Today’s Dung of the Day comes courtesy of “Dupreciate” he writes:
Diamond between Calyer and Meserole has little to no residency (mainly that film studio), so it ends up being something of a graveyard for unpleasant worldly items: soiled cocktail dresses, abandoned strollers, dog poop.
Found this guy on Saturday night. I’ve named it the “steamroller” as someone, or something, appears to have flattened it out a bit.
I hope the person who steamrolled this shit wasn’t wearing sandals. Ouch!
Filed under: Vinyl Siding
Today’s eyesore is a little different that its predecessors. Vinyl siding is involved— in more ways than one.
The above sign can be found at 609 Manhattan Avenue. Not surprisingly, the office for Belvedere Partners is located almost directly across the street from this grossly inappropriate (and legally questionable) piece of advertising. One has to wonder what the neighbors must think about being forced to look at this turd everyday. Call me presumptuous, but I doubt they like it very much. I also suspect the FDNY might have a few things to say about it too, but this is just an educated guess.
Could you imagine what would happen if someone had the chutzpah to do this on Bedford Avenue? Or better yet— Seventh Avenue in Park Slope. There would be rioting on the streets. Yet, doing this in Greenpoint is perfectly acceptable. Interesting. Then again, maybe this building got tired of the endemic neighborhood stink and the sign serves as some sort of mask.
In closing, I would be remiss if I didn’t point out my favorite feature of 609 Manhattan Avenue.
Your eyes are not deceiving you. The person(s) who installed this tarp DRILLED HOLES in the vinyl siding in order to anchor this sign. Very nice. Being a horror movie buff myself, I feel compelled to point out that this house reminds me one of the cenobites in the movie Hellraiser.
P.S.: I have started a new group on flickr called “The Greenpoint Condominium Cavalcade“. Check it out.
I am certain a number of you have read that laughably bad series of articles about Greenpoint in Time Out New York. I have done so repeatedly because the neighborhood they wrote about sure as fuck isn’t Greenpoint. And I should know, I fucking live here. The following quote from their real estate feature almost gave me an aneurysm.
Rentals run between $800 and $1,000 for a studio, and $900 and $1,200 for a one-bedroom. You just need to know where to look: Check real-estate listings in the Greenpoint Gazette and Greenpoint Star, and tenants wanted signs in the windows of Polish-run businesses, or try local broker Eve Levine (347-XXX-XXXX).
What the fuck were the editors smoking when they decided to publish this? I wonder if Eve gave it to them, because it must be some seriously good shit. Not like the schwag my neighbors usually smoke. That’s all they can afford after paying exorbitantly high rent each and every month.
It has also been my observation that most of the apartments advertised in the Greenpoint Gazette and the Greenpoint Star are listed by brokers. Many of the “for rent” signs I see here are written in Polish —which makes sense given they are usually placed in the windows of Polish businesses. Why does it not surprise me that Eve “Homebuying for Hipsters” Levine, an agent herself, didn’t see fit to mention any of the previous? It would be bad for business, that’s why. After a horde of gullible miscreats tries (and fails) to locate these unbelievably inexpensive apartments they will give Eve a call. And she will be more than happy to help them, for a fee.
Seriously, the days of getting a $800/month rent for studio apartment in Greenpoint are long gone. When I moved here over seven years ago my first (studio) apartment cost me $850 a month. Although it was very spacious, it was hardly a palace: I had part of my kitchen ceiling collapse, had intermittent hot water and once went 10 days without electricity.
I had a crackhead as a neighbor. The hallways of my building reeked of crack and the stench of stale shit. This crackalicious chap also happened to be the Superintendent’s brother, which really sucked. In a nutshell, I lived in a total and utter shithole. I can only imagine what $800 a month will get you now. Maybe a coop at Josh Guttman’s Chicken Ranch, a room at the ever popular Greenpoint Hotel or a Port-O-Let immediately come to mind.
Ms. Levine’s assertion that $900-$1,200 was the going rent for one bedroom struck me as being even more dubious. I have lived in the same one bedroom RENT STABILIZED apartment for over five years. When I moved in my rent was $1,200 a month. Not anymore!
I don’t know where you got your information from, TONY. Were the whoppers you published the result of graft or were they wrested out your ASS?* Either way, it’s a load of shit. Which brings me to today’s offering of Greenpoint historic hooliganism. This one dates from the November 23, 1899 edition of the Brooklyn Daily Eagle and is entitled “Believed To Be Insane”. Enjoy!
Young Man Found Wading in Whale Creek in Greenpoint
“I am a reporter and I have been assigned on a story by a Manhattan newspaper to Greenpoint” said Archie Harvey, a wild-eyed looking young man to Magistrate Lemon in the Manhattan Avenue police court today when he was arraigned on a charge of vagrancy. The Magistrate looked at the reporters and then at the magistrate a second time.
“I repeat that I am a reporter assigned by the New York Herald to write a story in Greenpoint,” the prisoner said. “I get $25,000 a day and give my mother $1,000 a minute.”
Magistrate Lemon committed Harvey for examination into his sanity. The young man gave his address as 148 East Forty-fourth Street, Manhattan. He was arrested on a charge of vagrancy last evening while he was wading in Whale Creek at the foot of Eagle Street, Greenpoint. He wore neither hat, coat nor shoes and appeared to be in search of something.
I’m not surprised the judge didn’t believe Mr. Harvey’s story. Everyone knows that there is no way in hell an actual print reporter (from Manhattan, no less) would set foot in our humble ‘hood. They let the local real estate brokers and developers ghostwrite/edit their articles for them. Everyone around here knows that, even the Dog Shit Queen of Greenpoint.
*And to think that I actually looked forward to their “Cheap Eats” issue. Whores. No worries, I am currently in talks with NFT about doing a little writing for them. If this comes to pass people will hear the REAL DEAL about what’s shaking in Greenpoint. From someone who actually lives here and provides a measure of “local resistance” to Magic Johnson’s early morning wake-up calls and apparent disregard public safety, no less.
Filed under: Area 51
As you may or may not be aware, I am on a quest to locate and document every Belvedere building the blights Brooklyn’s streets. Well, I regret to inform you that my “Meet the Belvederes” map will be offline temporarily. This is because I have to replace it with one that covers a larger geographical area.
I found this, Belvede
rve IIILL, at 135 North 9th Street yesterday. Don’t believe me? Well here’s a close-up of the sign, read it for yourself.
Why the long face, my cooler-than-thou ‘nabes to the south? One wee widdle Belvedere won’t hurt you. If it’s any consolation, their construction practices are much better than their ability to spell or use Roman numerals. Not that this is really saying much, mind you.
P.S.: Come to think of it, I should donate a learning tool I found in front of P.S. 34 recently to these folks.
Although it looks really neat in my living room, I think they could really use it.
This shithole can be found on Berry Street between North 3rd and 4th Street. I find it fascinating that this person had enough wherewithal to bag the bung, but was too impatient to locate a garbage can in which to place the poop. If I was this person I would have simply picked up my dog and place the business-end in the hole. That way you wouldn’t even need a bag.
Sage wisdom like the previous is the reason why I graduated from college magna cum laude, kids!
P.S.: Be sure to not to miss the turdlet adhered to the fence. Very nice.
It has come to my attention that people seeking to comment on this site (some naughty, some nice) are confused about how the process works. Here it is:
- I require registration.
- I approve each and every comment before it gets posted. I am selective in my censorship and only weed out spam comments.
- Since my work/social/fecal schedule can be hectic, occasionally time will elapse before I get around to sorting the shit from the Shinola, so to speak. Please be patient.
The previous having been said, here are a few more thoughts I have on this topic…
The increased traffic my blog has received of late has netted a commensurate increase in the number of comments I have to moderate. On the one hand I am very happy that New York Shitty appears to be providing a forum for my fellow Greenpointers to shoot the shit and discuss local affairs. The previous has been sorely lacking in this ‘nabe for far too long On the other, I’ve had a number of wiseasses attempt to insult me.
How are you sure you donâ€™t shit like a dog? Canny coincidence
Because I shit in a toilet (unless I have food poisoning— in which case anything goes), use toilet paper and have enough book learnin’ to know that “canny coincidence” is semantically incorrect. Which brings me to a few tips for those who wish to diss the Queen of Piss:
- I worked in corporate America for over ten years.
- During this tenure of working a “real” job I endured abuse and degradation the likes of which you are incapable of doling out.
- If you are going to post a comment of contrarian nature, please do not use ten dollar words unless you know how to use them because…
- I will make light of it.
- I take tremendous pride being the Dog Shit Queen of Greenpoint. I hold court over the piles of shit (canine, human and otherwise) in a neighborhood that no ones seems to give a shit about: Greenpoint. Speculators building obscenely huge condominium buildings in the hopes of making a fast buck that take the pissant fines doled out by the (woefully under-staffed and decidely corrupt) Department of Buildings as a business expense notwithstanding.
I may very well shit like a dog, but at least I don’t lick it up. The word on the street is that someone on Diamond Street has a palate for poo.
I found today’s “Dung of the Day” in front of the Park Luncheonette at 344 Driggs Avenue.
It looks like some twenty-something’s career path went to shit. Literally.
I’m not passing judgment, mind you. Going to shit was the best thing that ever happened to me.
Filed under: Area 51
As I indicated in the previous post, my husband and I ate at Manducatis last night. For those of you who are not in the know, this restaurant is located at 12-37 Jackson Avenue in Long Island City. It’s exterior is pretty unremarkable, if not downright ugly. That’s what really surprised us: the interior is incredibly nice, as is the food. I highly recommend checking this place out. Though you should be advised that I read a number of very negative reviews on Citysearch, most of these were complaints about poor service. My experience was much to the contrary.
Any fine dining establishment worth its salt makes sure its clientele are not only nourished with flavorful food, but are also entertained. Manducatis is no exception. What’s more, the person who provided my evening’s entertainment wasn’t even on the payroll. She was a customer.
After negotiating through the admittedly uninviting entrance of this restaurant, my husband and I selected a table next to a party of three. The group seated next to us appeared to be a family unit. If I had to take a guess, I’d say this trio was as follows:
- One elderly uncle
- One elderly aunt
- One middle-aged niece
I didn’t take much notice of these people at first. This ubruptly changed when my husband and I were sharing a cold appetizer plate and overheard the “niece” saying:
…of course the local Italian population is probably speculating as to what other orifices they have put electronics in.
To wit, auntie said:
I’m not touching that one with a ten foot pole.
I glanced over at their table. That’s when I realized the niece was wearing a very nice silk Kimono with a pair of shower thongs. Fascinated, my husband and I ate in silence so as to savor this woman’s every word. And boy oh boy did she have a lot of say!
Her next monologue started with the following sentence. It was recitated in a very staccato and non-inflected tone like William S. Burroughs.
Unlike my most people my age, I have perfect hearing.
This seemingly innocuous observation was followed by twenty minutes worth of commentary about:
- Conformity (and today’s teens)
- Why she hates i-Pods
- The government
- Mind control
- Computers and mind control
It was one of the most mind-blowing lectures I have ever heard. Almost 24 hours later I am still trying to understand it. Once she was satisfied that had given her two cents on all the previous subjects, the “niece” excused herself to go the bathroom. Once she was out of eyeshot, the uncle turned to his wife, gave her a “WTF” look and turned off his hearing aid. Turn off, tune out, drop out.
After coming back from the bathroom this fascinating woman spoke at great length about her upcoming trip to Japan. I have to say that I was pretty excited for her, a lot more than her dining companions were. The Japanese have long been the standard-bearers of insane genius and it made me proud to know that this woman would be serving as my city’s ambassador to the land of the rising sun. She’ll teach them a thing or two.
One awkward conversation over dessert later they left. It was probably just as well because that’s when my husband’s boss decided to call him on his cell phone. Just shy of 9:00 p.m. on a Saturday night. I ordered him not to take the call. My husband may be under her employ, but I am not. We were having a very nice sit-down dinner and it was going to stay that way. Had my new friend still been seated next to us, I probably would have seized the cell phone from my husband, hit the “send” button, hand it over to her and let her handle it. But I digress.
As we were leaving I noticed a lovely little floral bouquet sitting on the bar. Although it was hardly professional, it had a certain charm that appealed to me and I told our waiter so. That’s when he asked, “Did you see the woman wearing the kimono?”
Waiter: Well, she lives across the street. She’s an artist and has lived here a long time. She brings us fresh cut flowers from her garden every day.
Me: That’s really nice. Can I ask you a question?
Me: Does she always wear a kimono?
Waiter: Well, that depends. When she was in her Italian phase she dressed up as an Italian. When she was in her Mayan phase she dressed up as a Mayan. Now she is in her Japanese phase and has taken to wearing kimonos.
Maybe in twenty years I’ll have my Mayan phase. I can only hope so.
Filed under: Area 51
This evening my husband and I trekked to Long Island City so we give Manducatis a taste test. It was a very enjoyable dining experience, but that will be the subject of another (yet to be written) post. About a block away from this establishment (on Jackson Avenue) a sign caught my eye.
Come to think of it, this item wasn’t so much a sign as it was a stream of consciousness polemic about Long Island City’s missing honeysuckle. Among other things.
“Wait— there’s more!?!” is probably what you are thinking to yourself right about now. YOU BET YOUR SWEET ASS THERE IS! This person is just getting WARMED UP.
To whoever stole this plant: for the love of god, have a heart and give it back— or at the very least take excellent care of it.
I found this festive (if dessicated) pile of shit on West Street just across from what used to be part of the Eberhard Faber pencil factory complex.
Since I am (somewhat) on the subject of senseless destruction of neighborhood landmarks, I would be remiss if I didn’t mention this.
I realize the above graphic is pretty shitty. Click here to get the 411 about this upcoming benefit.