.
Nice, eh? I for one like the evidence of a previously aborted attempt to penetrate my ceiling. I was told by the repairman that the Stupor would be by on Saturday (today) to fix the hole. Like hell he will. Even if the Stupe bothers to show up, I sure as fuck am not going to let him fix it. He’s a fucking moron.
After working a 10 hour day my husband came home and started sealing up the hole. Before doing so he peered inside the dropped ceiling with a flashlight. He came into the living room and told me to come in and have a look. I really wish he hadn’t done this.
This is the ass-end of our neighbor’s bathtub.
Suspecting that my husband might be onto something interesting, I grabbed my digital camera and took blind photos of the rest of the space. I then ran into the living room and uploaded them.
Um, this doesn’t look right…
EWW! There are movies with stage sets that look like this.
They are called snuff films.
Come play with us, Heather.
After telling my husband that I was totally convinced someone had stashed dead fetuses in there, I quickly retreated to the living room. I did not come back until he had sealed off this Whatever Happened to Baby Jane-esque chamber of horrors.
Fuck 311, I’m calling an exorcist!
2/25/07: True to form, the Super did not show up Saturday to repair the ceiling. He was probably too busy aspirating on his own seminal fluid, jacking-off or standing around looking stupid. Perhaps all three (at once, mind you).
2/27/07, 6:00 p.m.: I hear a knock at my door. It is the Stupor accompanied by yet another ‘scab’. He says he wants to repair my ceiling. I tell him that my husband (a former finish carpenter) had already done so and shut the door. Not satisified with this answer (what would I know, I AM just a woman, after all), the Stupor asks my husband about one hour later. And got the exact same answer. The Stupe seems to operate under the (antiquated and sexist notion) that my husband is behind much of the HPD complaints, DOB inspections, etc., here. He isn’t: I am.
*This finally got mopped up yesterday. I know this came to pass because, I shit you not, the puke had managed to eat through the fucking paint!
Why would someone paint a tile floor you ask? Very simple: it’s a nice way for the Stupor to kick some business to his retarded cronies and pocket a little dough. Oh— and didn’t I mention already that the Stupor is a fucking moron?
Today’s “Dung of the Day” comes from a frequent commentor here at New York Shitty. “Rebecca11222” writes:
I call this pile “Fargo.”
The lattice-work layers of the poop on top of the snow remind me of Grandma’s apple pie in Winter. And the lone cigarette butt reminds me that poop don’ git done by itself. But why the cliche of the single gig butt lying near the aftermath of dog butt? I’d like to believe that the dog needed a fix after laying down the brown, but it’s probably just some asshole not taking responsibility for his dog or himself.
If you wanna see something choice, check out the creepy bodega on Manhattan Avenue between Huron and India Street*. The one where old Hispanic dudes loiter, watch television and hiss at female passersby. They’re a real bunch of charmers, these guys. Here is a picture of their handiwork. Here’s another one.
Be advised that a sign has been erected requesting that they cease littering. I seriously doubt it will do any good. They’re a bunch of fucking pigs.
*NOT Green and Huron Streets as indicated in this article I read recently. An article, I would like to add, that is one of the biggest pieces of smug white liberal horseshit I have ever read in my life. And given that I AM a white liberal, that’s really saying something.
It depresses me to no end to see that so-called progressives believe in the good ol’ Calvinist/Victorian work ethic, e.g.; these ‘bums’ live on the street because they cannot or will not work. To be “workless” (or poor) is indicative of a lack of moral character. Or conversely, in the case of this offal, the bum ‘earns’ his right to sit on the author’s stoop by handling her packages. NICE.
The reason ‘bums’ blight this neighborhood is because we, the registered voters of this fine country, have failed them. A number of these men have very serious substance abuse and emotional problems. They should be in a residential treatment program, not being some bitch’s ghetto-ass concierge.
You’re one arrogant cunt, Sabine.
P.S.: Get your damn facts straight. Fuckweasel.
After a pleasurable day trip last Saturday, my husband and I came home to find a new
pool spatter of vomit on our landing. By all appearances it looks like the author of this puke leaned over the railing of the third or fourth floor and let it rip. Or at least this is what my Court T.V. viewing habits would lead me to believe.
This still blights my building as I write this post. And there it will remain until someone cleans it up. It sure as fuck isn’t gonna be me, I’ll tell you that much. I did my good deed two years ago. I had to; it was stinking up the entire second floor.
It was the morning of the Puerto Rican Day parade. It was already getting very balmy when my husband and I left the apartment at 11:00 a.m. When we arrived home two hours later (after running errands) our senses were assaulted by one of the most vile odors I have ever smelled in my life. I’m talking about the kind of stink that makes your eyes water. Bad.
Covering my mouth, I looked around the foyer of our building to find the source. This didn’t take long: someone had puked BEHIND the door leading to the stairwell. As shit-faced as this person was, he (or she) had the presence of mind to ‘hide’ it. I still chuckle at this stupid and futile gesture.
Naturally, I brought this to the attention of the Stupor— and he did what he does best: absolutely nothing. I finally broke down and cleaned it up one hour later. I suppose this was (is?) still better than giant puke monster that inhabits my floor now. At least that one was good for a laugh.
My neighbor in apartment #8 and I have a very good idea who is responsible for this (latest) incident. This is not a very difficult task given that there are only 8 occupied apartments in this building; once you rule out my floor and all the older married couples, only one apartment is left.
P.S.: I have added this item to my “House of Pain“. If the latest building-wide scuttlebutt is true, I suspect there will be much, much more to come. So stay tuned. Word has it that apartment 6 has been rented out to an old Polish man who “reeks of alcohol”. Great.
Yesterday evening I found a very special submission in my inbox.
Not only does this photo feature Greenpoint’s nastiest sign-maker, but the person who sent it is someone Miss Heather holds in high esteem: none other than Kevin Walsh, the creator of Forgotten New York! Way cool. Thanks!!!
This was found on West St about a year ago…ab(ou)t Green St.
I actually remember seeing this and laughing my ass off. I have mulled over giving dog shit walking tours, but frankly, it’s a little too unpredictable. I am of the belief that selling Mr. Poopyhead merchandise is a much better use of my talents (READ: two art degress) anyway. I worked on this project yesterday and it it looks very promising.
P.S.: I also have a line of thong underwear featuring chicken bones in the works. Tres Sexy!
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
Yesterday morning I got up early so I could buy some garlic bagels at the Garden before they sold out. There are serious benefits to shopping at the Garden early on a Sunday morning. For starters, you avoid the stroller nazis—- which is a good thing for me, because they piss me off royally. Secondly, the powers that be there play some fierce tunes before ‘peak’ shopping hours. This particular morning I got to rock out to Billy Idol’s “Rebel Yell” while foraging for breakfast foodstuffs. I enjoyed this tremendously.
Anyhoo, on my walk to the Garden I came across the remains of one swinging party. Perhaps someone decided to celebrate Chinese New Year? Although there are no Chinese people to speak of in Greenpoint, an
opportunity excuse for partying ’til one pukes is seldom left unexploited. And this person had clearly partied hard, as you will see…
Confetti was involved.
Fornication came to pass.
Lots of fornication.
While I’m happy to see that safe sex practices were followed, I found this a bit unsettling.
Note the phone card located under the hypodermic. I’ve heard of drunk dialing, but junk(ie) dialing? Long distance no less. Wow.
And like all good things, this party had to come to an end.
This explosive spray of vomitus was located in front of the C-Town. When I walked by there later I noticed that it had been removed. I suspect either a dog ate it or the store Manager decided that having a rancid pile of puke outside the entrance (or more importantly, the EXIT) of his/her grocery store was not good for business.
P.S.: Later this same day my husband and I returned to the Garden to get (yet more) food. Van Halen’s Dancing in the Streets was playing over the PA system. I busted out some moves I learned while watching Mexican music videos recently. This irritated/embarrassed my husband to no end, thus increasing my pleasure/hamming it up ten-fold. He hates it when I dance in public.
Gotta get back to mopping the kitchen. To make this chore more interesting, I have decided to pretend that I am Diamond Dave. The mop is my mike. About five minutes ago I marched into the hallway and shouted Mr. Roth’s monologue from Unchained to my husband who happened to be sitting in the living room. He was clad in a t-shirt and boxer shorts. I just about pissed my pants laughing. He was not amused.