I found this flyer on Franklin Street last night. I have since sent an email requesting the submission requirements; when I receive them I will post them on here New York Shitty. So those of you who are interested should starting thinking about what you are going to enter! I have already decided which piece I am going to submit. When most of your oeuvre is considered obscene (by most people) the decision-making process becomes pretty simple.
Miss Heather
Let’s review. So far we have learned:
Conclusion: this was not and is not a nice place. What’s more, you needn’t check into this roach motel to check out of this mortal coil. Merely standing in front of this establishment will suffice, as I learned from the November 6, 1921 edition of the New York Times.
And this, my friends, completes the trio of Greenpoint Hotel goodness I have culled from newspaper archives for your reading pleasure. What will next week’s installment of Greenpoint glory from the days of yore be? Even I don’t know the answer to this question…
YET!
Miss Heather
I found the above item at work recently. Once I determined what it was (a pair of swimming trunks) I IMMEDIATELY placed it behind the counter. Such a piece of apparel is unfit for Greenpoint consumption. No one— and I mean NO ONE who lives in the Garden Spot should be allowed to wear this. In fact, I am not even going to place it in the dumpster when I throw it away. To do so would assure that I will see them gracing some disgusting old homeless man’s ASS the next day. *shudder*
Yup folks, if you’re looking for the kind of man who can wear a pair of aqua blue Versace trunks and retain so much as a solitary ounce of dignity go somewhere else. You ain’t gonna find him here. As my gal pal Lisa over at Found in Brooklyn recently opined:
GP (Greenpoint) will have a serious influx of the type of people if you are like me you will despise…. I think the word yuppie is due for a comeback in a big way, but now they disguise themselves as “hipsters” which makes it even more rage inducing….
How very true. So I emailed her back and told her:
It’s happening alright. There used to be good eye candy here, you know. Now all you have are filthy hipsters (seriously they SMELL BAD) and those chaps. Last weekend I was relegated to chatting up a rockabilly dyke at the local record store. The only cute (and CLEAN) men left here are not men at all. They’re women.
I’m not trying put the moves on anyone or anything, but c’mon.
Sadly, most of the good looking men who graced my corner of the Garden Spot have long since left. Thankfully, I found the following piece of promotional material this weekend and it consoled me in my state of loss.
I do not profess to read or speak Polish. However, the above item does not require such literacy: it communicates via the International language of “Himbo”.
I am seriously tempted to attend this event. While not usually my kind of thing, the prospect of watching a horde of horny Polish broads ogling male exotic dancers strikes me as being too hilarious to miss.
Miss Heather
Sometimes irony smacks Miss Heather’s lovely little face so hard even she feels compelled to give (snarky) props. My good friend Kevin from Forgotten-NY recently brought this article (from the March 12, 2005 edition of The Brooklyn Paper) to my attention. He writes:
Looks like Bay Ridge activist Vicky Hofmo and I arrived at it separately.
Who knew the origins of this dubious piece of terminology lie in Kings County’s very own Bay Ridge? I didn’t; I thought it was Kevin’s creation. I suppose it doesn’t really matter who invented it. The overall effect these buildings have on my person remains the same: a hint of nausea mixed with abject revulsion.
For your dark delectation folks, I present to you the following excerpt from this article:
Perhaps most vocal among the complainants decrying the development of “Fedders houses,†as they have come to be known, are residents of Bay Ridge, whose neighborhood awaits city approval of a rezoning measure that would bar such housing developments.
So ugly and bland are those buildings, say some, that their most striking architectural trait may well be the air conditioner sleeve itself.
“It’s not even on our radar,†Laurent told The Papers, adding that, unlike Fiscal Year 2004, the preceding year was one of record sales totaling $421.7 million. “But I would hope the houses are as well built and as high quality as the air conditioners they’re named after.†(*snicker*— Ed. Note)
The colloquialism, while originating by most accounts in Bay Ridge several years ago, has spread to all corners of the city in recent months, thanks to preservation efforts like the 249-block down-zoning proposal for the southwest Brooklyn neighborhood that, if passed later this month, could reduce by half the potential number of row house-style condos built there.
Eager to fit in, the term has been uttered by no less an authority than Mayor Michael Bloomberg, who said it at an Oct. 30 speaking engagement in Dyker Heights.
Do read this article in its entirety— but be careful! I shot Claret out of my nose when I read the following statement from Fedders’ CFO:
I guess it’s a well known name. And we’re proud of the fact that everyone knows it, but I hope in this case people aren’t using it in a derogative way.
BWAHAHAHAHA!
Miss Heather
I once lived in Astoria, Queens. What’s more I liked it. The year was 1998 and the rent for my illegal basement apartment was $550 a month. All bills and endless offers of lamb stew and powerful coffee from my sweet Greek-speaking landlady included. Too bad I was (and still am) a vegetarian who eschewed caffeine.
In any case, my memories of this ‘nabe are warm and fuzzy ones. This is why I find the following dog shit signs (from Joey of Astoria) all the more disquieting.
Repent, sinner! REPENT!
Um, that’s sort of scary. Where’s Bucketman when you need him?
Miss Heather
P.S.: I’d like to give a big shout-out of thanks to Meg over at Joey in Astoria for bringing these wonderful signs to my attention. Thanks!
Let’s face facts: being the owner of a S.U.V. nowadays is the moral/ethical equivalent of being a child molester in the eyes of many. After hammering out this post last week I vowed to leave the much-maligned owners of these vehicles alone. I had said my piece and Queens Crap had said theirs. It was time to let things be, right? WRONG!
Today I am reneging on this promise because I beheld something that is a living testament to why people hate S.U.V.s (or more accurately, the people who drive them).
I found this sign adhered to a sedan whose rear was grazing the driveway of a business on Eagle Street. While I personally eschew the use of motor vehicles, I do understand people have the right to own them. I also understand that parking in Greenpoint (and New York City in general) is a bear. Sometimes a driveway will be intruded upon as a consequence. While the practice may not be a correct one, it is understandable.
Then you get shit like this.
This behemoth was parked behind the aforementioned sedan. As the more eagle-eyed among you will notice, the curb clearly reads “NO PARKING ACTIVE DRIVEWAY 24 HOURS LOADING ZONE”. The grammar employed here might be questionable, but the point is not: do not park here— EVER.
The next time, dear readers, you find yourself listening to the owner of one of these vehicles grousing about the flack he (or she) gets from other people, e.g.; they think he (or she) is an asshole for driving such a monstrosity, show them this picture. I don’t which bothers me more:
Miss Heather
I think it’s safe to wager that someone on my block might not. After leaving Nick Zedd’s film retrospective at East Coast Aliens last night my buddy Rachael and I encountered a 20-something woman lying on the sidewalk at Green and Franklin Streets. Two people were standing over her. We walked over.
Me: What’s her problem?
Guy: I don’t know. She’s drunk or something.
Me: Why don’t you reach into her purse, get her cellphone and call her keeper?
Guy: I am her boyfriend.
Me: Oh, so you ARE her keeper. Good luck.
That’s when we walked off and, curiously enough, the woman got up and walked home with her boyfriend.
This woman seemed a little too coordinated to be drunk. I imagine she was perpetrating some prank or “guerilla art” project. If so, it was a crappy one. She was hardly convincing as a drunk person passed out on the sidewalk. I should know; I have seen people slumbering on the sidewalks here many, many times. Still do.
Once, back in 2002, my Rachael and I were walking back to my old apartment at one or two in the morning. When we rounded the corner we found a guy passed out on the stairs of (what I presume to be) his house. He was splayed out on his back, flat as a board, car keys still in hand. This chap almost made it home. ALMOST.
He was missing his shoes. I guess someone stole them. The next morning he was gone. I wonder if he remembered what he did yesterday?
Miss Heather
P.S.: In related news, I am proud to announce that Rev. Jen’s Lower East Side Troll Museum received a very special addition last night courtesy of yours truly.
I have found this stunningly-wrecked troll (who I have named “Gimpy the Greenpoint Troll”) on Greenpoint Avenue a week ago. As soon as I saw it I knew her museum had to have it. Not only was Jen pleased with my donation, but she said a special exhibition of Brooklyn trolls was in the works. I can hardly wait! There ain’t a troll in this fine boro of Kings that can top Gimpy. Game over!
Since the weather was actually tolerable yesterday I took a nice long walk along the waterfront. When I reached the end of Green Street I beheld one of the many (seemingly) abandoned construction sites that pepper my part of the Garden Spot.
What is that I see to the bottom left? Could it be???
Yes, yes it is!!! Although it is unintelligible in the above photo, a handwritten missive ordering the fine folks at Bridge Realty to pump the excess water out of their construction site is scribbled on this ancient Stop Work Order. Now that I think about it, I do remember seeing some dudes pumping water out of this site a few months ago.
Looks like they need to come back and do it again.
Perhaps the Stop Work Order issued last month has discouraged them from doing so? I fail to see why; they seem perfectly amenable to doing work without a permit.
Miss Heather
P.S.: For those of you who are keeping track; Greenpoint’s favorite piece of advertecture is still alive and kicking at 609 Manhattan Avenue.
Today I had the pleasure of finding a brand new piece of dog shit signage in my inbox! This soon-to-be-loved masterpiece comes courtesy BARC‘s very own Lisa Vallez, a fellow Greenpointer. She writes:
I found one for you and actually had my camera on me! This is the work of a woman known on the block as “Cursing Mary”. She is a true Greenpoint character who loves animals, hates people who don’t pick up. She lives in the hold-out house you posted a photo of awhile back. I can’t find it but it was captioned something like the “meat” between the 2 slices of ugly new development on my block of Monitor Street. Enjoy!
Hmm… Let’s go in for a closer look, shall we?
For god’s sake, won’t you folks pigs PLEASE THINK OF THE CHILDREN!?!
Miss Heather
P.S.: Those of you who haven’t beheld this piece of cinema verite already, please click this link and watch some dude piss on T&N Liquors as no one seems to notice. It is Greenpoint glory at its very finest.
This evening my husband and a number of friends went out to dinner. Among the people present was my friend Chin who I have known for years. She lives in Bushwick and I (of course) live in Greenpoint. Over dinner the subject of neighborhood spectacles was brought to the table and as luck would have it, I had a choice morsel to share from this morning.
Before I go to the junk shop I swing by the Garden and pick up a few refreshments. This morning was no different— save something I overheard a man shouting into his cell phone on Java Street:
Welcome to the suicide hotline. Your call is important to us, so please stay on the line for the next available operator.
This elicited a chorus of chuckles from the table, as well it should. Then my buddy Chin remembered something she overheard recently. During the commission of a crime, no less.
She was at the Duck Duck Bar. After snatching a woman’s laptop computer, a pair of young toughs bolted out of this establishment. A handful of hipsters gave chase. The teenage thieves were caught, but not before tossing out one of the finest anti-hipster insults I have ever heard (albeit second-hand):
I can get a gun before you can get a job!
Someone should make a t-shirt with this phrase emblazoned on it. I know I’d buy one. How about you?
Miss Heather
