Today I was showing my mother a few blogs I like to read, including one written by my upstairs neighbor HQ. This man has the cutest fucking dog in all of Greenpoint (and perhaps in all the world): Magellan. I wanted my mother to see a photo of him.
Pretty damn cute, huh? Well, apparently under this cute exterior lies the mind of a mischievious little shit.
The above photo is a little taste of the goodness featured in this post. Do read it. It is very, very funny.
Photo Credit: HQ
When I got home last night I found a very interesting message in my flickr mail:
i live down the street from you at 106 green street! i found your blog when a friend of a friend was asking where i lived- i said green street, and then they asked me if i wrote a blog about dog shit… naturally, my curiosity was piqued, so i checked out your blog later that evening. it’s fantastic! anyway, it has been strangely helpful to read someone else rant about the condo development happening at 110. my bedroom is RIGHT FUCKING NEXT TO IT, and as you can imagine, life at home has been utter hell over the past few months. remember that day in february when all the firetrucks and police stopped by? that was because a 2’x2′ hole was poked through the wall of my upstairs neighbors’ apartment (Emphasis mine— Ed. Note). sweet jesus! anyway, just thought i would say hello!
Sweet Jesus indeed!
For the record, I do remember that day in February. It sucked.
I have been crazy busy of late. Not only do I have my Forgotten-NY post to draft, dog shit to document, kitty cats to capture and the endemic insanity that permeates my existence to moderate, but I have also had to do all the previous while entertaining a series of family members who have decided to pay our fine city, the one and only New York Shitty, a visit. Mayor Bloomberg should give me a kickback for all the tourism revenue I have generated. Seriously.
It has long been my desire to erect a shitcam so I can document the gradual deterioration of an errant piece of dog poo. Perhaps this will come to pass someday but in the meantime I have tracked the progress one pile of shit— and its ‘staying power’ is somewhat disquieting.
69 Second Avenue, Manhattan
March 25, 2007
My sister-in-law was in town from March 22, 2007 to March 26, 2007. When I found the above offering just south of St. Mark’s Place I had to point it out to her. She thought it was as funny as I was. We both bothered my husband to pick up those two pennies up for us. He refused. So I took a picture of them instead. A couple passersby thought this (a 30-something year old broad shooting a photo of a pile of crap while shouting, “Hey Sam, do you want a penny!?!“) was one of the funniest things they had ever seen. Go figure.
Now jump to…
69 Second Avenue, Manhattan
April 13, 2007
My mother, husband, cousin and I walked by the same spot…
and the poop and (one of) the pennies was still there!
Through rain, sleet or snow, New York Shitty delivers!
To summarize, this discovery has:
- given the phrase “tough shit” a whole new meaning. After almost 3 weeks of exposure to the elements it is still there. Perhaps our government should conduct research on this substance? The way I see it, after we manage to blow each other into oblivion (and apes evolve from man), the charred remains of the Statue of Liberty will not be our civilization’s legacy; it will be an petrified pile of dog shit. I can only hope that when the archeologists find this they interpret it as some kind of burial ritual. After the body is laid to rest, a pile of dog shit and two pennies are left to facilitate his (or her) soul’s journey into the bowels of the underworld. Sort of like Anna Nicole Smith.
- provided prima facie evidence that under the right conditions currency can be rendered so repulsive (READ: encrustated with SHIT) that not even a junkie or derelict will pick it up.
Filed under: Area 51
I saw this flyer today at the Triangolo Pizzeria as I was headed to Manhattan to meet up with my mother and cousin. This is the kind of thing that makes a person think. Not only was this woman killed at a point in her life when she would otherwise have a long and bright future ahead, but it made me feel really sad to think about the pain her parents (and loved ones) are undoubtedly going through right now. I was alive to see my mother today, she wasn’t: because someone was clearly too drunk or too worried about going to jail to face the consequences of his (or her) actions.
This is not cool. I for one hope this person gets caught. Sure, it won’t bring Ms. Henk back, but at least it will give some kind of closure to the people who loved her enough to trek all the way up to Greenpoint to put up this poster.
Tonight I am going to be self-indulgent and write about a post about a kitty I know: one Haile Selassie. He currently resides at the BARC shelter, but until about two weeks ago he was my neighbor. From the mean streets of Greenpoint to the blue chip hipster haven of Williamsburg, Mr. Selassie is, to quote George Jefferson, “Movin’ on up” in the world.
I first became acquainted with Haile about 2 1/2 years ago. Every so often he would pay our apartment a ‘visit’, much to the consternation of our cats. One time my cat Uni and he were having a stand-off, nose to nose, through my bedroom window. Neither one was very happy to see the other. Uni was scratching at the glass like the Tasmanian Devil, which was pretty remarkable given that she hardly moves from her spot on the bed on any given day. Seriously, this gal is fucking lazy. Even for a cat.
Boy was she was pissed, but Haile kept his cool. He simply turned around, positioned his hindquarters just so and managed to discharge a heaping helping of spray right at her face. This did little to assuage her anger. From that day I on referred to him as “Clarence Thomas” and called Uni “Anita Hill” because (after that incident) they had a special ‘thing’ for each other— and it was most decidely NOT love at first sight.
Soon thereafter I learned that my next door neighbors were providing Haile (formerly known as Mr. Thomas*) with food and water. I suspect he was (is) either a runaway or a throw-away because around the time Haile came on the scene I noticed flyers around the neighborhood featuring a “lost cat” whose description matched him to a “t”. If this lost cat was Haile, no one came forward and as a consequence, the area behind my apartment became his home. If I went out there to read, Haile would come over and say “Hi”— albeit while keeping his distance. Last August when my husband and I were out back roasting chili peppers for 3 hours Haile kept us company. Perhaps he has a penchant for spicy food? Only Haile knows and he isn’t talking.
This routine changed when the building next door was gut-renovated last September. After not seeing Haile for awhile, my husband and I thought (hoped) our former neighbors took him with them when they moved out. Earlier this year we learned this was not so; not only did the visits resume, but he pulled the ‘piss in the face’ trick on another one of our cats. This act precipitated a feline feud at Chateau de Ghetto that took 15 minutes and a water gun (that had to be reloaded TWICE), to put down. Although this was not an enjoyable event, my husband and I admired Haile’s raw chutzpah. We even laughed about it later and I thought to myself: “Yeah, this cat is 100% Greenpoint through and through.”
Now jump forward to two weeks ago. The visits became more frequent because Haile was clearly hungry. He would show up at our kitchen window every time I served supper to our little pride. I shit you not, the poor fella licked his lips whenever I would open a can of cat food. I suspect most of you can deduce what happened next: I started feeding Haile too. (Miss Heather may hate dog shit, but she loves animals.)
Shortly thereafter I contacted Lisa Vallez (of BARC) and we set up a trap to catch Mr. Selassie. To his credit, Haile is one clever cat: the first time he set off the trap, he managed to eat the food without getting caught. Exasperated, I rummaged through the fridge looking for something especially enticing to put in there… and I found it: marinated lamb leftovers from Ghenet Restaurant.
Mind you, this was only 36 hours after being violently ill with stomach flu— and one of the things that made the roundtrip into and out of my mouth (and nose) was Ethiopian leftovers. The sight and smell of this foodstuff made me queasy, but being the proud person I am, I was not about to be outsmarted by a cat— no matter how cute he is. Haile was gonna get in that cage if it killed the both of us.
Thankfully, it did not come to that. One minute (if that) after placing the lamb in the trap I heard a loud “SNAP“. I peeked out the window and lo, there Haile was in the cage! Hence how he got his new (and decidely more politically correct) name: Haile Selassie. Although he found the Wellness wet food perfectly acceptable, his taste for Ethiopian marinated lamb from a top drawer dining establishment facilitated his capture. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised by his epicurian tastes: Mr. Selassie sports a tuxedo coat, an ascot, white ‘spats’ and gloves. He was clearly born to appreciate the finer things in life, but life saw fit give him something else. Until now.
Thankfully, Haile has a new (and hopefully temporary) home at BARC. Aside from an eye infection (and missing three teeth), he has a clean bill of health: no FIV, no feline leukemia. I imagine it will take a little time for him to learn to trust humans again, but can you blame him? Perhaps it is wishful thinking on my part, but I think Haile will come around.
P.S.: I would like to give a big shout out of thanks to Lisa (who also took the above photo) and the peeps at BARC for helping Haile have a shot at a better life. God only knows, he deserves it.
*As unbelievable as it may sound, until recently I never considered the racial implications regarding my choice of moniker for this cat. I am not Don Imus, thank you. Rather, I have a strange (and probably unwholesome) fascination with the Clarence Thomas/Anita Hearings of yore— especially Mr. Thomas’s quip about finding a public hair in his Coke. Every so often when I am at a party (or some other public gathering— especially art openings) and find myself getting bored, I will shout “Someone put a pubic hair in my Coke!” just to see the look on peoples’ faces. I strongly recommend doing this, the response is priceless.
The previous having been said, I (fairly) recently found myself applauding something Mr. Thomas did: his letter of dissent regarding the Supreme Court’s decision to allow eminent domain for private use. He said something to the effect of ‘urban renewal is negro removal’. Not only is the man right, but his tome should be expanded to ‘urban renewal is poverty removal’. One needs not be black to be poor.
As I have gotten along in years (or perhaps have become more aware things— or both), I have noticed that being poor is an unwritten crime in this country. The popular perception seems to be that a person is poor due to a simple lack of moral character. The thought that our government’s lack of moral character (and we, the people’s voting patterns) may be responsible for making these people poor and keeping them that way has clearly not crossed these peoples’ minds. Instead we sweep them under the rug. Good for U.S.
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
April 10, 2007, 6:40 a.m.
April 11, 2007, 6:46 a.m.
April 12, 2007, 6:48 a.m.
The pile-driver at 110 Green Street has been eerily silent of late. No worries, another source of irritation (READ: psychosis-inducing sleep deprivation) has reared its ugly head: the contractors who are upgrading a transformer for the G train in front of my apartment building.
This brings me to the above-listed dates and times: these indicate when I have been awakened by this crew making an UNGODLY amount of noise. I am talking about a colossal din that makes my brick shithouse of an apartment building rattle. Scary. As a result, I have not had a contigious eight hours of sleep until today. I cannot over-emphasize how much better I feel.
The same cannot be said about yesterday. It was the third morning of total and utter fucking chaos and I was going out of my mind. I understand that these guys have a job to do and all that happy horseshit, but SO DO I and all the other people whose apartments overlook this site. All because some of us keep different hours due to being ‘night people’ or working the graveyard shift (and many people here do), doesn’t mean we should be singled out for this cruel and unusual punishment.
What’s more, their shenanigans have claimed another unwitting victim: my younger cousin Jennie, who happens to be visiting right now. She and my mother arrived in New York Shitty the evening of April 11th and checked into their hotel. The next morning we were to talk on the phone and come up with some sort of plan for the day. This task is usually delegated to me by my husband. He says it’s because he will “just screw it up anyway”. I say it’s because he doesn’t want to do it. ANYHOO…
My mother calls and my husband puts her on speakerphone. In hindsight, this was probably not a wise call on his part…
Me (to my mother): …I’m really sorry, my brain just isn’t working too good right now.
Mamasan: Well grab a cup of coffee to wake you up and get down here.
Me: I am tired because some ASSHOLE woke me up at 6:48 this morning. This has been going on for THREE DAYS.
Mamasan: Was it the cats?
Me: No, it was not the fucking cats. The contractors who are doing work for the MTA have been firing up their heavy machinery before 7:00 a.m. for the last three days.
Me: IT IS NOT FUNNY! It’s so loud it even wakes Sam up. I am so fucking sick of this shit I think I am going to call the city.
Mamasan: (*chirp, chirp*)
Let me tell you a few things:
- I have not seen my cousin in over ten years.
- She was raised in a much more devout household than myself (READ: Southern Baptist). I cannot recall this person using profanity of any kind. Ever.
- I, on the other hand, drop f-bombs and other colorful phrases with total abandon. The only reason I never got in trouble for doing so when I was younger is because my mother felt it would hypocritical to punish me for using language I had clearly learned from my own father.
- Although I can exercise restraint (regarding the use of the above-mentioned language), my ability to do so is severely compromised when I have had not had a normal night’s sleep IN THREE DAYS.
I’m really sorry Jennie. Then again, you were probably going to hear someone drop a salvo of f-bombs (or worse) eventually. I mean, this IS New York after all. Perhaps it’s better that you got a taste of it from your own flesh and blood first. Oh yeah, welcome to New York Shitty.
Filed under: Area 51
You may be gone, but your legacy lives on. Please put in a good word for me, as I would be delighted to be your cell mate in heaven, hell or purgatory. I’m putting my money on purgatory ‘cuz between you, me, and Mark Twain, I suspect neither god nor satan would want us.
Filed under: Area 51
- Kevin Walsh (of Forgotten-NY) for giving me props in his recent piece featuring
- Contemptster, for being deferential to the Dog Shit Queen of Greenpoint’s doo doo expertise. Check this one out, it’s a fun read.
- Slices of the City, for adding me to their blogroll. Although I do not eat pizza often, when I do it sure as fuck better be good. The only thing I hate more than bad pizza is bad Chinese food.
- ‘Mookie Singerman’, whose comment regarding New York Shitty (and my mother) made me shoot coffee out of my nose (because I was laughing my ass off). Those of you out there who have actually met my mother would understand why his comment would strike me as being hilarious.
- Lastly I want to give a shout out to Morgan Friedman of Overheard in New York for giving me the heads up that an item I submitted will be featured in tomorrow’s issue of Metro New York.
To quote Jeff Spicoli:
Awesome! Totally Awesome!
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
This week I have found two— count ’em TWO— photos on Manhattan Avenue. The first one was located in front of Alfenet Consulting, the latter, in front of the Mexican grocery that is located, get this— TWO doors away. Here they are for all to enjoy…
Bring on the brown sugah!
Bring on the:
- Screwdrivers and…
- Time Magazine?!?
When I find shit like this it just goes to show how incredibly fucking dull my life really is. I didn’t know Keith Richards lived in Greenpoint. Perhaps I should bake a nice casserole and welcome him to the neighborhood?
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
This evening I had the pleasure of moderating a comment regarding my recent piece about 110 Green Street. Lara writes:
Great site! Thought you might like to see my video of this so called “pile driver” (new term for me as well). And just so you know…yep, I reside directly in front of this hell hole…look right out over it. The video was shot from my window.
Check it out at: http://onesweetworld.wordpress.com
Just in case you didn’t get enough of it already!!
Thanks Lara! Please accept my sincerest condolences.