Filed under: Area 51
I rarely go to Manhattan anymore. Now that I think of it, I rarely leave Greenpoint for that matter. But when I do leave the confines of the Garden Spot it is usually for one purpose: to buy clothes.
One of the perks of having discretionary income is being able to replace my tatty-ass and ill-fitting apparel with brand new rags. Duds that are intended to look distressed, not ones that have been rendered into such a state by repeated wear and tear. Although Dalaga and Alter have nice wares, the overall pickings in Greenpoint are pretty slim. At least to women who don’t want to look like 80′s Eurotrash hookers they are, anyway.
When I need a fashion fix I go to (where else?) Williamsburg. This is what I did yesterday and I found a couple stunning examples of Billyburg chic in the process.
I found this guy dining at North 6 yesterday afternoon. It takes a certain amount of chutzpah to wear a shirt like this. The fact that he saw fit to share his special gift with anyone who happened to be strolling down North 6th Street is downright hardcore. I like this guy. I was tempted to ask him where he got this shirt, as I think it would be the perfect thing to wear at my sister-in-law’s wedding this fall. Now onto the ladies…
One thing I have grown to utterly despise of late is people talking on their fucking cell phones. The invention of this device has transformed people (whose manners were already marginal) into self-absorbed assholes. Listening to a woman talk at length about her boring life while strutting around like she’s Miss Thing makes an otherwise quiet and relaxing walk pure unadulterated HELL.
Unless of course she is walking around with a price tag hanging out of her shirt— in which case it takes every iota of restraint I have to keep from pissing my pants while I laugh at her.
Thank you Williamsburg for giving me, a lowly gal who lives in Greenpoint, the gift of laughter. You seldom disappoint.
And that is why I love you.
Filed under: Area 51
When I awoke today— at noon— my husband gleefully ushered me into the living room. “We have Internet access!” he exclaimed.
To wit I replied:
You’re shitting me.
My husband is full of (sh)it. I learned the aforementioned fact the way all nice girls do: after getting married. I inspected our hub and lo, the light was on! I have been crying against the dying of that light for the last five days.
After emailing people like it was going out of style and taking my buddy Mikeypod on a walking tour of the Garden Spot, I sojourned down Berry Street. Between North 6th and 7th Street I found traces of someone else’s I.T. trouble.
I have no fucking idea what this person is talking about. But I hope the aforementioned “Cocksuck
er” ships the right disk soon. Nonetheless I find it very sweet. Indeed.
Filed under: Area 51
Of all the people who have raged against the Greenpoint way of life machine my husband has been the hardest case to crack. His usual (nonsensical) rhetoric centered around him being a dandy (and wearing dinner jackets, a tie and dress shoes). In Oscar Wilde’s circle— that being Victorian England— such fettle would be fine. But in Greenpoint 2007, people are likely to think a man sporting such attire is a registered sex offender. For very good reasons, I would like to add.
Today everything changed.
As we were headed to the Metropolitan Avenue stop of the G we came across a store called Huitzilli. Contained therein were a fine assortment of Panama hats and Mexican wedding shirts. Seriously fierce wedding shirts.
This is the front.
Here is the back.
And what would a jaunty shirt be without a Panama hat to go with it?
The way I see it, all Sam needs now is a card table, a folding chair, a portable radio and a set of dominoes and he’ll be on his way to Greenpoint beatitude.
For those of you who are stylistically inclined, Huitzilli will have it’s grand opening tomorrow, July 1st.
624 Metropolitan Avenue (It’s one block east of Union Avenue. Trust me.)
As many of you are aware, I (and a fair number of other Greenpointers) have been without a telephone and Internet access since Tuesday. Initially Verizon said everything would be back up on June 28th. On June 28th, the date was pushed back to June 30th or July 1st. Now July 2nd is the supposed date for my restoration of access to the outside world. I’ll believe it when I see it.
Let’s just say I’m seriously considering taking Semaphore lessons.
But Miss Heather is not one to whine about such trivial matters. I have gone ten days without electricity. I’m still standing (albeit stinkier) after an entire week without hot water. I have shimmied through my own bathroom window— using the fire escape on the fourth floor as a fulcrum— after having my locks filled with glue by a former Superintendent’s wife.
I have learned to be resourceful. Mostly at using other people’s resources. I have spent the last five days drifting around the north Brooklyn landscape looking for one thing: Internet access. FREE Internet access. FREE AND PRIVATE Internet access.
Perhaps I have become a diva? If I am, I am a low-budget one. Any place where I have to wear a bra and intuit enough social pressure to refrain from scratching myself (and/or cleaning my ears with a Q-Tip) is simply not conducive to fomenting my creative juices. The Dog Shit Queen of Greenpoint has needs— and one of them is having non-itchy ears.
Thankfully a good friend of mine down in Bushwick lent me a hand (and her apartment keys) to this end. The last time I trudged down there I found something that made riding the (ever tardy) B43 bus and enduring the numerous shouts of “Hey mami, I love you” totally worth it.
I found this gargantuan pile of feces on Montrose Avenue just east of Humboldt.
Here is a photo that will give you some idea as to how large this revolting refuse is. It’s big.
Really fuggin’ big.
Every dark cloud has a shitty lining. And when you’re a Dog Shit Queen, that isn’t necessarily such a bad thing. This Greenpoint “Mami” loves her some Bushwick bum poo!
During my latest sojourn to Sunnyside I happened upon a house on 38th Street that shone head and shoulders over its neighbors.
St. Francis stands guard over the front door.
As I moved in closer to take the above photo, a battery-operated bird started chirping. The overall effect was a shinier, happier version of The Abominable Doctor Phibes. If Mr. Phibes decided to drop a lot of acid and move into a row house in Queens, that is.
Two captains silently hold court over this electronic menagerie from an air conditioning unit on the second story.
I saw the person who lives here; he is a teeny tiny old man. Had to be in his 70′s at the very youngest. I strongly suspect him to be a widower because I can’t imagine a woman living in this animatronic domicile. A woman’s touch this house decidedly lacks.
ectortural masterpiece hails from Kent Street just west of McGuinness Boulevard.
As you can tell from the above photo, it sports some seriously retro asphalt siding like its predecessor. What you cannot see, however, is what makes this seemingly unremarkable two story house worthy of distinction.
Please give a hearty round of applause to The Kent Street Country Bunker!
Filed under: Area 51
For those of you who are unaware, I have been without telephone and Internet service for going on three days. In fact, a great number of my fellow far north Greenpointers (Verizon customers all) are in the same predicament. The word infuriating does not begin to describe what it is like to be in such a situation. Last night I finally lost it. Here’s how it happened.
Two weeks ago I lost my credit card. I call the credit card company and make arrangements for them to send me a new one. No problem. Last weekend the PIN for my ATM card quit working. Let’s think about this: having neither a credit card nor a functioning ATM card is going to make, say buying groceries or doing laundry, a lot more difficult. I am on my last clean top as I write this.
Monday: I take a bag of change to the Key Food, pump it into the Coinstar Machine and walk away with a phat thirteen bucks. This money gets spent on food and subway fare so I am back to square one: being broke. My new credit card arrives in the mail.
Tuesday: Shortly after awakening I realize that I have no Internet or telephone service whatsoever. When I take my brand-spanking new credit card down to the local beauty supply to get some much needed hygiene products, I learn that a great number of other people are having the same problem. This became apparent after I was told that their credit card machine was not working.
I then took the subway into Manhattan, go to my credit union and withdraw $60.00. I also asked them to reset my PIN for my ATM card. This four digit ticket to accessing my own money will be mailed from Los Angeles. Great.
Wednesday: After spending a lot of money at Internet cafes, I break down and call a good friend of mine who lives in Bushwick. I ask if I can get a set of keys from her and work from her apartment on Thursday. She says sure. I am to be there at 9:00 p.m. I arrived at 9:03 p.m., we talked a little and I headed back home.
When I got to Scholes Street and Graham Avenue I discovered another hardship that comes with having no Internet access: no online weather alerts. Had I known a torrential downpour was about to commence, I would have planned accordingly. Unfortunately, I did not know this important piece of dignity-saving information and ended up getting thoroughly soaked.
As I seethed with black rage my husband made the mistake of asking:
Are you alright?
I turned around and looked at him. The ball of rage that had already formed in my stomach came forth from my mouth full force:
No, I am not O.K. I AM FUCKING PISSED!
Nary a single word was uttered the entire bus ride home.
I discovered the above tableau earlier this week on South First Street. The sign to the right reads:
To live sick better drunk.
I was initially confused by this cryptic message. Thankfully, the chaos wrought by having no telephone or Internet service for three days (thanks Verizon), has lent me a special understanding of what this truism means. What’s more, I wholeheartedly agree with it.
Right now I am at my friend’s apartment in Bushwick. I am hot; there is no air conditioning. She has left to run some laundry; I am alone. There are three bottles of Newcastle Ale in her refrigerator.
But not for much longer.
Filed under: Area 51
Not too long ago my gal pal over at 11222 was generous enough to assemble some general guidelines for patronizing the B61 bus. Although I found what she wrote both amusing and informative, I would be remiss if I didn’t go on the record and state that I disagree with her on a number of points. With the previous in mind, I have designated Eight Holy Commandments for riding the B61 bus. Here they are.
1. Thou shalt consider the bus as your home away from home and behave accordingly. No behaviour— however repulsive or obnoxious as it may be— should be considered “off limits”. This includes:
- Clipping one’s toenails or plucking hairs off one’s upper lip or chin (The latter is applicable to women only, sorry guys!)
- Feasting upon fragrant foodstuffs such as fried chicken, french fries, or pizza. For extra “bus cred”, be sure to discard the container on the floor. Remember: THIS IS YOUR HOME. Treat it accordingly.
- Making out with your boy/girlfriend. Contrary to what some uptight bus riders will tell you, most of us revel in watching your foreplay. It saves us a lot of money that would otherwise be spent renting pornography.
2. Thou shalt conduct telephone conversations of a very personal nature on the bus.
- Did you pick up a hooker in Hunter’s Point who let you bang her twice for a mere $300? Don’t keep it to yourself, call your best buddy and tell him all about it!
- Did your boyfriend fuck around with your best friend’s cousin’s little sister? Don’t bottle up all that anger: get on the phone and let it out. We want to know how you put this lying ass dog in his place. Besides, hearing FAWK YOU AND FAWK YOUR STOOPID FAWKING BULLSHIT! bellowed at 100+ decibals makes an otherwise dull commute much more provocative.
3. Thou shalt treat the bus as your personal dating service/brothel. Why outlay mad money on EHarmony or Nerve when a mere $2.00 gives you a captive audience of lovely ladies to choose from? If you even suspect that girl sitting in the back with the thousand mile stare was at a party you went to eight months ago, get out of your seat and endeavor to get into those pants. If she tells you she’s not interested, rest assured that means “maybe”. Keep talking. And talking. If this tease didn’t want your manhood she would have taken a taxi home instead.
4. Thou shalt be completely unprepared when you board the bus. Do not have your Metrocard ready— or better yet, have four or five Metrocards and not know which one has money on it. If you are feeling particularly frugal, make sure NONE of the Metrocards in your possession have money on them, as this will probably get you a free ride. It is a fact of B61 life that no matter how jam-packed the bus is, no one will have quarters to break your one dollar bills.
5. If thoust happens to be non-English speaking and deaf, thou shalt only ride the bus whilest completely inebriated, preferably when large numbers of horny party-goers are headed home. After being admonished by the bus driver to sit down, do so. After about ten seconds of being seated, stand back up. Repeat cycle. Your fellow patrons will thank you for this. Especially the ones who are on second or third base at the back of the bus.
6. Thou shalt have proper hygiene when riding the bus: none whatsoever.
7. Thou shalt get thy $2.00 worth by any means necessary:
- Feel free to carry any and all oversized items you desire on the bus. Bicycles are especially welcome.
- If you are a man, feel free to spread those legs open and air out that nutsack. The smell of your crotchpot cooking makes us girls HOT. If any woman tells you otherwise, she’s being a cooze.
- Be sure to prevent people from entering and exiting the bus. If John Q. Hipster wants to get off at Bedford Avenue badly enough, he’ll find a way.
- Handicapped seating is there for your non-handicapped enjoyment. Screw that old bag of shingles with the walker. That bitch is getting is living large off those phat social security benefits. Standing for 45 minutes will show her who’s boss.
8. Thou shalt be totally and utterly clueless. Why bother reading a bus or subway map when you have 30-40 bus patrons to do your thinking for you. If you happen to be from Manhattan be sure to:
- piss and moan ad nauseum about having to come out to Brooklyn to attend some party, art opening, etc. Keep us Brooklynites in our place.
- ask everyone within earshot if this bus “will get you to Manhattan”. When someone gives you an answer you do not like (READ: “no”) keep asking until someone gives you one more to your liking. This is a win/win situation for everyone involved; we get a chuckle at the thought of you being stranded in Red Hook at 2:30 in the morning and you get an exercise in human survival.
I do hope the above rules are helpful to all you current, soon-to-be and wannabe B61 enthusiasts. Do not hesitate to shoot me an email if I missed anything. There will be a special prize conferred upon the person who comes up with the most piquant addition to the above commandments.
Filed under: Area 51
Those of you who are interested in attending can get all the details here.
P.S.: As of 7:00 a.m. this morning a substantial area of Greenpoint lost phone and Internet service. From what I can tell the area affected is north of Greenpoint Avenue and west of Manhattan Avenue. I happen to reside in this area. Those of you who have sent me emails recently and have yet to get a response, please be patient. Verizon gave 6/28 as the date this problem would be resolved. What load of shit.
I found the above scheiss oddity yesterday behind the Key Food on McGuinness Boulevard. Many of you non-Greenpointers may not know it, but this area (Newel Street between Greenpoint Avenue and Calyer) is a hotbed of bumshit activity.
That’s probably why this building decided to take a dump; it got shit/pissed/vomited on one too many times and decided to retaliate. Or there is a bum living in Greenpoint who can blow shit rings out of his ass. If it’s the latter, I would humbly suggest that someone locate this man and give him his own cable television show.
P.S.: Be sure to check out today’s New York Daily News. I’m quoted in it!