After getting off to late start I am pleased to announce that 97 Russell Street is getting down to some serious Halloween business! What’s more I got to meet the woman behind some of this madness (she was waiting for her husband to arrive with a lift so they could hoist a ghost onto their tree) and get the 411 as to what is going on.
Apparently the reason they got off to a late start this year (the left-hand side of the yard was still incomplete as of today) was because she went on a trip to Egypt (!) and her hubby didn’t where she had stashed all the Halloween goodness!
Once the aerosol foam insulation dries on this bad boy he’ll be brandishing a meat cleaver! YAY!
This cute little witch holds court with her retinue of ghosts above the front door…
right next to this rather nasty looking fella.
Scaryass clown? Check.
Wraith and an organ? Check.
These skulls on a pike come from Long Island!
I can hardly wait to see what this looks like once they fire up the smoke machine. (YES, they’re going to have one!)
Last week I learned from their neighbors over on Humboldt that there is some long-standing friendly competition between brains behind the Humboldt Hurler and the folks at 97 Russell. As a matter of fact, their properties abut each other —enabling them to keep careful track of each others progress. It’s all in good fun though. The incredibly kind woman at 97 Russell told me today with a hint of pride that their house and 648 Humboldt were featured in the New York Daily News last year. This came to pass because her daughter happens to be a reporter for this publication.
Now that’s what I call an inside scoop!
Ever had one of those moments when you see something and think to yourself:
Gee, I bet there is an interesting story behind this.
Only to realize that in order to achieve true understanding would probably entail taking large quantities of psychotropic drugs? I had one of those moments this afternoon on Monitor Street.
Well, what do we have here?
But of course— It’s the Anti Imbedded Mossad Partymobile! Silly me.
Looks like the rear suspension could use a little work.
REJECTING THE SOLDIER’S RIGHT TO BE CLONED IS TREASON.
Shine on you crazy diamond, you! SHINE. ON.
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
It would appear that one of my fellow Greenpointers does not entirely grasp the concept of mass transit— or they thought HSBC had a drive-thru. (insert crass Polish joke here)
Filed under: Williamsburg
From Grand Street.
Filed under: Williamsburg
Rebecca11222 wrote (in an email entitled “Valentines Day for Halloween”):
Found 10/20 on North 9th between Roebling and Driggs. 2nd shot is close-up of invitation.
Hmm, we have a Mexican wrestler mask and a note tucked under the windshield wiper of a car. Let’s take a closer look, shall we?
Kinky upstate sex is the new Williamsburg!
P.S.: You can get a Mexican wrestling mask (just like Sal’s) right here in north Brooklyn at Huitzilli! The wonders never cease!
Filed under: Area 51
When the opportunity affords itself I like to engage in a little urban archeology. What some might consider an unsightly pile of garbage is an anthropological goldmine to me. In fact, I have a pet theory; one can tell a lot about a neighborhood (and the people who live in it) by the garbage left in its bicycle baskets. I have decided to keep a visual record of my findings via a little blog I have erected on Tumblr entitled Shit In Bicycle Baskets. Enjoy!
Who can’t crack a smile on this dreary day after looking at this happy fella? Today’s offering hails from The Garden, an establishment that always comes up with amazing window displays. Their groceries don’t suck either. Kudos guys (and gals)!
From Greenpoint Avenue.
I started it because I needed to blow off steam. Then people started reading it. I never knew there were so many people who would find my fucked up fascinations so interesting. Go figure.
In the clarity of hindsight I realize I do not exclusively chronicle my magnificent obsessions on this blog. It serves also as a diary of sorts. On that note earlier today I wrote:
Have you ever been told that your Internet service cannot be restored until a fucking bar opensâ€” and then was assured that this kind of thing is “pretty common in Greenpoint”? I have. On October 28, 2008 at 11:30 a.m. to be exact. When this iron-curtain-customer-service-meets-Preston-Sturges-comedy-of-errors morality tale is over you can be good and damned sure I am going to write about it. And oh, what I story I have to tell!
That time has come, kids. Before I proceed I’d like to state there are a number of morals to this story. Here are a couple:
- If you are making reference to a “bar down the street” in Greenpoint be very specific because…
- the Garden Spot has a shitload of bars. Too many, if you ask me —but I’ll let you draw your own conclusions.
As I awoke Saturday morning Mr. Heather quietly whispered to me:
Our Internet is down. I have contacted Verizon.
I suspect the Mister broke the news in this manner because he feared if told me such a thing when I was in a total state of consciousness I would flip out— and he was probably correct. You see, Verizon has this nasty habit of disconnecting our service (be it telephone and/or Internet) when they endeavor to hook up someone else’s phone line. This has happened four or five times. This phenomenon is one (of the many reasons) I dread the occupation of the Viridian by fresh-faced condo-goers. One man’s 130 unit luxury complex replete with concierge, gazing pool and virtual golf is another woman’s 130 potential disconnections by Verizon. But I digress.
Once I came to and grabbed a cup of coffee I shuffled into the living and asked:
So when is it supposed to be back up?
Mr. Heather: Monday.
Me (hardly surprised but nonetheless irked): Great.
Over the weekend I managed to rattle off a few posts via the Mister’s Blackberry in preparation for Monday: the day our service was ostensibly going to be restored. I thought I was well-rested and ready. I wasn’t.
Monday, October 20, 2008 at 11:15 a.m. the phone rings:
Miss Heather: Cool, I’ll be right down.
I let the repairman into our apartment and show him our set-up. He asks:
Is your phone working?
Mind you, this gentleman just dialed our land line less than a minute ago — and I answered said call. I thought to myself:
This is not a good sign.
Me: Yes, our phone line is working. We have no Internet. See the dsl router? It hooks up to this thing over here. The line is dead.
He went out to the pole and poked around. After about 15 minutes he returned.:
I have to wait until the bar down the street opens. The box I need to access is located behind it.
He said and assured me this was not at all unusual in Greenpoint. Puzzled but finding this entirely plausible (because the neighborhood I call home sports quite a number of drinking establishments) I asked for some clarification:
Which bar, (bar #1) or (bar #2)?
After some discussion we established it was bar #2. Then we both concluded there was no way he could access this property until it opened. The nice thing about living in a neighborhood riven with alcoholism is the bars tend to open early. I smugly thought to myself:
This should be resolved by 4:00 p.m. or so.
and went about doing some much-needed housecleaning to while away the time.
ASIDE: My husband always promises to help with the tidying up the house. He does not do this out of the kindness of his own heart. Rather, he knows if I do it I will get very, very angry. At him. Yesterday was no exception. After finding a dirty spoon tucked away under some books (why God, why?) and slamming my foot against a skillet he somehow saw fit to place on the kitchen floor I encountered the straw that broke the my camel’s back: a cache of mustard packets buried under a pile of papers in the living room.
Just last week— standing right in front of this hitherto unknown cache of condiment goodness— the Mister threw a tantrum about the local Chinese restaurant trying to charge him 25 cents for mustard. This was his rationale for refusing to buy his dinner from said establishment. Thinking this was one of the stupidest things I have ever heard in my life (because it is) I said:
Why didn’t just buy the fucking meal? We have, like, at least twenty of those fucking packets lying around here.
Obviously I was correct. And now I was getting pissed.
At 3:30 p.m. the Mister called:
Mr. Heather: How are you doing?
Me: You don’t want to ask that question right now.
Mr. Heather: Speakeasy says the Internet should be restored by 4:00 o’clock.
Me: Cool. I’m going to run.
4:00 p.m. comes and goes. The Mister calls again.
Mr. Heather: Is the Internet back up yet?
I replied “Of course not” and hung up. I was growing tired of housework. I was also growing tired of waiting for this bar to open so I decided that “happy hour” at Chez Shitty was going to kick off a tad early. You know what they say:
It’s always 5:00 o’clock somewhere.
So I hit the local wine store. AS I was returning home I had an epiphany:
I bet it was the OTHER fucking bar. SHIT.
I run home only two encounter two chaps claiming to be from Con Edison wanting access to our building. Knowing full well who they really are, I refuse. I make a beeline to my apartment and grab my cell phone so I can call my husband and tell him about my hunch. In the meantime the Con Ed con artists are hitting all the buzzers repeatedly in the hopes someone will let them in. I am getting rattled. After three tries I finally dialed the Mister’s number correctly.
Then there was a knock at my door. Hoping it was Verizon I hung up and opened it. Only to discover someone let these miscreants in our building:
What did I say to you a few minutes ago?!? NO THANKS!
I shit you not this pig fucker laughed as he walked away. Now I was getting super-pissed… and my cell phone rang.
Mr. Heather: I noticed you called. What’s going on?
Me: That IMBECILE got his information wrong. He meant bar #1. I could have given him access to that fucking pole via the back of our fucking apartment building and our fucking Internet would have been restored HOURS AGO…
Mr. Heather: I don’t understand.
Losing patience, I took a deep breath and started to explain the curious case of transposed bars. Then there was another knock at the door. I open it. It was ANOTHER fucking dude from IDT claiming to be a Con Ed employee.
Me (in a low, even tone to Mr. Heather): hold on a minute.
Me (shouting at IDT employee):
NO! THANK YOU!
Mr. Heather: What was that about?
Me: (sputtering very loud, VERY ANGRY profanity-laden incoherent gibberish).
Mr. Heather: I’m in the middle of a meeting right now. Can we talk about this later?
Long story made short my Internet access was not restored yesterday despite both bars in question being open as of 5:00 p.m. The Mister (very wisely I will add) decided to work late because he wanted to give me time to “cool off”. Eventually I did. Today at 9:00 a.m. a different Verizon employee arrived. He hit our buzzer and I let him in. In a much-needed instance of dumb luck it happened to the man who installed our Internet line. He knew exactly what to do, did it and profusely apologized for the bullshit I experienced yesterday.
Thank you Mr. Diaz. You are a fucking hero. And oh yeah:
DRINK UP GREENPOINT!
Those of us who live between Green and Freeman Street and get our telephone/Internet service from Verizon need those bars open as early as possible! Preferably at 9:00 or 10:00 a.m.— chop, chop! And for future reference to anyone who happens to live in the above-mentioned area: that fucking relay box is located behind the Mark Bar, not “The Murder Bar” (better known to arrivistes as “Tommy’s Tavern”).
Filed under: Williamsburg
From Metropolitan Avenue.