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.
Filed under: Bushwick
Judging by how painstakingly this couch (which is located on White Street, just south of Johnson Avenue) is “gift wrapped” I strongly suspect it contains six-legged presents of the biting kind. All you Bushwick bedbuggers out there take note: do not bring home the Naugahyde sofa on White Street. You’ll be glad you did(n’t)!
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
Casa Mon Amour will be offering a tasting menu of Central American cuisine this Saturday, September 15. Black bean soup, pupusas, heart of palm salad and catamale are tentatively slated for the menu and much, much more! Reservations are required and can be made via telephone or in person at:
Casa Mon Amour
162 Franklin Street
Brooklyn, NY 11222
The more casserole-crazed among you might be interested in checking out next month’s Casserole Party at Brooklyn Label. Per the email I got from the proprietress of Casserole Crazy:
Fall is almost here and that means it’s time to register for The Casserole Party, an annual casserole competition organized and hosted by Emily Farris. The Third Annual Casserole Party will be held Tuesday, October 16 at Brooklyn Label in Greenpoint. …the Casserole Party is back and badder than ever. We’re changing things up this year, but the idea is still the same: to show off a hearty and comforting dish from childhood…and let’s be honest, it’s an excuse to over-indulge in baked deliciousness. This year we have an impressive panel of judges and a cash bar provided by Brooklyn Label.
This year’s winning recipe will be featured in my upcoming casserole cookbook (Perigee, Fall 2008), and will be placed on the Brooklyn Label menu for a month. Because of this, only original and “family” recipes will be allowed.
180 Franklin Street
Brooklyn, NY 11222
Good luck and bon apetit!
*They are also offering an evening of French cuisine every Tuesday. Here’s what was served last night!
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
I almost pissed my pants laughing when I took the above photo. Contrary to what I had hoped, this chap was not under the employ of 110 Green Street. Rather, his place of employment would appear to be across the street (at 125 Green), as that’s where he ducked in with his groceries. I find this is sort of interesting provided there are no permits whatsoever posted at this site.
You didn’t ask for this, but here it is anyway.
This Friday, September 14, starting at 7:00 p.m. Jack the Pelican gallery will be hosting a Fur Suit Portrait Paint-off. Any of you who have wanted to see furries doing whatever furries do while having their likenesses rendered on canvas, this is the night to see it. I have been told a D.J. will be spinning records and a Furrie Ball will be conducted afterwards.
Jack the Pelican Gallery
487 Driggs Ave, between N. 9th and N. 10th Street
Brooklyn, NY 11211
Whatever will I wear? Dressing up like Steve Irwin —or a Prospect Park raccoon immediately comes to mind…
Filed under: Crazy People
I have spent the entire day holed up in my apartment. This was not by choice, either; my husband’s new computer was to arrive today “between 8:00 a.m. and 12:00 p.m.”. As of 5:18 p.m., it hasn’t.
As a result I have spent much of today pacing around the apartment and posting pictures to Leonard Lopate’s The Worst Buildings of New York Flickr photo pool. Thankfully, Icky in Brooklyn witnessed another act of public urination today to spice up my otherwise painfully boring afternoon. He writes:
Pissing on the Avenue and a ride on Daddy’s shoulders … now that’s what I call an afternoon out.
So do I, kiddo. So do I.
Prospect Park West papasans are much more “hands on” than their Greenpoint counterparts. Per my hairdresser, Toni (from Zoe’s Beauty Salon & Spa), the father and son bonding on Greenpoint Avenue is limited to a toddler dropping his pants and shaking his hips as he pees, much to the amusement and admiration of his proud beer-swilling father. I have been told the overall effect is not unlike that of a lawn sprinkler.
Much has been made of the “Finger Building” of late, but what about its lesser known accomplice the “Finger Shit”? Well, I discovered it recently on 7th Street in the East Village.
The likeness is uncanny if you ask me. One for each pile driver. How appropriate!
Filed under: Area 51
Today’s selection of New York City history has nothing whatsoever to do with Greenpoint. As of the writing of this post I am listening to Magic’s pile driver pound away precariously close to the old bathhouse on Huron Street. The chair my fat white ass resides in is vibrating from the construction being conducted downstairs. Had I awakened in a different state of mind I might have exploited the latter, but the fact of the matter is I didn’t. And won’t. Suffice it to say I am a turd of a mood and today’s selection from the December 21, 1933 edition New York Times was picked because it amuses me.
Here’s a little background information on today’s subject. Her given name was Mary Louise Cecilia Guinan but she was better known as simply “Tex”. Her moniker arises from the fact she was born in Waco, Texas. Just like me. In January, no less. Once again, like me. We both had the horse sense to get the fuck out too; her, to a career in vaudeville later to become one of the most notorious speakeasy proprietresses in New York City and me, well, to whatever it is I am doing nowadays. Wikipedia has a very nice entry about her. I highly recommend recommend reading it.
Hers was a life that was interestingly —if not well— spent. The auction of her estate bears witness to this fact.
Speaking for myself, I find the synagogue chair of particular interest. As it would happen, I own a 19th century prayer bench. I haggled aggressively with the priest who consigned it too. Now it is one of the many very odd pieces of bric a brac that fill my apartment. The mirrored headboard that graces my boudoir isn’t broken though. Quarter inch thick glass is pretty resistant to wear and tear. I take great pride in my very practical approach to deviancy.
Those of you whose are interested in paying respects to Ms. Guinan can do so at Calvary Cemetery.