Filed under: Bushwick
Many are the civil servants who shoulder the onerous responsibility of protecting and serving us New Yorkers. I have issues with most of them, but there is one institution I have the utmost respect for: New York’s Bravest. Not only do these men and women risk life and limb in situations beyond my comprehension, they also have a wonderful sense of humor.
Case in point: Ladder 124 in Bushwick
They’re Tonka tough with Tonka Trucks…
and have mad Scrabble skills to boot!
I wonder if the windows qualify as double word scores?
As my previous post (about discovering a “street Wimpy” tee shirt) intimates, I am rapidly becoming a big fan of Bedford Stuyvesant. Bed Stuy may be a lot of things but one thing it isn’t is boring. My most recent sojourn found me muttering “Wow, that’s really beautiful!” and “Holy Shit!” under my breath every five minutes. The following is an example of one such “Holy Shit”.
As I wandered down Hart Street I saw a number of beautiful houses. Then I found this.
When I showed the above photograph to Mr. Heather he said:
That looks like something from East Williamsburg.
No way! This is like East Williamsburg on steroids!
I wonder if the owner of this house has a family member in the chrome fabrication business? I ask this question because nary a flourish was missed during the chromification of this house.
Even the (unused) air conditioner holders emit metallic bliss. On a clear summer day I bet the reflection from this house is enough to sear a person’s retinas. You could probably cook eggs on the sidewalk for that matter.
Give it up to good ol’ Bed Stuy for keeping it real: even their houses have grills!
One task I thoroughly detest is housework. For this reason I cannot fathom what it must be like to earn one’s living by picking up other people’s garbage. Hell, picking up Mr. Heathers skivvies off the floor and placing them in the laundry hamper is sufficient cause to make my blood boil.
And so the age old question goes: hoe does one make this dirty, but necessary, more enticing? Well, yesterday on Meserole Avenue I learned the fine chaps at Mr. Rubbish have found the answer!
Festoon the front of your truck with a jaunty license plate, a slew of plush animals and a grim reaper.
But don’t stop there! Toss in Bert from Sesame Street and an American flag for good measure. No wonder the gents manning this truck were smiling: this hearse for human detritus exudes nothing but sunshine! If you have a lot of trash— and I mean A LOT— who should you call? Mr. Rubbish, that’s who!
Not only will they cheerfully remove it from your premises, but the neighbors will fondly remember the sight of Baby Bugs, Daffy and Sylvester for years to come.
Mr Rubbish: they make demolition clean outs fun!
Filed under: Williamsburg
I found this flier at the intersection of Humboldt and Ainslie Street yesterday. Being the cat crazy lady I am, I feel compelled to spread the word.
If you have seen “Blackin” (Not exactly the most original name for a black cat, but hey— who am I to judge?) please contact Neysa at the above telephone number. As the substantial reward on the flier indicates, he is very missed.
Earlier this week I received an email from a fellow Greenpointer named Katy about an event slated for today, January 31. She writes:
I… thought you might be interested in this huge poetry reading taking place at East Coast Aliens this Thursday. Seven independent literary publishers of emerging prominence have united to host Steal This Reading, a night of readings by 15 poets spanning immanent figures of innovative poetry such as MacArthur Fellowship winner C.D. Wright (Copper Canyon) and Eleni Sikelianos (Coffee House) to new stars such as Graham Foust (Flood) and Joyelle McSweeney (Fence).
Steal This Reading: a Brooklyn Book Burning
with C.D. Wright, Eleni Sikelianos, Graham Foust, Joyelle McSweeney, Joshua Marie Wilkinson, Julie Doxsee, Max Winter, Adam Clay, Zachary Schomburg, Morgan Lucas Schuldt, Lily Brown, Rauan Klassnik, Cindy Savett, Jon Thompson, Melanie Hubbard hosted by Black Ocean, Cannibal Books, Free Verse Editions, Kitchen Press, Octopus, Tarpaulin Sky Press & Typo.
Doors open at 7:00 p.m. and $6 buys you admission and two drinks. What a deal! For more information about this event and its participants, click here and you’ll be directed to East Coast Alien’s web site.
Yesterday Pardon Me For Asking had a rather neat post about spotting a “see-through” truck in Greenpoint. The title of this post was “See-Through Truck In Greenpoint. Explanation Please.” Although the mystery behind this machine has since been solved, I’d still like to tender my explanation:
I am often asked why I choose to live in a neighborhood that sits atop 17-30 million gallon oil spill, sports no direct access to Manhattan and is home to the eastern seaboard’s largest sewage treatment plant. It is an understandable question to posit and I have often asked it of myself. Having had the time to think about it I can finally give an intelligent answer:
- Oil Spills, the Crosstown Local and the smell of sewage keep away a certain caliber of person I do not want to have as neighbors. If you are wondering precisely what “kind” of people I am talking about, board the Coney Island bound F train and exit at 7th Avenue.
Truth be told it is mostly point number two. I have lived in a number of places but none of them have made me mutter “What the fuck?” to myself as much as good old Greenpoint. Have you ever seen a piece of cauliflower suspended from a strangely Medieval-looking rack being transported on the flat bed of a truck? I didn’t think so. It may be stinky. It may at times be downright ugly, but this neighborhood continues to amaze and amuse me to this day. Which beings me to today’s Photo du Jour:
The “See-Through truck” (as cool as it is) doesn’t hold a candle compared to this bad boy. This truck is so hardcore it eats Hondas (and Park Slopers) for dinner.
Filed under: Bed-Stuy
I have never understood the infighting between Bushwick and Bedford Stuyvesant— especially when it comes to which neighborhood is “better”. When the mood strikes me I read the latest salvos of nastiness, chuckle to myself and give the matter no more thought. I live in the Garden Spot of the Universe after all, and as such, have much better things to do.
When I bought a bottle of seltzer recently at a bodega in Bed-Stuy my carefully cultivated apathy was summarily shattered. FOREVER.
I didn’t even hear the wearer of this shirt ask me if I wanted a straw. That is how IN AWE my person was at the sight of this shirt. Living in New York City has exposed me to the phenomenon of “thugged out” cartoon character apparel. At first I found them novel and amusing, but as with most things pop culture over-exposure eventually rendered them dull as dishwater.
The Tasmanian Devil wearing a hoodie? *Yawn*
Marvin the Martian wearing gold chains? Stupid.
Fat Albert (doing just about anything)? BOOOOOORING!
But have I seen a sleeveless Wimpy preparing to administer a category five beat down (presumably because someone would not let him pay Tuesday for a hamburger today) on a t-shirt? No, I have not. There is only one word for something like this: genius.
As far as I’m concerned Bushwickers can waste all the breath they want. The fact of the matter is THIS SHIRT KICKS ASS.
And so does Bedford Stuyvesant.
Filed under: Area 51
I rarely write about my dear ol’ dad. One of the reasons for this lack of literary attention is respect for his privacy. That said, some shit is just too good NOT to pass along. Like an email I got from my mother earlier this week. She writes:
This is how I found your Dad’s bathroom this morning.
No explanation was provided and quite frankly none was needed. If this is any indication of what retirement is like I can hardly wait!
*Yes, my father has his own bathroom. FOR VERY SOUND REASONS.
Filed under: Bushwick
I found this pretty little porker outside the Morgan Avenue stop of the L recently.
Not only is he (?) beautifully rendered, but I was relieved to see that (unlike his unfortunate brother on Central Avenue) his head is still firmly attached to the rest of his body.
One thing I throughly detest is the practice of erecting copious amounts of “Beware of Dog” and “No Parking” signage on residential property. Not only are they an eyesore, but there usually is not a canine on said premises and if someone is a big enough asshole to park in front of your driveway a twelve by eighteen inch piece of plastic is not going to deter him. The previous having been established, I rolled my eyes in disgust when I walked by this house yesterday.
Knowing a good train wreck when I see one, I went in for a closer look.
Not only does the flag on the mailbox have handy user instructions on it, but a guard dog is purported to live on the premises.
The word on the street is, he (or she) sucks.
I dunno, he looks awfully cute to me. Isn’t it kind of cruel to keep a dog tethered to the fence like this? Of course the big question is who does one call to report this: the A.S.P.C.A. or F.A.O. Schwartz?