Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
It would appear that Herbert Street’s old precinct house has begun its journey from hoosegow to affordable housing! What’s more, my buddy over at Musings on ‘point got a sneak peak of the interior of the station house and garage. Check it out!
Ever had one of those moments when you see something and all you can do is stand there staring at it like a slack-jawed idiot? I had one such moment today on Meserole Avenue.
I know the city is trying to cut costs and everything, but wouldn’t simply painting the curb yellow have been a quicker (and less hideous) option? In all seriousness. I wonder which costs more: the $115.00 ticket for parking in this space or the ticket for admonishing someone (via the use of spray paint) of the $115.00 fine for parking in this space? Don’t everyone speak up at once.
Grattan Street, “East Williamsburg”
Franklin Street, Greenpoint
Filed under: Crazy Cat Lady
She has come to our fair city by way of Connecticut and is looking for a home. Per the person who rescued her she is very loving and a-OK with children. Anyone interested in learning more about this lovely lady (or better yet offer a place to hang her hat!) should email Maly at:
malyblomberg (at) gmail (dot) com
From Bogart Street.
Boobification is much more than merely strapping a pair of fake breasts to something. It’s a way of life. One which requires a person to constantly hone her craft. Just as Tiger Woods practices his swing— or A-Rod hits the batting booth (or Madonna)— I have to “limber up” to make that hole-in-one or double-play. But practice doesn’t necessarily make perfect. I now realize that in addition to sheer perspiration, true boobification requires preparation and inspiration. To the latter most end today I went to Bushwick. On foot.
In order to get “in the zone” I need a big ball of rage in my belly. The best means by which I can achieve this state is to walk down Vandervoort and Morgan Avenue. These unprepossessing strips of industriana might strike the uninitiated as being a wasteland. In my experience they are a minefield of male privilege, e.g.; the entitlement to scream, hiss, honk and whistle at women (READ: me) with total orgiastic abandon.
I was not disappointed. Two gents in a truck with Pennsylvania plates were kind enough to creep along beside me for thirty feet and ask me (or some woman called “sweet lady”) if I/she wanted a ride. Given that I was the only woman present I deduced “sweet lady” was me.
I am certain the namesake of their home state, William Penn, would have found their act of charity touching. I didn’t. I thought they were creeps. I made this known by shooting them the finger. Nonplussed they drove off. Hopefully, to “Pumps”. Where they’ll have to pay for play— behind shower curtains.
It was at this point —at long last— I achieved the proper mindset to practice my dark craft: rage.
I call this photograph “Tuff Stuff” (after the lock on the above fixture) because nothing says I’m a real man like stalking a total stranger who is (at best) half his size from a pick-up truck. On Morgan Avenue.
From Bogart Street. No explanation required.
One of the challenges I encountered in Bushwick was most of the objects that caught my discerning eye were located in playgrounds. Playgrounds = children. Having had the pleasure of being detained by the N.Y.P.D. for taking photographs under the auspices of the patriot act*, I limited my activities to parks where minors were not present. If taking pictures of Christmas decorations merits police intervention I imagine despoiling a child’s mind with breast imagery in this day and age would merit a one way ticket to Gitmo.
This fella (from Noll Street) presented me with a challenge. I had a vision, but alas, the string gracing my girls broke while trying to make it happen. I rummaged around my backpack for a “quick fix”. I found one. Call me a Macgyver with tits. Four of them to be precise— and a paper clip.
It took me roughly ten minutes to make this work. The whole time I was struggling to strap tits on this (polar?) bear a chap was beating a tree trunk with an aluminum baseball bat behind me. Vigorously. Once he realized what I was doing he left. No questions asked. That’s one of the things I love about New York City: people mind their own damned business. He went Ty Cobb on a tree, I strapped tits on a polar bear; we each understood the other’s need to work out “anger”.
And last —but hardly least —the tits de rÃ©sistance. They hail from Public School 145 on George Street.
I cannot come up with a title for this one. Suggestions, anyone?
Now if you don’t mind I’m off to rehabilitate my boobs.
*Not capitalized on purpose.
P.S.: The photograph gracing the beginning of this post hails from Humboldt Street in Greenpoint. I’d like to dedicate it to John McCain. For some inexplicable reason it makes me think of him.
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
From Meeker Avenue.
Filed under: Williamsburg
From North 12th Street.
All you Greenpointers out there whose cuffs and collars simply must match (or be colored in a fuchsia hue— and you know who you are) will be pleased to know the “new” Duane Reade at 893 Manhattan Avenue is selling betty beauty * products. Be advised that the price of perversity is a bit stiff: $19.99 plus tax.
*I wonder if I could contribute a box of “fun betty” to Sarah Palin’s Vice Presidential campaign? If she goes “pink” I’ll vote red. Naturally I will demand photographic evidence that this has come to pass.
I have seen people do a number of things while riding in or waiting for the subway over the years. In addition to more pedestrian pursuits (READ: sleeping, making out, vomiting, etc.), I have witnessed men and women alike clipping their toenails. On more than one occasion. These folks have something I simply do not possess: the ability to feel right at home in the subterranean innards of our city. Any given subway platform might as well be their living room (or bedroom). Speaking as someone who does her best simply not to TOUCH anything in the subway system (and carries a container of baby wipes in the event she does) I find this phenomenon fascinating.
Which brings me to this guy I saw on the Smith – 9th bound platform of the G at Metropolitan Avenue this weekend.
Mister Heather thought I was laughing at this chap. This is not so. What I felt was something more akin to envy. He has clearly achieved a comfort level with the G train I have yet to attain.
Stiff and unbending is the principle of death.
Gentle and yielding is the principle of life.
Patience is the foremost precept of Crosstown Local consciousness. Learn it, live it, love it.