Filed under: Area 51
I found this card advertising “Dancer Boy’s” services while walking down Lorimer Street yesterday. Too bad I didn’t know about him a day earlier, he would have made my birthday festivities a lot more provocative.
P.S.: Oh yeah, nice
Fucking ugly, that’s who!
I present to you, dear readers, 147 Maujer Street. Per the Department of Buildings a partial stop work order exists on this property.
Or would that be three Stop Work Orders? I am getting a little confused.
Per their latest deposition, January 7, 2008:
Guess what? They were back at it January 8!
So much for the Department of Building’s “enforcement”.
if they’re going to go to this much trouble to break the law— repeatedly— the developer could do us all a favor and do so with matching bricks.
Some of you may not be know it, but a brave new concept in real estate is being explored at 231 Norman Avenue. The development in question is called the Greenpoint Lofts and their shtick is selling condominiums for commercial use. I have walked by this complex a number of times and aside from the annex in the back looking like a Motel 6 it struck me as decent quality work.
Perhaps their attention to construction will explain the lack of advertising savvy for this facility? I say this because I found the below advert for their “business ready condos” on Manhattan Avenue today and something immediately struck me as being amiss.
Now I do not know much about the German language, but then again I do not really need to. My issue with this ad is very simple: why is a(n incorrect) piece German punctuation being utilized in an advertisement for a development in “Little Poland”? While scarcely an old timer, I have lived in this neighborhood long enough to learn a few things about the local Polish population. They are as follows:
- They are very proud to be Polish. Rightfully so.
- Many of the older residents are not too keen on Germans (or Russians for that matter). Although I have never bothered to ask why, I suspect World War II informs this distaste.
I am certain the team of wizards who came up with this logo thought nothing about the linguistic ramifications of this jaunty piece of punctuation and quite frankly I wouldn’t expect them to. If such folk were interested in the vagaries of history, pogroms and poverty, they would have majored in them. This also explains why using the slogan “Make It Yours” did not strike them as being the least bit ironic: Adolf Hitler once made Poland his.
It has recently come to my attention that there is a blog with this very title. I have not taken the time to check it out extensively, but this snappy passage certainly piqued my interest:
Depending on how long you’ve lived here, the number of times you’ve had the following experience might vary: Walking along a familiar street, a block you walk a few times a week even, something jars you. The distribution of storefronts, pedestrians, and apartment stoops is just off. Maybe you stop, investigate. And then, there it is. Some new restaurant or store or bar where literally, you swear to yourself, there was nothing there three fucking days ago. Maybe you curse aloud, quietly, (really just barely a whisper, under my breath) if you’re like me, or maybe you symbolize your internal discontent with an exaggerated head shaking. Or you just frown briefly. And why? What did this plasma-screen laden sports bar ever do to you? Or that desperately-wanting-to-be trendy “club” that should make its way back to Soho where it belongs? Or that second dessert shop to open in a month? Which offenses, exactly, are they guilty of? I’ll tell you.
And he (or she) does.
Whatever “artistic marrow” the ‘Burg once had has long since been sucked dry or forced to move further afield. I mention this because yesterday I discovered one of the most inspired bits of chicanery I have seen in a LONG TIME on Montrose just east of Bushwick Avenue.
I initially thought by “pigs” the maker of this sign meant the police.
Upon closer inspection I realized he/she was referencing whole different breed of pig: people who leave their doggie dumplings on the sidewalk. And judging from what I saw during my jaunt in “East Williamsburg” I’d hazard to guess there are a great number of people who engage in this practice. Those of you who have a strong stomach (and nothing better to do) should check out Humboldt Street between Montrose Avenue and Meserole Street. It’s a fucking minefield.
Some of you might have noticed that yesterday’s offerings on New York Shitty were few. There are several reasons for this:
- January 7 is my birthday and sitting in front of a computer is not my idea of a good time.
- It was damned near sixty fucking degrees outside.
- When the weather is unseasonably warm, New York’s more colorful citizens come out to play and I like to join them in the revelry.
I saw this guy when I made an emergency trip to Ricky’s in the East Village. While a little difficult to see in this photograph, he even sports white mascara. It’s the above attention to detail that impresses yours truly, even though I could do without the swastika. Anyhoo…
In order to get to Manhattan I had to ride the Crosstown Local.
Behold, the Tyson of Liberty! The riders might have given the G a failing grade for service, but I give the riders an A+ for artistic prowess.
Here’s a nice close-up of Jesus presiding over the destruction of Manhattan. Speaking of Jesus, here is an annotated poster from the Metropolitan platform.
I don’t remember how the original poster read— what’s more I don’t care. I’d rather be edified by the epistles of crack during my wait for the Crosstown Local. It just makes sense.
It would appear those wacky Williamsburgers agree. They just can’t get enough of the stuff! But enough with the drug humor, let’s get back to Greenpoint.
A patron on the Queens-bound platform has a more scatological take on this (ubiquitous) Cloverfield poster. Upon closer examination I discovered there’s a little something for everybody.
An ejaculating penis.
A pair of gravity-defying breasts and an explosive fit of flatulence. The latter piece of imagery (rendered in Colonoscope) of reminds me of something I read on The Poop Report recently. It was penned by one “Farmer Brown”:
…I stood up, cursing a flowing string of swear words like a preacher caught in a whorehouse, and delivered one final foghorn fart that made me want to puke my guts up like a jock after a Colt 45 binge.
In closing, I might be one year older but I haven’t really grown up. Miss Heather still loves her some good scat chat. For those of you who don’t, I apologize for offending your more effete sensibilities.
And don’t forget: the Santalope loves you!
n., pl. ties. 1. The quality or state of being continuous. 2. An uninterrupted succession or unbroken course.
This little vocabulary lesson goes out to Hunt Architects.
The above masterwork (at 795 Grand Street) suggests they could use a refresher course on this concept. I for one am a big fan of the institutional-looking gray balcony.
Nothing says “luxury duplex” like good ol’ Soviet-era construction. For a moment I thought I was in Albania!
Filed under: Williamsburg
I guess “Mom” changed her mind.
Filed under: Williamsburg
Last night I wanted to mix things up a little bit, so my husband and I had dinner in Williamsburg. The gnocchi at Baci & Abbracci was delicious. What’s more, we got a little post-meal entertainment on our walk home courtesy of 156 North 12th Street:
New York’s Bravest checking out yet another site slated for demolition.
Hmm. The only valid permit I could find on the Department of Building’s web site was for a construction fence. They barely let the ink dry on this one: it was issued December 19th. Just in time for Christmas!
Looks like someone complained about unsafe demolition the month before. Of course, I am not a building inspector. If I was I’d have one of those funny little cars with a plastic chihuahua on the dashboard like the one I saw on Lorimer Street earlier in the afternoon). So if they said everything was okay it must be okay.
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
I received a most delightful nugget of Greenpoint goodness from a reader last night. She writes:
Thought you might find this interesting. It’s a brief reference to our neighborhood from the cartoon “Bowery Bugs” (1949). Steve Brody is off to Flatbush to find himself a lucky rabbit’s foot…
Pete McGuinness (the namesake of my favorite thoroughfare in the Garden Spot) was often quoted as saying “Greenpernt” in the New York Times. At first I took it at face value, but as I have read more articles (in their archives) I came to the opinion that they took delight in making Mr. McGuinness look like a yokel by quoting him in broken English. Per a Forgotten New York commenter:
You might correct an error and at the same time make a small contribution to philology by noting that neither the late Peter McGuinness nor any other authentic representative of Greenpoint referred to the section as Green-pernt [TIME, June 21]. I knew McGuinness well . . . and I never once heard him or anyone else from Greenpoint mispronounce the section’s name. . .It is perfectly true that New Yorkers often render “oi” as “er,” and vice versa, but I can swear under oath that Greenpoint is called Greenpernt only by people from Coney Island, Croton-on-Hudson and Beverly Hills. [Time Magazine letter, July 12, 1948]
Perhaps it was because Pete was Irish? Perhaps it was because his political career survived the Seabury hearings and he was elected the Sheriff of Kings County in a landslide? A yokel he may have been, but he was also politically savvy— and the latter was probably what upset them most.
Nonetheless, I am certain “The Fighting Alderman of the 17th Ward” will get a chuckle out of this from his deluxe apartment in the sky. My only hope is it isn’t a Belvedere.
Donald Rumsfeld candies.
I am not kidding. We are up to our eyeballs in these fucking tins— Larry da Junkman has been emptying them all morning. I asked if there were any Alberto Gonzales candies, but he said no. Bummer*. I would have liked to have one of those. I’d use it as a candy dish on my coffee table.
It would not serve conventional confections, however. Nope, it would dispense bons bons suitable for an Attorney General of his caliber.
*I suppose there isn’t any real difference between the two, but in my opinion it takes a raging piece of shit to make John Ashcroft look good.