I have been chasing dog crap for well over a year now. Consequently, I find myself constantly scouring the ground for new ‘treasure’. Even at home. Five minutes ago I became very grateful to have this odd but otherwise innocuous habit; as I was exiting my apartment I noticed someone (or something) had deposited puddle of phlegm (or gack) directly outside my front door.
Think twice before you click the above link. It’s friggin’ nasty.
Filed under: Area 51
Yesterday an anonymous commentor on The Gowanus Lounge had the gall to take issue with my colorful language, among other things:
Nice potty mouth, Miss Heather, way to go. Talk about upbringing! And you are offended by the sight of a toddler peeing? Get a life.
Is it me, or someone taking issue with profanity— much less calling me a “potty mouth”— sort of ironic given that the topic I was passionately commenting about was public urination? More specifically, I was taking issue with a 30-ish year old man who elected to hold his 3-4 year old child’s penis as he tinkled on the street. Speaking for myself, public parental penis wrangling is much more objectionable than the odd f-bomb (or two). It’s enough to make me wonder about this dude’s upbringing. Maybe Michael Jackson was his nanny?
Come to think of it, I learned just about every nasty epithet I know from my dad. Time-tested classics such as:
- Fuck (in all its many forms and applications)
- Jesus Christ
- Judas Priest
- Cocksucker (a big favorite of my old man)
- Son of a bitch
This is why my mother never punished me for using profanity; she knew I learned all the above words from her own husband. She felt disciplining me for using words I heard 4,5,6+ times a day at home would be hypocritical. Only the word “cunt” was picked up by yours truly elsewhere. I learned that one in high school. God bless public education.
Who is this mysterious man known only as Heather’s dad? Well, to give you a clearer picture of the man (and legend) I will share my favorite fatherly anecdote…
Five years ago both my grandmother and great aunt were in failing health. My parents (unable to repeatedly drop everything and drive to Texas on a moment’s notice) brought my grandparents back to their house in New Mexico. They had plenty of room to accommodate Daisy and Bertha. In fact, they only lacked one essential item: an additional bed. Dear old dad was delegated the task of rectifying this problem.
Several hours later he came home pissed off and bedless. After five minutes of gentle coaxing, my mother learned that he has been asked to leave the store. Naturally, my mother then asked WHY he was asked to leave the store. This was when the real fun began…
In order to rent a bed, my father was asked to provide references. He (rightfully) took offense at this. The salesperson advised my dad that he need only provide the names of a couple of friends for this purpose. To wit, my father replied:
All my friends are dead.
After some more bickering, he finally caved in and filled out the reference form placed in front of him. Once the salesperson saw who my father had listed as a reference, he was asked to leave the store. He had written:
William Jefferson Clinton
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW
Washington, DC 20500
That’s when my mother decided to take charge of this task and a bed was secured.
P.S.: I recently asked my dad about something he did twenty years ago. I wrote:
Remember that time you wrote â€œMagic Sucksâ€ in lipstick on the bathroom mirror? I do. What was that about? Just curious.
And here’s his reply:
I vaguely remember writing something on your mirror… but do not remember what or why! Given that I do not care for basketbell ….
I suppose “Magic” runs in the family.
I found this, the Alistair Cooke of Crap, across the street from the Northside Piers yesterday. Being a bit of a oenophile, I was impressed with the selection of wine. It has been my experience that Clarets go nicely with just about everything— even crap.
Greenpointers usually wash their dog shit down with beer. Remy Martin seems to be a popular choice here as well. I suppose blue chip digs demand blue chip shit. Only the finest for our well-heeled neighbors to the south.
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
This gentleman is a Greenpoint institution. Not only has he lived here longer than me, but he rocks some of the fiercest fashion in recorded history. He is too hot for Williamsburg to handle.
When I asked him about this, his latest ensemble, he coyly told me he simply hadn’t done laundry yet and this was all he had to wear. I strongly suspect otherwise. This junta-leader-meets-Elvis ensemble would take an average person hours to assemble. But then again, Phillip is not your average person: he is a genius.
Let’s all give a big ol’ Greenpoint salute to Phillip! Thank you for gracing our fine streets with your fine-ass self.
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
This morning I started my day by savoring tales of Park Slope public urination courtesy of The Gowanus Lounge. I found them to be quite amusing. Enough so that I felt compelled to share my very own tale of tinkling in public:
I’ll never forget the time I saw a father direct his kid to piss on the closest tree he could find. This happened to be 31st Street, Astoria. ON A SATURDAY AFTERNOON. What was really creepy was the man held the kid’s dick while he went. FOR FUCK’S SAKE— if the kid can STAND, I think he is more than capable of HOLDING HIS OWN WANG! What is it with these people?!?
After posting this delightful story I gave the subject of public-space-as-pissoir no more thought. Until 6:15 p.m. today when the following comment from Guiliacucina was submitted for my approval on New York Shitty. She writes:
Just thought Iâ€™d restore your faith in good old Greenpoint with this little gem: I was walking back to my building on Huron Street today at around 5:30 p.m. when I watched a woman hitch up her dress, pop a squat in the street in front of my place and pee in broad daylight in full view of several passersby. She was dressed like she was on her way to church. Marking her territory, perhaps? My phone had died or I would have sent photographic evidenceâ€¦
This reminded me of (yet) another act of public urination I witnessed right here in Greenpoint. It was a sight so special it shouldn’t languish on a comment board. Here it is:
NICE. I too have seen an old Polish broad lift up her skirt and let â€˜er rip. It was about 5 years ago on Manhattan Avenue. Right by a bus stop, no less.
Today the realization finally hit me: of all the times I have seen someone piss publicly in Greenpoint, the perpetrator has always been an adult, never a child. Then a knot formed in my stomach.
It’s still there.
After enduring over four hours of thumping pile driver beats, I decided to go for a walk. But right before I headed out the door I noticed that I had received an email. It was from one of my ‘nabes. A woman who is constantly tormented by Magic Johnson’s big-ass tool. She wrote:
Today’s pounding vibrated a glass jar off my counter. Maybe I should throw the shards on their site in a show of solidarity for my neighbors.
Wishing you sedatives,
Is there no end to 110 Green’s depravity? One day they are spraying 121 Huron Street with shattered glass, the next they torment a defenseless container into committing suicide. The monsters.
Well Magic’s crew may not give a flip about the safety or mental well being of their neighbors, but someone at 151 Green Street does. This person was kind enough to lay a nice bright safety cone next to a not-so-nice pile of dog shit.
Whoever did this, wherever you are— you will be mentioned in my prayers tonight.
P.S.: Looks like that sign 110 Green put up recently isn’t working too well. When I walked by there this evening all their DOB permits were gone. Whoever is responsible for this latest act of hooliganism saw fit to leave the “Keep Smiling” sign behind as a crowning flourish of “Fuck You”. Ah Greenpoint! How I love thee…
When do you know that your neighborhood is dangerously close to becoming yet another hypergentrified hellhole?
The day you find a flyer offering a “Big Reward” for a stolen Dutch Modern chair, that’s when.
After seeing what is perhaps the most hideous display of vinyl siding ever, I have decided to add “vinyl siding” as a category. What inspired this momentous decision? The thing below.
I like to call this masterpiece (formerly a tatty, but sort of neat old store front) the Suburban Assault Domicle. This vinyl siding looks like it can retract— or in the case of an emergency— seal the entire building shut with a push of a button.
I’d love to know what led up to the ‘eureka moment’ that moved the building’s owner to do this. I think a phat bag of crack (or an affection for the movie Stripes) was the deciding factor.
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
I just saw this on Manhattan Avenue.
Words fail me. Thankfully the owner of this van has more than enough to say. Exactly what point he is trying to make, however, is anyone’s guess.
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
In case you haven’t figured it out already, Monday is Greenpoint Crime Blotter Day here at New York Shitty. After learning about a hooligan on Green Street who has taken to throwing refuse at Magic Johnson’s trailer, I was reminded of a very special story from the August 16, 1897 edition of the New York Times. Not only does it feature trash throwing but it also includes attempted theft, extortion and a longhorn steer being fished out of Newton Creek. Right here in Greenpoint. Enjoy!
TEXANS ON THE RAMPAGE
THEY GIVE GREENPOINT A VAST DEAL OF EXCITEMENT
People in the progressive little suburb of Greenpoint were treated to the free view of a bull fight yesterday afternoon. The arena was Manhattan Avenue and the cross streets in the neighborhood of India Street. The matador of the occasion was a policeman. There were several long-horned wild-eyed Texas steers, but only two of them were game, and only one was killed.
Shortly after 1 oâ€™clock, while a consignment of cattle were unloading at the North Ninth Street dock, seven of them wandered out upon the street and started a tour of sight-seeing. They reached Manhattan Avenue and met the small boy in large numbers. The small boy commenced by â€œshooingâ€ them, and followed it up with throwing old shoes, tomato cans, stones, and other things that came handy. The steers became first frightened and then angry. Led by a big bay and dun, they rushed along Manhattan Avenue, scattering people right and left. While vehicles turned into the side streets. At Dupont Street the leader lowered his head and catching little Arthur Morgan on one of his long horns, tossed him high in the air. The boy fell on his head and was taken into a drug store unconscious and bleeding from a gash in his shoulder, which had been made by the sharp horns. He was afterwards sent to St. Catherineâ€™s Hospital in serious condition.
While this animal was tossing the boy the rest went on, the lead being taken by another. The bay and dun steer followed to Franklin Street, down to which he turned to Greenpoint Avenue. There he made a lunge at Daniel Murphy, and caught him on the thumb with the point of his horn, tearing the thumb badly. Further on he charged a grocery store cart, upsetting it and throwing a boy out on the pavement. Then allowed himself to be guided into a vacant lot between two houses. At the back was a high fence.
The steer looked at the fence, then at the brick walls, and turned toward the street. Then he saw a mass of people behind ropes, which had been hastily stretched, and he stood still, shaking his head and stamping his feet, while his eyes blazed and the froth dripped from his handsome mouse-colored muzzle. He seemed at a loss what to do, but his hesitation did not last long. Policeman Hasselbrook crawled under the rope with a revolver, and advanced toward the animal. As he was about to pull the trigger the steer lowered his head and charged with a roar. The bullet hit the brute in the forehead, but did not check him. Hasselbrook has seen bullfights in Spain, and applying the knowledge gained there he leaped aside and pulled the trigger again. A bullet bored its was into the animalâ€™s side just back of the shoulder. It did not stop the steer, however, and he tore through the rope and the crowd and dashed on up to India and Franklin Streets. There he suddenly paused, staggered, and fell to the pavement with a roar. Hasselbrook had followed, and borrowing a big knife from a butcher cut the animalâ€™s throat. The bullet had pierced his heart.
In the meantime the other animals had kept on along Manhattan Avenue for some blocks, and then they all scattered down the cross streets except the leader. The latter continued on his way to Hunterâ€™s Point Bridge. The draw was open, but gathering himself, he made mighty spring. He came down in the water 30 feet away. Some men in boats lassoed and took him ashore at Pottery Beach, where he was held last night for salvage… the others were captured without doing any damage, and one was out in the marsh last night. The capturers of the animals demanded $5 apiece for their trouble from the man who claimed to own them. This was William Meyers of 208 Ten Eyck Street, who said he had bought them, and was driving them to a slaughter house on Johnson Avenue. He said the dead steer did not belong to him. It is believed that Meyers is not the real owner of the animals.
P.S.: Speaking of hooliganism, I want to give a shout-out to Gothamist for this. Bravo!