Filed under: Area 51
Yesterday I received a disconcerting email from my buddy Noel, the chap who was responsible for helping me share the gift of pervy Polka with the masses. He writes:
i was informed today by my landlord that my house (on Green Street) has been sold, will soon be demolished to become (probably) condos, and we all must vacate by jan 6th. boy, this makes my day. too bad because i like GP. and too bad because i probably can’t afford to find another affordable place here!
Just what this neighborhood needs: more rental property being razed to build condos. Ordering someone to vacate on the heels of the holiday season is pretty damned rotten as well.
Noel (and his roommate’s) price range is ~$1,200 a month for a two bedroom. Granted, this figure is a little low— but I cannot shake the feeling there’s a suitable rent-stabilized apartment somewhere in the Garden Spot in that will fit the bill. If anyone knows of some digs that fit the above requirements, please post them in the comments. Let’s try to help a fellow Greenpointer (and all-around nice guy) find a new home.
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
After sharing the telephone line menagerie at Manhattan Avenue and Eagle Street earlier this week,I thought it would be fun to post a few photographs of the mother of all street sneaker spots: Jackson Street and Kingsland Avenue.
This is the most shoes I have seen suspended from a telephone wire. Ever.
It’s not just sneakers either. Boots and ballet flats are included in this heady mix of footwear.
It is quite impressive. Photographs do not do this work of art justice. Go down and see it for yourself. It is totally worth the trip.
Filed under: Area 51
Meet Jeff. I learned about this remarkable little guy from my buddy Lisacat. Here is his story as written by the woman who found him: Shawn, a BARC Cat Loft volunteer.
Jeff Bridges is the kitten I found while I was running over the Queensboro Bridge Thursday morning. How the hell he got on the pedestrian walkway of the bridgeâ€“a long, long fall on the right, eight lanes of traffic on the left and non-stop on-ramps at either end is anyoneâ€™s guess. But there he was, scampering toward Manhattan with no intention of letting himself be caught. Pretty much all the other options besides somebody grabbing him were certain death, so I went after him.
After a short pursuit in which I was afraid I would chase him either over the side or into traffic, I caught him trying to hide under a railing. I had to reach in at an angle and my grip was awkward. I think only my shelter experience kept me from letting go when he panicked and started biting my hand like his life depended on it. It really hurt and it bled a lot. But I just hung on until I could get a good grip scruffing him, then maintained that very hard scruff (ouch, it must have hurt him) with one hand while I rifled through some construction workersâ€™ stuff with the other hand to find the paint can I ended up putting him in. I grabbed a scrap of plywood to put over it.
The construction workers, who were fairly far away, saw only some frenzied woman ransacking their stuff, and came lumbering over to challenge me. I had to explain it all to them and keep them from lifting up the board to look in. Then I walked the little guy off the bridge, hailed a cab with my foot and prayed the fumes in that paint can werenâ€™t going to kill him. The can, it turned out, was old enough that fumes werenâ€™t an issue. But itâ€™s not like I had time to think about that up there on the bridge with probably less than a minute or two before he would have somehow managed to squirm away from me. You can see the print on the paint can, which actually says Queensboro Bridge, in some of the photos. You can also see the band-aids on my fingers, which are fine now.
At first I assumed he might be feral, but it turns out heâ€™s a total purring sweetheart who obviously has had a great deal of handling and affection. Heâ€™s about 7 weeks old, appears to be in good health, and is negative for feline AIDS and leukemia. He is weaned and uses the litterbox. I have treated him for fleas and worms and will be giving a distemper shot and having him neutered shortly.
Anyone who is interested in adopting him should contact me directly, not the shelter. There will be an adoption fee of $50 to $100 depending on how long he stays with me and how much the vet work costs. I will require an adoption contract and I will do a home visit and reference check. I strongly prefer to place him in a home with at least one other cat or kitten, but will consider letting him go solo if there are gushing references from people I know.
Those of you who are interested in giving this Evel Knieval of kittycatdom a home can contact his foster mother by clicking here. Be sure to check out the re-enactment of his jaunt on the 59th Street Bridge on Lisacat’s Flickr page too. It is very cute. As is this photo of Jeff posing in the paint can that whisked him away to his new “home”.
To close on a related note, BARC will be hosting its “Bowling for BARC” fund raiser tomorrow night at The Gutter.
Why not bowl a few rounds, have fun and help some animals in need? Bowling is one of my favorite sports: it can be played without putting down one’s beer.
Photo Credit: Lisacat
Anyone who has lived in southeastern Greenpoint for any appreciable amount of time knows who the rat man is. For those of you who don’t live in this hallowed corner of the Garden Spot, I’ll tell you. He’s the guy who lives in this house.
The reason he is called the rat man is he used to keep them as pets on his property. One person told me he even saw this dude’s cat and a rat eat out of the same food dish once. Amazing. Anyway, as you can imagine, his new neighbors took issue with his furry little friends and the lot was baited.
No worries, he has since taken to pigeons.
And they have taken a fancy to him.
It just goes to show that you can’t keep a good man down. I don’t know why there is all this talk of New York Shitty creating a Pigeon Czar. We already have one. His name is Vinny and he lives on Kingsland Avenue.
P.S.: If the Park Slope pigeon killer is reading this you better watch out. When I tell the rat man about your antics, he’s gonna get super pissed. Don’t fuck with the rat man.
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
Last week I had the pleasure of seeing an acquaintance of mine. Newbie Greenpointer, good reporter and all around nice chap, Matt. We talked about local happenings. The recent murder was our primary topic. Some time during our discussion I told him about the “Venus Matrimonial Agency” that used to be on Greenpoint Avenue. A law office has since taken its place.
They’ll help you with the green card lottery.
In fact, they’ll help you with a lot of things. For a fee.
Ironically enough, the list only goes up to 53 points (insert crass Polish joke here— it’s okay, seriously, I am of some Polish derivation). I suppose the other 48 points pertain to the number of ccs the above chick had injected into her boobs and lips. Lets see what the remaining 53 points are, shall we?
Um, let’s see:
#23: My knee-jerk reaction is there is no one worthy of being blackmailed here, but reality says otherwise. Greenpoint is a David Lynchian world. Don’t go to Franklin.
#29: Is not jury duty required of American citizens? I heeded the call and got rejected. Mr. Heather admitted knowing Ron Kuby and was in like Flynn. So it goes, as Kurt Vonnegut would say.
#30: No one golfs in Greenpoint.
#36: If you’re hit by a bottle at a baseball game it’s your own damned fault. You clearly rooted for the wrong team.
#40: I’ve seen roosters, chickens and a goat. The only creatures I have heard of that wreck peoples’ gardens hereabouts are bipeds in four wheelers, e.g.; developers.
I read this post on Curbed last week and was mystified. The “ostensible” S(t)uperintendent of my apartment building rarely leaves notes in my apartment building. Unless of course he is faced with a visit from the Department of Buildings at the behest of Marty Markowitz and a building full of very angry tenants. In which case his usual apathy turns to sanguine (and illiterate) written apology.
Gawker found the above missive amusing. One year (numerous HOT baths) later I do as well. Though I would have liked getting credit for this photographic memento of my misery.
As of the writing of this post I have heat and hot water— but no intercom. The brain trust who saw fit to install a HVAC exhaust unit in the space above the foyer of my apartment building severed the cables. They did a pretty bad job. I am not an expert on such matters, but when the ceiling gracing the aforementioned foyer collapses due to being deluged with condensation I think it is safe to assume incompetence was at play.
As Strother Martin wisely said in Cool Hand Luke:
What we’ve got here is… failure to communicate.
My apartment building is the benchmark for failed communication. By design. We have no on-site Super. He, his old lady, cousins, aunts and nieces flew the coop a long time ago. They knew a dump when they saw one and left.
As a consequence my fellow tenants and I are refugees on a rent-stabilized life boat floating in a sea of condo-fying land sharks. Our domicile/raft lists in accordance to the caprice of our “Superintendent”. Occasionally one of his hired “help” will endeavor to punch a hole in it— and that’s usually when we call the 311. Or 911. But I digress.
Yesterday afternoon I found an attempt at superintendent/tenant communication that made me feel so good I simply had to pass it along.
Who is the Super of this building?
More importantly, what are his (or her) salary requirements and is he (or she) willing to move to Greenpoint?
Last night a good (non-Greenpointer) buddy of mine asked me what the meaning behind the proliferation of sneakers she’s seeing slung across telephone wires in her neighborhood. Under the impression that these demarcated gang territory— or something to that effect— she asked me what I thought. I assured her this was not the case: it is an urban legend, nothing more.
I mention the previous anecdote because my favorite Greenpoint chickadee acquired some new companions last weekend.
I wonder what the garden gnome stands for?
Today is going to be a pretty quiet day here at New York Shitty. Among other things, my husband was called to go into work at 10:00 p.m. last night and didn’t get home until 6:30 this morning. That said, I want to give a shout-out to Queens Crap for giving me a lot of blog love last weekend. I would also like to thank them for giving me the biggest laugh I have had in a very long time.
I’m speechless. Well, almost speechless: perhaps if the Super at the Astral makes enough money with his little
pornography photography enterprise he will be able to afford these select digs in Floral Park? For reasons I cannot explain, this house somehow makes me think of him.
Photo Credit: Queens Crap
Astral Apartments, November 11, 2007, 2:20 p.m.
Green Street, November 11, 2007, 2:15 p.m.