Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
A reader of New York Shitty, Astral resident and all-around very nice woman, Rowan, gave me her take on the bedbuggery going down there. She writes:
Personally, I haven’t experienced the bedbug problem (knock on wood!), but I also haven’t been living there that long – only since March 2007. I do see furniture and mattresses that are left out front with warnings about bug infestations, usually in front of 74, but that’s something you probably see, too.
This evening as I was walking to Casa Mon Amour something in front of the 74 India Street entrance of the Astral caught my eye
I honestly didn’t know bedbugs could (or would care to) infest such an item. What a pain in the ass (pun intended). Obviously I need to read Bedbuggers more thoroughly— and often.
As should the person who saw fit to rummage through these bags of clothing placed precariously (and tellingly) close to the above-infested chair.
What’s that burning sensation you’re feeling down there? It’s Greenpoint!
P.S.: I’d like to give the fine folks at Bedbugger a hearty helping of thanks on behalf of a good friend of mine who just discovered she has some unwanted roommates. She really enjoyed reading your site— she only wishes she didn’t have to. Nothing personal.
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
As an old(er)-school Greenpointer, I try to refrain from grousing about the recent wave of 20-somethings moving here. Sure many of them are aggravating— but who wasn’t when he (or she) was that age? Seriously. Occasionally the ingenuity some of my newer neighbors possess even impresses me. Like today.
I found this flyer at Greenpoint Avenue and Franklin Street. Any Greenpointer worth his (or her) salt will tell you this intersection (located in one of the most “vice” ridden ‘nabes in this fine Boro of Kings) is a popular venue for the al fresco consumption of alcoholic beverages.
The above photo (taken exactly a week ago at the previously-mentioned intersection) bears witness to the formidable marketing savvy of the folks at 107 Green Street. Note the party ball. A few hours after it was taken a wino seated himself in the red chair and endeavored to open a brand-spanking new fifth of vodka. The beer might have been gone, but this gent made good and damned sure the party went on! Beer is for south Brooklyn brownstone-dwelling pussies. Greenpoint keeps it real:
Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker!
But back to the most brilliant young capitalists I have ever met.
Unlike many advertisements that seem too good to be true, this one wasn’t.
To the residents of 107 Green Street:
I salute you. It is innovating thinking such as yours that makes America great. I am proud to have you as a neighbor.
UPDATE: I learned from the proprietress of Casa Mon Amour this evening that this Bloody Mary stand was the talk of Franklin Street. Apparently a dissatisfied quaffer complained to her that they were “cheap”. I am no Amy Vanderbilt; but I was always taught that free booze shouldn’t be dissed. To do otherwise is to breach proper Garden Spot etiquette.
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
Although I will be at work during most of the festivities, here is the itinerary I received from the co-presidents of Friends of the Greenpoint Library:
The event will begin at 11:00 a.m. Judging will be from 12:30-1:30 pm… We will be taking down names of potential buyers (3 per work) from 11:00 a.m. to 2:00 p.m. Starting at 2:00 p.m. the actual sale will take place. If the first person on the list is not present, the second person on the list will have the opportunity to buy and so on.
They also need volunteers to lend a hand with the following:
Installation and set-up: 10:00 a.m. -11:00 a.m.
Refreshments table: 11:00 a.m. -2:30 p.m.
Distribution of art to buyers: 2:00 p.m. -2:30 p.m.
Break-down/clean-up: 3:00 p.m. -3:30p.m.
$25.00 is a very small price to pay for not only a work of art, but to help our local library. Besides, who wouldn’t want this hanging on his or her wall? The woman who took my contribution recognized the dude on the couch immediately; he was sleeping on her stoop that morning.
I got a chuckle out of this skewed fire hydrant on Guernsey Street last night. If I had a dollar for every piece of property I have seen that was mowed down or jacked-up by the shitty drivers here,* I’d be a very wealthy woman.
Shouldn’t these things have water in them or something? Filling fire hydrants with petroleum strikes me as being counter-productive. Then again, this IS Greenpoint.
*If you’re wondering, my favorite to date was the clock in front of the Garden. Remember that? It was up-ended by a truck and the driver elected to take it with him.
I have decided a new project is in order: determining which block in Greenpoint has the most houses sheathed in vinyl siding. Given the scope and seriousness of this project I need help from you, dear readers. Those of you who want to nominate a block*, please shoot me an email at missheather (at) newyorkshitty (dot) com.
You immediate attention to this matter is greatly appreciated.
*I also want to make it clear that any tips about new stuff going on in The Garden Spot (especially art openings and other cultural events) are greatly appreciated. I like giving other artists a little exposure— but please give me as much advance notice as possible. I can be forgetful at times.
I have cornered “The Worst Buildings of NYC” flickr pool as of the writing of this post. Leonard Lopate had no idea what Pandora’s box he opened when he (or more likely, his staff) solicited photographs of ugly buildings. “You want ugly?” I thought to myself.
I’ll show you ugly!
This was no idle threat: it was a promise. One I am still endeavoring to complete.
The Garden Spot is filled with
eyesores development. Real estate shills like to call it gentrification. I call it horse shit.
This is 37 North Henry Street. It is also one of the ugliest pieces of pre-fab
shit progress I have ever seen.
Wednesday evening I spoke with a “student” from Columbia University*. He wanted to hear my take on the upcoming Greenpoint Library fund raiser and local “art community”. One of his questions was:
Describe your history as an artist. Is it your profession? Do you make stuff just (for) yourself, family and friends?
Questions like the previous make me stop and take a deep breath. Inasmuch as I like helping students with their projects (and believe you me I felt like the subject of an experiment: gentrification vivisection), his choice of words pissed me off.
I am a third generation artist. My mother is a painter; her aunt (my great aunt) was a painter. She’s dead now— my great aunt that is. Both were/are college-educated in this craft. I am not a painter, though I got my BFA is in painting. Magna cum laude, no less. I received my MFA in Sculpture at Parsons School of Design.
I do not make stuff for myself, family and friends. Well, I make stuff for myself sometimes— but I have no interest in galleries whatsoever (they’re no different than temp agencies, real estate brokers or pimps in my book). I am more interested in forcing people to think. And I do— usually without even trying. Which brings me back to above-mentioned turd.
As a sculptress (and Notary Public!) I do not profess to know the vagaries of architecture (or FAR), but I do have a grasp of design principles and three dimensional reasoning. The architect responsible for 37 North Henry clearly does not.
Describe your history as an architect Anthony Cucich? Is it your profession? Do you make
FeddersFriedrich Specials for yourself, family and friends? Inquiring minds want to know!
In any case, your craptacular building (located just off the BQE) also offers scenic views of the Kosciuszko Bridge and auto emissions for one’s olfactory pleasure! Only two units left folks, move right in! To repeat myself, this “builders closeout” is one of the aesthetically unappealing
pieces of shit buildings I have seen erected in Greenpoint. Ever. This is no small accomplishment.
*The same guy who wrote this. A week after I posted this. The only good thing about this situation I can think of is at least the de Give got a nice chunk of publicity. Otherwise, I’m glad to see a newbie journo (whose cell phone number is from Minnesota) is doing his homework, e.g.; trolling blogs and tendering his findings to The Brooklyn Paper.
Describe your history as an newspaper? Is it your profession? Or do you just crib from local yokels (and that is clearly what you thought I was) for yourself, family and friends?
If the opportunity afforded itself, I’d use The Brooklyn Paper as stationery. I would pretend to be a journalist and my asshole would be the pen (not unlike most of the people employed at the previously-mentioned periodical). But alas, the inferior quality of this paper irritates my rectum.
I line my cat boxes and junk folder with ‘em instead. Although I never signed up for it, I get Brooklyn Paper spam regularly nowadays. Thank you for wasting my time, memory and intelligence.
Filed under: Area 51
Those of you who are interested in reading the EPA’s confirmation of what most us already knew click here.
P.S.: As it would happen, I will be taking a boat tour of Newton Creek this very weekend! I wonder if I’ll see any oil?
Filed under: Williamsburg
My buddy Rachael and I recently discussed the pros and cons of having pink hair. I told her that though I found it enjoyable, blue seems to better suit me. She concurred, stating “When I have pink hair it makes people want to touch me”. I assured her that having such tresses had very little to do with such behavior. The fact of the matter is you can name anything— ANYTHING— and it will be used an excuse for some ingrate to touch you. Or himself. Usually the latter.
I thought about the previous discussion as I went for a walk yesterday. The working-class joes that staff most of the construction and demolition sites hereabouts find my hair color fascinating. Most are very nice when they tell me so. The following guy wasn’t.
This is 255 Skillman Avenue. Noticing a truck touting ownership by a demolition company (which can be seen at the bottom right-hand corner), I went in for a closer look. My desire to verify that this building did indeed have a permit to be demolished created quite a sensation. One worker ran into the site and alerted his compatriots. That’s when it happened.
A fucking wolf call. As I turned around to see who my admirer was I pulled out my camera. Upon noticing this he ducked into the building.
If you are going to go to the trouble of harassing me on the street, at least have the fucking balls to look me in the eye afterwards. Fucking coward.
One of my credentials for being a Dog Shit Queen has nothing whatsoever to do with dogs; I am the keeper of one of the most disgusting cats that ever walked this planet. After a period of relative inactivity last night “Stinky” (whose real name is Frances) lived up to her moniker with a vengeance.
My first attempt at going to bed was at 9:30. I was very tired. As I laid in bed waiting to doze off, my next door neighbors decided to fire up one of the worst-smelling spliffs I have ever whiffed. One of them even said:
This is the sorriest joint I have ever seen.
As the odor began to waft into my apartment I found myself agreeing with her. Whoever sold this woman that shit must have laughed his (or her) ass off all the way to the bank. “I can’t sleep smelling that shit.” I groused while getting out of bed. I played on the computer for an hour and tried to go back to bed again.
I laid there. I got up and had a glass milk. I resumed laying there. No sleep in Brooklyn.
shugga, shooooogah, shoogah— blech!
Frances deposited a pile of gack on my side of the bed.
Pleased by the artful placement of this pile of puke, “Stinky” elected to do an encore.
“God, will she ever stop?” I thought to myself as the perfume of rancid cat food ravaged my nostrils. She then hopped onto the bed in the hopes of getting a little post-vomitous cuddling. It was midnight. I had yet to fall asleep. This is when a new odor manifested for my olfactory pleasure.
UGH!!!! IT SMELLS LIKE SHIT IN HERE!
I hopped out of bed and grabbed a paper towel; I know the drill. “Are you going to help me with this Sam?” I shouted.
I’m trying to sleep.
He whined. This was not the answer I was looking for, so I turned on the bedroom light. “You could help me with this, you know.” I said.
I’M TRYING TO SLEEP!
He shouted while squirming like a 200+ pound night crawler.
I’M TRYING TO SLEEP TOO. BUT IT’S KIND OF HARD TO DO WHEN THE BEDROOM SMELLS LIKE SHIT!
I replied. My husband was born in the year of the pig. This is the only explanation I can come up with as to why he can sleep in a
room waller that smells like crap.
It was clear I was on my own so I held Frances down with one hand and proceeded to remove the shit biscuit that was caked to her ass with the other. This is not an easy task when you have 13 pounds of feline resistance fighting you every step of the way. Hubby slept through the entire procedure.
Having accomplished my mission I got an idea. Tip-toeing quietly I sauntered to his side of the bed, leaned over and held this morsel two inches away from his nose. His nose twitched in displeasure, then his eyes opened.
OH MY GOD!!!
“I was trying to SLEEP!” he whined. Was, indeed! Tee-hee!
“Tough shit.” I said and proceeded to the kitchen so I could ditch the shit and laugh my ass off.
My ears might have been playing tricks on me, but I swear I heard him mumble the word “bitch” before rolling over and going back to sleep.
Filed under: Bushwick
I found the above poster on Moore Street after patronizing one of the “ghetto Starbucks” I have heard so much buzz about lately. After searching high and low for an eightball, all I got was a lousy bottle of seltzer and a little repartee instead.
9 Year Old Boy: Anyone who has hair that color looks like they came from the circus.
Me: (circus escapee, turning around)
10 Year Old Girl: I think it’s pretty.
Me (smiling to the store owner and children): Thank you. I am not from the circus, by the way. I am from Greenpoint.
It has long been my experience that having a sense of humor and treating people with respect can turn almost any situation around. I am not so stupid or arrogant as to believe there are no legitimate reasons why this child (or the author of the above missive which, THANK GOD, is NOT a haiku) harbors a belligerent attitude towards “white people”. Speaking as one such “white person” who has had a fair amount of abuse leveled at her from other “white people” over the years— usually for the way I looked— I empathize with them.
A little compassion goes a long way. Too bad there aren’t more “white people” who practice it. The world would be a much nicer place if they did.*
*Then again, what would I know? I live in the big top that is Greenpoint after all. Our need for over-priced and over-sweetened coffee has been filled by a corporate entity: we have a Starbucks.