Filed under: Area 51
Of all the people who have raged against the Greenpoint way of life machine my husband has been the hardest case to crack. His usual (nonsensical) rhetoric centered around him being a dandy (and wearing dinner jackets, a tie and dress shoes). In Oscar Wilde’s circle— that being Victorian England— such fettle would be fine. But in Greenpoint 2007, people are likely to think a man sporting such attire is a registered sex offender. For very good reasons, I would like to add.
Today everything changed.
As we were headed to the Metropolitan Avenue stop of the G we came across a store called Huitzilli. Contained therein were a fine assortment of Panama hats and Mexican wedding shirts. Seriously fierce wedding shirts.
This is the front.
Here is the back.
And what would a jaunty shirt be without a Panama hat to go with it?
The way I see it, all Sam needs now is a card table, a folding chair, a portable radio and a set of dominoes and he’ll be on his way to Greenpoint beatitude.
For those of you who are stylistically inclined, Huitzilli will have it’s grand opening tomorrow, July 1st.
624 Metropolitan Avenue (It’s one block east of Union Avenue. Trust me.)
As many of you are aware, I (and a fair number of other Greenpointers) have been without a telephone and Internet access since Tuesday. Initially Verizon said everything would be back up on June 28th. On June 28th, the date was pushed back to June 30th or July 1st. Now July 2nd is the supposed date for my restoration of access to the outside world. I’ll believe it when I see it.
Let’s just say I’m seriously considering taking Semaphore lessons.
But Miss Heather is not one to whine about such trivial matters. I have gone ten days without electricity. I’m still standing (albeit stinkier) after an entire week without hot water. I have shimmied through my own bathroom window— using the fire escape on the fourth floor as a fulcrum— after having my locks filled with glue by a former Superintendent’s wife.
I have learned to be resourceful. Mostly at using other people’s resources. I have spent the last five days drifting around the north Brooklyn landscape looking for one thing: Internet access. FREE Internet access. FREE AND PRIVATE Internet access.
Perhaps I have become a diva? If I am, I am a low-budget one. Any place where I have to wear a bra and intuit enough social pressure to refrain from scratching myself (and/or cleaning my ears with a Q-Tip) is simply not conducive to fomenting my creative juices. The Dog Shit Queen of Greenpoint has needs— and one of them is having non-itchy ears.
Thankfully a good friend of mine down in Bushwick lent me a hand (and her apartment keys) to this end. The last time I trudged down there I found something that made riding the (ever tardy) B43 bus and enduring the numerous shouts of “Hey mami, I love you” totally worth it.
I found this gargantuan pile of feces on Montrose Avenue just east of Humboldt.
Here is a photo that will give you some idea as to how large this revolting refuse is. It’s big.
Really fuggin’ big.
Every dark cloud has a shitty lining. And when you’re a Dog Shit Queen, that isn’t necessarily such a bad thing. This Greenpoint “Mami” loves her some Bushwick bum poo!
During my latest sojourn to Sunnyside I happened upon a house on 38th Street that shone head and shoulders over its neighbors.
St. Francis stands guard over the front door.
As I moved in closer to take the above photo, a battery-operated bird started chirping. The overall effect was a shinier, happier version of The Abominable Doctor Phibes. If Mr. Phibes decided to drop a lot of acid and move into a row house in Queens, that is.
Two captains silently hold court over this electronic menagerie from an air conditioning unit on the second story.
I saw the person who lives here; he is a teeny tiny old man. Had to be in his 70’s at the very youngest. I strongly suspect him to be a widower because I can’t imagine a woman living in this animatronic domicile. A woman’s touch this house decidedly lacks.
ectortural masterpiece hails from Kent Street just west of McGuinness Boulevard.
As you can tell from the above photo, it sports some seriously retro asphalt siding like its predecessor. What you cannot see, however, is what makes this seemingly unremarkable two story house worthy of distinction.
Please give a hearty round of applause to The Kent Street Country Bunker!
Filed under: Area 51
For those of you who are unaware, I have been without telephone and Internet service for going on three days. In fact, a great number of my fellow far north Greenpointers (Verizon customers all) are in the same predicament. The word infuriating does not begin to describe what it is like to be in such a situation. Last night I finally lost it. Here’s how it happened.
Two weeks ago I lost my credit card. I call the credit card company and make arrangements for them to send me a new one. No problem. Last weekend the PIN for my ATM card quit working. Let’s think about this: having neither a credit card nor a functioning ATM card is going to make, say buying groceries or doing laundry, a lot more difficult. I am on my last clean top as I write this.
Monday: I take a bag of change to the Key Food, pump it into the Coinstar Machine and walk away with a phat thirteen bucks. This money gets spent on food and subway fare so I am back to square one: being broke. My new credit card arrives in the mail.
Tuesday: Shortly after awakening I realize that I have no Internet or telephone service whatsoever. When I take my brand-spanking new credit card down to the local beauty supply to get some much needed hygiene products, I learn that a great number of other people are having the same problem. This became apparent after I was told that their credit card machine was not working.
I then took the subway into Manhattan, go to my credit union and withdraw $60.00. I also asked them to reset my PIN for my ATM card. This four digit ticket to accessing my own money will be mailed from Los Angeles. Great.
Wednesday: After spending a lot of money at Internet cafes, I break down and call a good friend of mine who lives in Bushwick. I ask if I can get a set of keys from her and work from her apartment on Thursday. She says sure. I am to be there at 9:00 p.m. I arrived at 9:03 p.m., we talked a little and I headed back home.
When I got to Scholes Street and Graham Avenue I discovered another hardship that comes with having no Internet access: no online weather alerts. Had I known a torrential downpour was about to commence, I would have planned accordingly. Unfortunately, I did not know this important piece of dignity-saving information and ended up getting thoroughly soaked.
As I seethed with black rage my husband made the mistake of asking:
Are you alright?
I turned around and looked at him. The ball of rage that had already formed in my stomach came forth from my mouth full force:
No, I am not O.K. I AM FUCKING PISSED!
Nary a single word was uttered the entire bus ride home.
I discovered the above tableau earlier this week on South First Street. The sign to the right reads:
To live sick better drunk.
I was initially confused by this cryptic message. Thankfully, the chaos wrought by having no telephone or Internet service for three days (thanks Verizon), has lent me a special understanding of what this truism means. What’s more, I wholeheartedly agree with it.
Right now I am at my friend’s apartment in Bushwick. I am hot; there is no air conditioning. She has left to run some laundry; I am alone. There are three bottles of Newcastle Ale in her refrigerator.
But not for much longer.
Filed under: Area 51
Not too long ago my gal pal over at 11222 was generous enough to assemble some general guidelines for patronizing the B61 bus. Although I found what she wrote both amusing and informative, I would be remiss if I didn’t go on the record and state that I disagree with her on a number of points. With the previous in mind, I have designated Eight Holy Commandments for riding the B61 bus. Here they are.
1. Thou shalt consider the bus as your home away from home and behave accordingly. No behaviour— however repulsive or obnoxious as it may be— should be considered “off limits”. This includes:
- Clipping one’s toenails or plucking hairs off one’s upper lip or chin (The latter is applicable to women only, sorry guys!)
- Feasting upon fragrant foodstuffs such as fried chicken, french fries, or pizza. For extra “bus cred”, be sure to discard the container on the floor. Remember: THIS IS YOUR HOME. Treat it accordingly.
- Making out with your boy/girlfriend. Contrary to what some uptight bus riders will tell you, most of us revel in watching your foreplay. It saves us a lot of money that would otherwise be spent renting pornography.
2. Thou shalt conduct telephone conversations of a very personal nature on the bus.
- Did you pick up a hooker in Hunter’s Point who let you bang her twice for a mere $300? Don’t keep it to yourself, call your best buddy and tell him all about it!
- Did your boyfriend fuck around with your best friend’s cousin’s little sister? Don’t bottle up all that anger: get on the phone and let it out. We want to know how you put this lying ass dog in his place. Besides, hearing FAWK YOU AND FAWK YOUR STOOPID FAWKING BULLSHIT! bellowed at 100+ decibals makes an otherwise dull commute much more provocative.
3. Thou shalt treat the bus as your personal dating service/brothel. Why outlay mad money on EHarmony or Nerve when a mere $2.00 gives you a captive audience of lovely ladies to choose from? If you even suspect that girl sitting in the back with the thousand mile stare was at a party you went to eight months ago, get out of your seat and endeavor to get into those pants. If she tells you she’s not interested, rest assured that means “maybe”. Keep talking. And talking. If this tease didn’t want your manhood she would have taken a taxi home instead.
4. Thou shalt be completely unprepared when you board the bus. Do not have your Metrocard ready— or better yet, have four or five Metrocards and not know which one has money on it. If you are feeling particularly frugal, make sure NONE of the Metrocards in your possession have money on them, as this will probably get you a free ride. It is a fact of B61 life that no matter how jam-packed the bus is, no one will have quarters to break your one dollar bills.
5. If thoust happens to be non-English speaking and deaf, thou shalt only ride the bus whilest completely inebriated, preferably when large numbers of horny party-goers are headed home. After being admonished by the bus driver to sit down, do so. After about ten seconds of being seated, stand back up. Repeat cycle. Your fellow patrons will thank you for this. Especially the ones who are on second or third base at the back of the bus.
6. Thou shalt have proper hygiene when riding the bus: none whatsoever.
7. Thou shalt get thy $2.00 worth by any means necessary:
- Feel free to carry any and all oversized items you desire on the bus. Bicycles are especially welcome.
- If you are a man, feel free to spread those legs open and air out that nutsack. The smell of your crotchpot cooking makes us girls HOT. If any woman tells you otherwise, she’s being a cooze.
- Be sure to prevent people from entering and exiting the bus. If John Q. Hipster wants to get off at Bedford Avenue badly enough, he’ll find a way.
- Handicapped seating is there for your non-handicapped enjoyment. Screw that old bag of shingles with the walker. That bitch is getting is living large off those phat social security benefits. Standing for 45 minutes will show her who’s boss.
8. Thou shalt be totally and utterly clueless. Why bother reading a bus or subway map when you have 30-40 bus patrons to do your thinking for you. If you happen to be from Manhattan be sure to:
- piss and moan ad nauseum about having to come out to Brooklyn to attend some party, art opening, etc. Keep us Brooklynites in our place.
- ask everyone within earshot if this bus “will get you to Manhattan”. When someone gives you an answer you do not like (READ: “no”) keep asking until someone gives you one more to your liking. This is a win/win situation for everyone involved; we get a chuckle at the thought of you being stranded in Red Hook at 2:30 in the morning and you get an exercise in human survival.
I do hope the above rules are helpful to all you current, soon-to-be and wannabe B61 enthusiasts. Do not hesitate to shoot me an email if I missed anything. There will be a special prize conferred upon the person who comes up with the most piquant addition to the above commandments.
Filed under: Area 51
Those of you who are interested in attending can get all the details here.
P.S.: As of 7:00 a.m. this morning a substantial area of Greenpoint lost phone and Internet service. From what I can tell the area affected is north of Greenpoint Avenue and west of Manhattan Avenue. I happen to reside in this area. Those of you who have sent me emails recently and have yet to get a response, please be patient. Verizon gave 6/28 as the date this problem would be resolved. What load of shit.
I found the above scheiss oddity yesterday behind the Key Food on McGuinness Boulevard. Many of you non-Greenpointers may not know it, but this area (Newel Street between Greenpoint Avenue and Calyer) is a hotbed of bumshit activity.
That’s probably why this building decided to take a dump; it got shit/pissed/vomited on one too many times and decided to retaliate. Or there is a bum living in Greenpoint who can blow shit rings out of his ass. If it’s the latter, I would humbly suggest that someone locate this man and give him his own cable television show.
P.S.: Be sure to check out today’s New York Daily News. I’m quoted in it!
As I indicated in the previous post, yesterday I attended the Brooklyn Blogger Meet-up in Flatbush. Afterwards, I decided to take a trip down memory lane and check out where I lived before I moved to Greenpoint. I have not laid eyes on this apartment, much less set foot in this neighborhood, since I left over seven years ago.
This is the house: 211 East 9th Street. The realtor told me the neighborhood my (former) new apartment was located in is “Kensington”. I suppose it is, though I never gave the matter much thought. I still don’t.
One day as I was walking home from the grocery store I discovered two Polaroids in front of a Co-op on East 2nd or 3rd Street. The above photograph (and its companion) were adhered to a piece of cardboard. This in turn was mounted in a cheap metal frame with a light fixture on it. It was kind of frame that usually showcases a three-dimensional rendering of Jesus or The Last Supper. You get the idea.
At the center of this ‘composition’ was a circular ring of moisture. I could tell from the odor it was lubrication. That’s when I figured out that “Blueballs” (as I like to call him) had been mounted to this very piece of cardboard at one time. Someone had seen to mount this frame. (And I am not talking about placing it over one’s couch either).
Naturally I showed my new find to all my friends. The usual response was “Did you do this?” This pissed me off. I may very well be a degenerate but I am a very meticulous craftswoman. There is no way in hell I would make something that looks like that: I would at least put the condom on the RIGHT WAY for fuck’s sake!
Thankfully I was vindicated several months later when I made another discovery so utterly fucked-up and foul that even my own friends had to admit I had no hand in it. What’s more I didn’t have to leave home to find it. One of the (numerous) problems that plagued my apartment was electrical outages. This was due to the ancient circuit breaker located in the basement. After what seemed like an endless wait for the landlord to come by and replace the fuse, I decided to act. I went downstairs.
Flashlight in hand, I slowly made my way down the stairs. Directly in front of me was the kitchen area; clearly this basement had been a studio apartment. I found the breaker box but needed more light, so I opened the front door. When I turned around I beheld the bachelor pad from hell.
The living area was roughly one hundred square feet. It was appointed with a pastel velour love seat and a coffee table. That’s it. Sort of. On top of the coffee table was a large ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. This was flanked by a pair of 40 ounce malt liquor bottles. On the floor there were more bottles, cigarette butts and four empty boxes of Rogaine. The piece de resistance was a solitary condom wrapper on the couch. The brand was Trojan and I got the hell out of dodge.
Several weeks later my buddy Mark came by to visit. Being the most ballsy of my friends, I took him downstairs. I showed him the living area and then we checked out an adjacent room I had previously missed.
It was probably four feet wide by eight feet long. Other than floor-to-ceiling maple paneling it was empty save a cot and a two foot tall stack of printed matter that appeared to be written in Arabic. It could very well have been Farsi, my memory fails me at this point.
The only words that came out of Mark’s mouth were:
It looks like they shot child porn in here.
As time waxed on, my apartment— and the neighborhood in general— wore on my nerves. My bedroom abutted a courtyard that belonged to a home for mentally ill adults. My nights were often rendered sleepless by its residents’ ranting, raving and chain-smoking. A local thug took a shine to me. I became aware of the previous one afternoon when he showed up at my front door with a basket of essential oils and offered to give me a massage. I declined.
Shortly thereafter I gave notice. The final few months I lived there were terrible. By this time I had grown to thoroughly despise this neighborhood and everyone in it. Even staying home was rendered hellish by the din of contractors gutting the rape shack cum Hair Club for Men under my very own feet.
One afternoon a contractor who was working in the basement knocked on my door and asked me to come downstairs. They found something while removing some appliances, he said. It was a condom.
And yes, it had been used.
Last Saturday I attended the Mermaid Parade. My journey to Coney Island (via rapid transit) was as follows:
- I took the Smith and 9th-bound G to Bedford-Nostrand.
- Then I had to cross the platform and get on yet another Smith and 9th-bound G train.
- At Hoyt-Schermerhorn I tranferred to the Manhattan-bound A train.
- Took that one stop and finally got on board the Coney Island-bound F train.
It took me 1 1/2 hours to get to there. Ridiculous.
Yesterday I attended the Brooklyn Blogger Meet-up in Flatbush. This required:
- Taking the Smith and 9th Bound G to Bedford Nostrand. Again.
- Crossing the platform and get on yet another south-bound G train. Again.
- Going above ground at Fulton Street, walking to the Atlantic Terminal and hopping on the Q train.
This trek took me approximately one hour. If you do the math, I spent approximately five hours of my precious life on the subway this weekend. That’s almost as much time as I spent at the Mermaid Parade. At least I got my money’s worth, I suppose.
Fortunately the venue where yesterday’s meet-up was held, Vox Populi, provided me some inexpensive entertainment for the ride home. This coffeehouse happens to sell books and I scored a copy of “How to Make Love Like a Porn Star” for a paltry six bucks. I whiled away my journey home looking at boobies. BIG BOOBIES. I would occasionally point out a select set to my husband for his edification, much to the confusion of my fellow subway patrons. The time flew by!
Unlike many people, pornography doesn’t faze me. When I see a woman who is approximately my size sporting a pair of breasts that weigh ten pounds a pop, the only response elicited from my person is one of amusement. In fact, when I was an undergraduate (studying for my BFA in fine art) I did a series of hilariously wicked collages using images culled from the Cadillac of all big boob magazines: “Busty”. I am not too sure what criteria Mr. Flynt uses to determine who gets featured in this magazine, but I suspect having breasts approximately the same size as one’s head is one of them.
Anyhoo, one collage I created using Mr. Flynt’s magnum opus featured an image of “Pandora Peaks”. It was a real mast
eurpiece too. She was laid upon on her back, legs akimbo; her gargantuan breasts slung to her sides. Next, I located a picture of a taco which happened to conceal Ms. Peak’s naughty bits seamlessly. In fact, the copious amounts of shredded lettuce contained on this photograph foodstuff bore a striking resemblance to pubic hair. If one was to casually glance at this subtle addition he (or she) would not notice that anything was amiss. But if (or when) he or she did notice, the message I was trying to convey became quite clear: eat me.
I was so proud of this creation I placed it in a joint show I had at the University of North TEXAS Student Union Art Gallery. Heh. Despite being the least revealing image (of a nude woman) of the lot, it got pulled after about a week or so. Some do-gooder said it was pornographic. It just goes to show you that an image in and of itself has no meaning until the viewer imbues it with one. And when it comes to the minds of those who seek protect us from the evils of lascivious literature, well, they have the dirtiest fucking ones of all!
This brings me to today’s selection of Greenpoint crime blotter fun. It is a little piece (of ass) from the December 7, 1896 edition of the Brooklyn Daily Eagle entitled “Rosa Will Not Pose.” Enjoy!
ROSA WILL NOT POSE.
WANTS TO FORGET THAT SHE WAS A MODEL
Many Letters Asking Her to Go on the Stage— Her Father Says She Won’t Work.
The Lee Avenue police court was crowded this morning with police officials, lawyers and men about town, all of whom were present to get a glimpse of Rosa Blumfeld, the young woman who has gained considerable undesireable notoriety since she posed in “the altogether” in Kwiek and Schaffner’s studio at 39 Greenpoint Avenue. Kwiek and Schaffner were recently arrested at the instigation of Anthony Comstock. The case was tried in the Adams Street police court last Saturday and the testimony taken at that time has already been published in the Eagle. Justice Walsh has reserved his decision in the case.
Soon after artists Kwiek and Schaffner were arrested, Isaac Blumfeld of 13 Orient Avenue, Rosa’s father, went to the Lee Avenue police court and secured a warrant for his daughter’s arrest on a charge of disorderly conduct. Blumfeld alleged in his complaint that Rosa posed for pictures in the nude and that objectionable photographs were made of his daughter. Rosa when first arraigned in court pleaded not guilty and was paroled for trial.
This morning, when Justice Goetting called the case, Rosa stepped hurriedly up to the bar and stated that she was ready for trial.
“Your father tells me that you have not been a very good girl since you were first here,” said Justice Goetting. “What have you got to say to that?”
“I think he must be mistaken,” replied Miss Blumfeld.
“But he claims that you remain out late nights and that you won’t work,” continued the magistrate.
“Why, I don’t see how that can be,” said Rosa, “for I have only been out after 12 o’clock one night and that was when I went to the theater.”
“There is no reason why she should not work,” interrupted Mr. Blumfeld, who thus far had been an attentive listener.” At present she lives a life of luxury and ease. She remains in bed until nearly 9 o’clock in the morning. Then she has her coffee. After breakfast she reads until 12 o’clock and then dresses herself up and that is the last we see of her until late at night. I want her to work and at some respectable business.”
“I am willing to work,” concluded Miss Blumfeld, “but as yet I haven’t had an opportunity to do so. I had to go to court three times last week.”
Justice Goetting then adjourned the case for one week.
To a reporter Miss Blumfeld said that since the stories had appeared about her in the newspapers she had received letters from all over the country. “Some write that I ought to go on the stage,” she added, “while others are anxious to have me pose for them. One man offered me a place in a museum at a guaranteed salary. I have torn up all the letters as I want to forget the past. I am going to try and be good in the future. It is true that I posed once, but I will never do it again.”
I have tried to find out what became of Ms. Blumfeld, but to no avail. I imagine she was released to the custody of her father and went on to do “respectable work” such as being a laundress, maid, or some other back-breaking and poorly compensated job. Given the dearth of career opportunities presented to her, can you honestly blame Rosa for showing a little skin? Stories such as hers (and there are many of them, I assure you) make me thank the heavens each and every day I was born a hundred years later.