Last weekend I was feeling adventurous so I ventured across the Greenpoint Avenue Bridge to (gasp!) Queens. Below is a map indicating the area I checked out.
This disorienting no manâ€™s land (nestled between the Long Island Expressway and Newton Creek) is known by several names. Some call it Long Island City, others say it is Sunnyside. I have created my own (very) off-color moniker for this â€˜hood, as you will soon learn.
Anyone who has had Greenpoint History 101 will tell you that Neziah Bliss was the driving force behind my neighborhoodâ€™s development. In 1838 Mr. Bliss shelled out the dough to have the land surveyed. The result of this endeavor is the grid-work of streets that riddle Greenpoint to this day. As a consequence, the Bliss name is venerated here; he is Greenpoint nobility.
What a number of people do not realize is that Mr. Bliss was also responsible for development in adjoining Queens. This includes the area I perused yesterday. This parcel of land was once called â€˜Blissvilleâ€™ (in honor of its founder). After inspecting his namesake neighborhood I humbly recommend that it be rechristened â€œPissville”. This is because it is friggin’ nasty.
If I had to describe Pissville in one sentence this would be this: take the worst features of Greenpoint and Long Island City and cram them into the armpit that is the Long Island Expressway. Pretty sexy, huh? Follows are some highlights from my Pissville experienceâ€¦ with PICTURES!
WELCOME TO PISSVILLE
When I reached the apex of the Greenpoint Avenue Bridge the first two businesses I laid eyes upon were two shuttered storefronts. One was clearly a bodega, the other was more ambiguous; it had an orange awning with the word â€œCirclesâ€ emblazoned on it. â€œThat has got to be a titty barâ€ I mumbled to myself. When I got home later and googled the address (36-21 Review Avenue) I discovered that I was correct. (The previous link is NSFW — Ed. Note.)
I failed to take photo of this fine establishment, but suffice it to say that it looked like the kind of strip joint where the dancers probably wear control top thongs to keep wiggle and jiggle to a dull roar. If Medusaâ€™s face could turn oneâ€™s person into stone— or if the god of the Old Testament could convert heathens into glorified saltlicks, the sight of this place is more than enough to give anyone (not wearing a hazmat suit) a raging case of herpes. Valtrex, anyone?
FPUCKED YOUR MOTHER
After being greeted with the promise of tits and ass, I thought to myself: “This place has personality.”
And it is not a very nice one.
I do not wish to suggest that I find Pissville unlikeable. Even though Charles Bukowski is one of my favorite authors (to make metaphor), I sure as hell would not want him as a next door neighbor— if you know what I mean. But if you were to locate Mr. Bukowski (READ: Pissville) safely on the other side of Newtown Creek everything would be peachy keen. That way I can savor its unique charm (and/or some anonymous person’s boast of defiling my mother) whenever the mood suits me.
Kenny does not appear to be a very popular guy…
but “Joe” is clearly missed by many. May he rest in peace.
Amusingly enough, Pissville (as laden with garbage and foul language as it is) was strangely bereft of dog shit. That said, I did not go away empty handed.
Although it is not discernable in the above photo, the author of this signature shit used an inter-office memo as toilet paper. Perhaps it was a disgruntled worker from Kenny’s? This turd taco can be found at 51-26 34th Street.
And here is a little something I discovered across the street from this shit sandwich…
A BIGASS CONDOMINIUM BUILDING!
- This ‘nabe is appointed with little more than a bodega and a titty bar.
- The sidewalks are covered with garbage.
- Someone residing here claims to have done dirty things to my mother. This dude must have the longest schlong on the east coast ‘cuz my mother resides in New Mexico. I am not sure what “pucking” is, but I bet it is something so nasty that even a crack whore charges extra for it.
- This building is not located anywhere near a subway station, and…
- under the right conditions the area probably reeks of exhaust fumes (from the L.I.E.) and the putrid stink from the waste water plant across Newton Creek.
Who do I make my check out to?
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
This morning (upon discovering that Dreamhost was down) I decided to go for walk. Follows are a few things I saw of interest.
The fine gentlemen at the Franklin Corner Store saw fit to make a statement about global warming and climate change.
The residents at 204 Franklin Street are attempting to combat the dog crap problem while keeping with the spirit of the holiday.
141 Kent Street could clearly care less. Christmas, Halloween, Easter— these ‘holidays’ are nothing more than an opportunity for kids get hopped up on sugary food… and parents drinking heavily in order to make the resulting mayhem tolerable.
Thankfully, the “Beer Bunny” was kind enough to leave 143 Kent Street a little something to take the edge off.
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
Yesterday I read an article in the April issue of Greenline entitled “Too Little, Too Late?”. As some of you can probably deduce, the subject of this piece was housing. And after I completed the second paragraph of this opus I learned that:
…plans for 459 units of affordable housing on the waterfront and 246 in the upland area (Where the fuck is that? McGuinness Boulevard? East New York?!?— Ed. Note) are…
to quote the HPD representative who spouted this bullshit “in the pipeline.”
Of course they are, I thought to myself. If there is one thing I can safely assert about the housing situation here, it is this: if you (and yours) earn under $100,000 a year (yes, I just typed six figures) and seek a domicile— be it a rental or for purchase— you might as well drop dead. 705 ‘affordable units’ of housing?!? Houseshit!
Perhaps I should revise the previous figure to 706 because today I discovered a bona fide piece of affordable housing. It is located in the ‘upland’ area of Greenpoint at 218 India Street…
or would that be 216 India Street? This cozy ‘starter apartment’ was not labeled, so both of the previous addresses are little more than educated guesses. Regardless, I liked their flexible terms in regards to financing.
I’m not too sure I like the “ass” part, but accepting a lid (or two) of weed as rental payment is probably sound business practice. Checks bounce, our money isn’t worth shit anyway, so why not implement the ‘grass standard’? Marijuana: America’s other greenback.
A great number of you (who are undoubtedly interested in this wonderful real estate opportunity) may harbor concerns about security. I will put this issue to rest here and now. Although 218 India Street is not appointed with jimmy-proof locks, a buzzer system or security cameras, its neighbor (222 India Street) has a Doberman Pinscher on the premises for your peace of mind. (Or to take a piece out of some unfortunate trespasser’s ass.)
The word on the street is that this canine is a real cocksucker. (Yeah, that was a cheap shot. If it wasn’t for cheap thrills I would have lost the will to live a long, long time ago. Sue me.)
Last— but hardly least— here is my favorite feature of 128 India Street.
New York Shitty, I present the Play-Mor Palace!
Filed under: Area 51
That’s alright, because the above photo (provided by “Rebecca11222”) is infinitely more disturbing. Notice how this sign fails to indicate whether or not these “baby lambs”, “baby goats” and “rabbits” still have a pulse. I s’pose what you’ll get is anyone’s guess. Nonetheless, I betcha one very special child (residing near Metropolitan Avenue and Leonard Street which is where this store is located) found a very special treat in his Easter basket this morning.
P.S.: The dude in this photo looks WAY too interested in those baby goats.
Filed under: Area 51
Yesterday I got a nice chuckle from some good-natured ribbing I received via NYMag’s “Neighborhood Watch”. In fact, I liked it enough to fire off a little email telling them so.
My missive read as follows:
You guys crack me up.
Truth be told, dog shit in Greenpoint is sort of like Jenna Jamesonâ€™s naughty bits: thereâ€™s more than enough of it to go around. In fact, I would go so far as to say the more the merrier.
Later that evening I glanced at my inbox to discover… a response!
Dear Miss Heather:
We’re trying to start a rampant blog fight. Or some sort of Hatfield-McCoy fued among Brooklyn neighborhoods.
Thanks for checking in with us.
I am the kind of person who likes to help others. It is simply my nature. After some serious thought, I fired off a suggestion to my new Internet friend:
My recommendation (in regards to starting an internecine Brooklyn blog shit storm) would be to refer to the area around Montrose Avenue as â€œBushwick*â€. I sâ€™pose if I was duped by some real estate broker into paying an ungodly amount of money to live in that shithole I would be defensive too.
So there you have it, folks.
If anyone from the Daily Intelligencer is reading this, you can make the check payable to “Miss Heather”.
*Because it is. One of my best friends lives down there. She once saw a man applying shellac to dismembered chicken feet for fuck’s sake! Naively, my friend asked this dude if he working on an art project. He wasn’t. Which brings me to the word of the day: Santeria.
Filed under: Area 51
This morning (having the desire to goof-off and for wont of anything to write about) I sojourned over the Reverend Spyro’s Snakeoil Emporium to see what’s shaking. When I got there I was assaulted by a rather lengthy rant whose scathing wit and pure vitriol not only came close to searing out my eyeballs out, but also made me laugh my ass off.
All you west coast transplants who piss and moan about New York Shitty, watch out! Spyro will administer a verbal smack-down that you will not soon forget. God only knows, I won’t.
My father once told me that I have no ambition. Not only did I find this statement to be hurtful, but it was (and is) also untrue. I do, indeed, have ambition; it is simply of a very idiosyncratic bent.
I have never been attracted to the conventional, be it in art or life. Anyone can be a doctor, lawyer, professor or the president of the United States nowadays, big damned deal. Miss Heather craves a bona fide challenge. This is why I aspire to be not only the Dog Shit Queen of Greenpoint (and the greater NYShitty metropolitan area), but also its local ‘boss’.
If there was ever a time this ‘hood needed the likes of Peter J. McGuinness, it is now. If Pete could only see the shit going on around here (READ: luxury condos and coke-addled trustifarian hipsters). Man oh man would he get pissed. Heads would roll and asses (sorely in need of a good kicking) would get kicked. Repeatedly.
While I cannot profess to be another Pete McGuinness (and this is probably just as well), I think I could fill his (long vacated) shoes with both competence and style. The previous assertion can only be proven after I have secured the sinecure of “Ward Boss”, but follows is a little taste of things to come…
Every boss needs an ‘office’: a place to meet with other politicos and entertain visiting dignitaries. I am going to take a page from the book of Arthur Fonzarelli* and locate mine in the McGolrick Park women’s bathroom. After the park employees have been ejected from this facility (preferably in the most violent and degrading fashion possible— think of the mailman in Goodfellas), I will set up shop. My social secretary (a local tough) will be stationed at the entrance to meet and greet visitors.
If that stuck-up snobatorium across the East River (that calls itself New York City) can shack up its head honcho at Gracie Mansion, certainly a suitable residence can be provided for yours truly. Although I am very fond of 128 Beadel Street, it is located too far afield from Miss Heather’s four essentials: the Garden, a liquor store, “The Thing” and the Franklin Corner Store. This residence (located at 76 Green Street) fits the bill perfectly.
I have had a fixation on this domicile for some time. I call it the “Babushka House” because it is one very old house nested inside of another pretty damned old house. Take a look at this close-up of the doorway (which is ALWAYS OPEN) and you’ll see what I mean.
The Babushka House is not only bereft of so much as a single square angle (which for me, is a big plus), but I always find some strange item discarded out front. Two days ago it was a rather large log (as seen in the above photo), the Sunday before that it was a half-consumed bottle of Puerto Rican rum and an unopened jar of Vlasic pickles. I like this building’s mojo. All it needs is a fierce paint job and lots of fringe.
PILLAR OF THE COMMUNITY
A good ward boss is not some thug who extorts money from those under his (or her) care. Much to the contrary, any ward boss worth his (or her) salt takes the money he or she has extorted from outside the community and shares it with the citizens he (or she) serves. Everyone gets a little piece of the pie. Those of you do-gooders out there who bristle at the thought of “extortion”, “embezzlement” or “graft” are only fooling yourselves: all the previous are very alive and well in Greenpoint. The only real crime being perpetrated is that we are not getting our cut. Simple as that.
I seek to redress this miscarriage of justice. All because something is illegal does not necessarily mean it is also immoral (and vice versa: if something is legal that does not automatically mean it is moral). This is Miss Heather’s platform. I will be the lovably crooked woman of influence (under the influence) who resides in the lovably crooked house on Green Street. My front door will always be open to my constituency— especially if they happen to bring beer.
In return (for your patronage), I will provide a number of festive events. To this end, I would like to announce The First Annual Greenpoint Dog Shit Parade.
WHERE: I envision this event transpiring on either DuPont Street (between Manhattan Avenue and Franklin Street) or West Street (between Eagle Street and Greenpoint Avenue). I am open to suggestions.
WHEN: TBA. I am looking into how to get a parade permit. Looks like I have to call 311— that’s what nyc.gov says, anyway. That said, I am leaning towards September of this year.
WHY: If you have to ask this question, you are not worthy of participating.
HOW: This soiree will require much in the way of planning and hard work. A marching band is simply a must. The Greenpoint Peoples’ Local Auxiliary Pooper Scoop Regiment needs to be created and start drilling. And, most importantly of all, scantily clad women (and/or men dressed as women) are needed to be chorines for the Greenpoint Turdettes.
Is anyone with me on this? I am dead fucking serious. This needs to happen.
*Am I the only person who found Mr. Fonzarelli’s loitering in the men’s bathroom of Al’s really peculiar? The lavatory at a greasy spoon would probably stink to high heaven with the bouquet of blocked colon mixed with urinal cake and just a hint of stale piss. The previous leads me to believe that the Fonz had a slightly ulterior motive for spending so much time there: he liked to watch the young men pee. Under that tough guy exterior this homeboy was just another flaming queen.
Today I received an email from the person responsible for installing this public poo bag dispenser. She writes:
In my defense, when I installed all the signs (03/27/07), the location of the particular sign in question only had one bike tied to it. And a cinder block slightly pushed to the side. Perhaps I should move it up the block just a tad. The other locations of the signs are at 155 Freeman St, 118 Freeman St and one at the south corner of Eagle St and Manhattan Ave. Unfortunately, the Eagle St sign had been removed sometime this week.
The one at 118 Freeman St is actually needs a new roll of bags. I guess one can only hope the bags have been used appropriately. I also vow to hold up my crusade against the shit as long as the need is there and I am financially able.
…oh yeah and I would like to share one of my favorite little gems that I have collected… I like to call it shit ‘n’ Tanqueray. Found it at the northeast corner of Franklin St And Green St about a week ago.
I wonder if this is how Tony Sinclair takes his Tanqueray?
Thanks again for the choice turdage, Poo Bag Bandita!
I got a little chuckle over my morning coffee today when I came across this article on Gothamist. One has to wonder what the world is coming to when his (or in my case, her) elected officials are debating the ‘fire power’ of metal baseball bats versus wood ones. There has got to be something more important to pursue than arguing baseball bat physics. Nonetheless, I will state my position (for the record) regarding this ‘hot button’ issue:
- I possess two baseball bats (Louisville Sluggers, no less). They are made of wood. One has a shoe and sock attached to it and looks a little like a human leg. I found this item on the sidewalk along McDonald Avenue eight years ago.
- If I was struck in the head with a baseball bat, I honestly wouldn’t care what it was made of: pain is pain.
- It has been my observation that grown adults are the ones who cannot be trusted to wield this item responsibly, not children.
The lattermost of the three previous points reminds me of a crime blotter item I read a week ago in the June 25, 1901 edition of the Brooklyn Daily Eagle. The reporter fails to note the composition of the baseball bat involved in this incident, but then again that isn’t really germane to the moral of the story. Read on and you’ll see what I mean…
Attacked a Stranger Who Used a Bat to Defend Himself
Martin Hughes, 45 years old, of 260 Oakland street (now known as McGuinness Blvd. — Ed. Note), was severely beaten yesterday by a stranger whom he assaulted on the street. Hughes’ son, James, of 93 Clay Street, called at the home of his father yesterday and the two men started out and visited several saloons. Before long there were in a fighting mod. As they walked down Manhattan avenue they were noticed by a number of men standing on the corner of Clay Street. The men, knowing of Hughes’ quarrelsome nature, moved away. Just then, however, a younger man was passing along carrying a bat in his hand. It is said that the elder Hughes struck the stranger in the face without the slightest provocation, knocking him down.
When the young man regained his feet he retailiated by striking the old man over the head with a bat, causing a scalp wound, and knocking him down. The younger Hughes then went to his father’s assistance, but the stranger turned on him and beat him over the head and back with the bat. It was at first thought that the men had been seriously injured and some one called up the police headquarters and the reserves were sent from the Greenpoint avenue station house, where Ambulance Surgeon Rorke of St. Catherine’s Hospital was summoned and dressed the wounds of the father, who was permitted to go home. The younger Hughes, however, refused to permit the ambulance surgeon to dress his injury, and declared that the only thing he wanted was to get a “whack” at the other man. He was locked up on the charge of disorderly conduct. He was arraigned in the Manhattan avenue court this morning before Magistrate O’Reilly and was held for examination.
NOTE TO SELF: Do not start a fist fight with a man wielding a baseball bat.
Filed under: Area 51
I recently mentioned that the peeps hereabouts are not too happy with the construction going on at
I have yet to speak to a single person in this ‘nabe who approves of this project. Everyone I have talked to resents this obnoxious, ugly, noisy and (very) unnecessary slab of (yet more) ‘luxury development’. But talk is just that: talk.
One local landlord is actually trying to do something about it.
Goliath, meet your David:
131 Huron Street, managed by one Larry Schwab. This humble tenement building has the dubious honor of abutting the 110 Green Street construction site on two sides: east and north. I am certain the fact that 131 Huron’s eastern wall was rendered ‘plumb’ a little shy of 10 years ago is one source of concern to Mr. Schwab (otherwise the building’s record per the DOB and HPD was pretty clean). But I strongly suspect fielding calls from angry tenants is the primary fly in his proverbial ointment. The poor souls whose apartments are located in the rear of this building (or worse yet, the tenants of this garage apartment) have got to be going out of their fucking minds from the noise and lack of privacy.
As it happens, I spoke to Mr. Schwab briefly this evening via telephone and got the scoop. Here is a synoposis of what he told me…
- He has attempted to work with the management of 110 Green in good faith.
- 110 Green told him that engineers would be on hand to ensure that the demolition/construction process would be as unobtrusive as possible to his tenants andthe well-being of his property.
- This did not happen.
- Mr. Schwab’s tenants are going apeshit. Some want to move out (understandably).
- He also has concerns about 110 Green undermining the stability of his building.
- His calls to 110 Green are not being returned, so…
- he is taking the matter to court.
I have no doubt that this is going to get very, very interesting. Per Mr. Schwab, he is getting calls from (other) angry residents who are tired of getting banged repeatedly by Magic Johnson’s crew. Stay tuned!*
*Or you can read the New York Sun. Mr. Schwab has been contacted by a reporter from this paper, but has yet to be interviewed. NY Sun: you’ve just been out-scooped by the Dog Shit Queen of Greenpoint. Mazel Tov!
P.S.: I’d like to give a shout-out to my homeboy at The Gowanus Lounge for pointing out the flaccid pile driver in the photo featured in this post. I don’t know much about such devices. Prior to this contraption making my life utter hell I thought the term ‘pile driver’ meant Ron Jeremy’s ‘equipment’.