Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
Inasmuch as it pains me to say it, the aluminum siding and Fedders box somehow “work” with this holiday decorating scheme.
I recently checked out a post on Brownstoner announcing yet another piece of Karl Fischer crap slated to blight north Brooklyn:
A visit to the Karl Fischer website never disappoints! In our most recent fly-by, we noticed that the ubiquitous architect has a new rendering posted of a 26,000-square-foot, 18-unit glass box that’s slated for the southwest corner of Bedford Avenue and South 4th Street in Williamsburg.
What will this forthcoming masterpiece look like you, ask? Well, here it is.
True to form, it is a drab— if conspicuously short— slab of Post Modernist shit. Naturally, the lack of height was not lost one Brownstoner commenter:
Ridiculously small building for an area so close to Manhattan. My god, even Mayor Bloomberg’s townhouse is taller than this thing.
It looks alright, but it should be twice as large, at least.
Keeping this building diminutive is the only means I can think of to mitigate its hideousness. And contrary to what Karl Fischer said in this article, all his buildings have one overriding quality in common: they are uglier than homemade sin.
That’s what makes parts of Brooklyn so special. You have all of these rowhouses, townhouses, smaller-scale developments, more neighborhood-friendly developments. You have more open space. The quality of life in this way is going to be preserved in Brooklyn.
- Karl Fischer
Am I the only person who has trouble reconciling the aforementioned quote with the “deeds” of its author? 130 Diamond Street is, most assuredly, neither “smaller scale” nor “neighborhood friendly”. It is a gangrene-colored six story eyesore blighting what was once a quaint block of two and three story rowhouses.
Why in god’s name would some pair this “brick work” with green sheet metal? This juxtaposition would make I.M. Pei roll in his grave.
If he was dead, that is. And dead he would be if forced to look at this pile of shit. Yes sir, when the construction fence finally comes down we Greenpointers are going to have one VERY UGLY BUILDING on our hands. An edifice which, until recently, reminded me of something but I just couldn’t place it. Until today.
Be sure to do a courtesy flush, Karl!
120 S. 4th Street Photo Credit: Karl Fischer web site via Brownstoner.
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
Where would Jesus go? It is a question I have been asking myself a lot lately given it is the holiday season. If the nativity scenes I have been seeing around the Garden Spot are any indication, the answer is NOT GREENPOINT.
No son of god here.
Humboldt Diamond Street:
Yes, it would appear our messiah has gone M.I.A.
No sir, nary a Nazarene to be found. Joseph sure looks tuckered out. I bet he needed a good nap after a long day greasing palms* to get baby Jesus out of those under-performing Williamsburg schools.
*Just what “this neighborhood” needs. Rich parents bribing/lying their children into our public schools.
Scarcely a week ago I wrote a post about the proliferation of vaginal imagery on my neighborhood’s trees. Today I wish to report that I made another pass by the Calyer Cooze this week and came to the realization that I had made a glaring oversight.
Even without the pink vulva inscribed on it…
this tree trunk is terrifying in its anatomical correctness.
P.S.: I felt like Larry Flynt after taking the above photograph.
Coffee, tea or vitamin C?
Nothing says “holiday cheer” in Greenpoint like a chainsaw sculpture touting a Polish flag.
Unlike my husband, I do not tender my bill payments online. Call me ancient, call me a Luddite, call me stupid; I prefer postage stamps and paper to electronic commerce. When one forgets to pay a bill on time, sending a letter (with a check enclosed) is much more personal in my book. It makes me feel like Santa Claus. This, of course, necessitates that I go to the post office on occasion. Yesterday was one of them.
It took me an hour to get the wherewithal to make the trek. This was not due to innate laziness on my part. Rather, I simply needed sixty minutes to achieve the proper Zen state to cope with the quest that laid before me: dealing with my fellow post office patrons. In the clarity of 20/20 hindsight, I assure you it was time well spent.
Ever since the powers that be saw fir to divest of the Polish speaking employee at good ol’ 66 Meserole Avenue, my postal service experiences have become much more provocative, entertaining and time-consuming. Yesterday was no exception. Upon entering I beheld:
- A line of people winding all the way back all the way to the entrance. This is not difficult to achieve given the post office is very small and only has three “teller” windows. Nonetheless…
- I am certain the lengthy queue was exacerbated by a 50-60-something Polish woman (wearing a leopard print hat, older Polish women LOVE leopard print) blathering something incomprehensible (it was English, I think) to the postal employee helping her.
- The postal employee helping her is Vietnamese and speaks with a distinct accent, thus adding to the multi-cultural hilarity. I have dealt with this postal employee before, and although I can easily understand her, I am certain someone with a very tenuous grasp of English (at best) would not. It should also be noted that this employee is hardly going to win any “Miss Congeniality” awards anytime soon. Then again, if I had a customer call me a “chink”*, I would not exactly be Miss Happypants either.
- Given points 1-3, I elected to use the postage machine. This too entailed waiting. The old codger in front of me was mystified when the machine asked him if he wished to conduct another transaction. I shit you not, he looked to the left and right of this machine. Had he been able, he probably would have looked behind it as well (to see who was inside asking him this vexatious question). It was like something straight out of Candid Camera. He finally gave up and walked off.
And that, dear readers, is when I got my turn.
Be nice to your postal workers this holiday season, my fellow Greenpointers. They might be civil servants, but they are also human beings. If you had to deal with all the bullshit these people did— day after mind-numbing day— you would not be a ball of sunshine either.
*Yes, I saw/heard this with my very own eyes/ears.
Who can take a scorched house
Sprinkle it with spew
without posting any permits and make it look like a piece of poo?
Bridge Realty, that’s who!
Bridge Realty can
‘Cause they mix it with pre-fabricated love
and make Miss Heather say EW!
The guys at 209 1/2 Eckford may not be fond of posting permits, but clearly they are big fans of MorW.A.
Once in a very, very blue moon I come across something so novel and creative that even I, a cynical art school graduate who once had the pleasure of teaching 20-somethings, am impressed. I mention this because lightening struck last weekend at Third Ward‘s holiday craft fair.
The nom de plume of the artist is Guns and Butter.
She sells “handmade love objects”.
Each comes with its own name (the above garter belt answers to “Licky Monuts”) and dirty talk instructions. After explaining to the incredibly high energy woman who creates these items that I am married (and thus, have ceased to give a shit) I settled upon purchasing a barrette.
It is named “Fuck nugs” and I am pleased to report that, as purported, “dirtytalk instructions” were featured inside the label. Not that I need them, mind you. I have found the phrase “fuck off” to be the perfect panacea for Mr. Heather.
Enjoy some dirty talk today and blossom into a comfortable and confident dirty talker tomorrow!
Anyone who is interested in purchasing one of these amazingly eccentric handmade items can contact the artist at:
gotamamama (at) gmail (dot) com
Stuff someone’s stocking with dirty talk today. Who knows, you might just get lucky tomorrow!
Miss “Fuck nugs” Heather
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
Even I have to admit this is pretty cute.
But it simply does not have the same je ne sais quoi their Halloween display had. They should bring back the guy throwing up blood.