Greenpoint
Lorven Pharmacy
Culture on the Cheap
Skidmark Row
Last Sunday I rooked my husband into accompanying me as I went on another (albeit smallish) fact-finding mission*. Our route was as follows.
West Street has never failed to deliver (large quantities of dog shit) before and this occasion proved to be no different. Here are a few of my favorite shits.
65 Green Street
SHIT Tac Toe! I won! I won!
79 Green Street
This is just plain scary. And last but not least, my personal favorite from…
150 West Street!
It was a very fruitful trip— and the dog shit I found was only the tip of the proverbial iceberg, if you know what I mean.
When I reached Kent Street I noticed yet another group of older buildings that seemed to be awaiting a date with the wrecking ball. I went in for a closer look. And when I did, I found this. I walked another 5-6 feet and found these.
It would appear that had stumbled upon a trail, a Skidmark Row if you will, of grannie panties that spanned 59 Kent Street. Fascinating.
So if any of you:
- woke up last Sunday morning (after several rousing trysts at Mary D’s the night before) and found yourself wondering “Gee, where’s my underwear?”
- have fantasies involving Estelle Getty, The Golden Girls, getting golden showers from golden girls— or all of the above
- find the “I’ve fallen and can’t get up” lady strangely arousing
- have a thing for underwear resembling Depends undergarments
today’s your lucky day! Go on down to Kent Street (I have indicated the location on the above map with a red dot) and dig in. And when you’re done, why not swing by Brooklyn Bridge Marriott tomorrow afternoon for this?
Happy hunting!
Miss Heather
*After what transpired earlier that day, I felt my husband owed it to me.
I woke up on Sunday about 30 minutes after my husband. I got out of bed, put on my pajama bottoms (which were exactly where I had left them the night before: at the foot of the bed) and wandered into the kitchen. After I had managed to plow through two cups of coffee, my husband charged into the living room babbling “You aren’t wearing the striped pants, are you?”
“Striped pants?” I thought to myself.
Husband: Yeah, the ones you are wearing. I found those wadded up in the cat box this morning.
I must had worn these soiled ‘striped pants’ for at least 20 minutes before my husband saw fit to notice and/or tell me. I am still trying to figure out why the hell he didn’t simply put them in the dirty laundry hamper instead of putting them back on the floor. Gross.
Another day in Happy Valley…
Thus far today I:
- have been awakened by the moron next door slathering more asphalt on his ghetto-ass roof.
- witnessed a number of fire trucks and police vehicles descending upon the mega-demolition site on my block.
- had to climb over a massive pile of shit our resident hipsters have seen fit to store in the stairwell so I could gain access to the roof and photograph said fire trucks and police vehicles.
- learned from my Section 8 neighbors that our landlord threatened to turn off the heat and hot water FOR THE ENTIRE BUILDING at their latest court-ordered arbitration hearing. The only response I could muster to this bombshell was “That’s really fucking stupid”. (Because it is.)
- have been preparing to slog through a fucking snow storm tomorrow because I have been selected for jury duty.
Suffice it to say that my current mood is less than stellar. But strangely enough, none of the above-listed bullshit is to blame. Nosirree. This, dear readers, was (and still is) the crowning turd of my day.
Off the top of my head, I can think of at least six coffeehouses (seven if you include Duncan Donuts) in this ‘hood. This is a less-than-original concept. I’d love to meet the rocket scientist who, in his infinite wisdom, decided that yet another coffee shop (and an overpriced one at that) is exactly what Greenpoint needs. Why doesn’t he toss in a couple of banks and another fucking Thai restaurant while he’s at it?
Idiot.
Miss Heather
Dung of the Day
Today’s “Dung of the Day” can be found in front of the Murder Bar (better known to non-locals as “Tommy’s Tavern”) on Freeman Street at Manhattan Avenue.
Shitastic!
Otherwise, I have parsed through Cafe Press’s merchandising opportunities (for New York Shitty) and found the following products of particular interest:
- Doggie coats: for the obvious reasons.
- Baby bibs: because what goes in the front inevitably finds its way out the back. I’m considering offering a rebate to Park Slope parents if they purchase and USE this item. Naturally, I will demand photographic evidence that the latter came to pass.
- Postage stamps: pay off your student loans with style!
- Thong underwear: although I have never been a fan of them, emblazoning the front of fannie floss with a pile of shit makes a certain amount of sense. Consider it a harbinger of things to come because I have little doubt that poo is exactly what you’ll find on the business end after you peel them off the wearer.
And (to shamelessly steal a quip from Vice Magazine) I will not shave my hairy ass before modelling them. Perhaps I’ll even pull a Farrah and select a pair that is two sizes smaller to better showcase my assets.
This is not an idle threat: it’s a promise.
Hugs and pisses,
Miss Heather
Your Psychic Fiend
Filed under: Area 51
As I continue to slog away tidying the apartment and listen to the landlord doing god-only-knows-what to the building next door, I have found ways to amuse myself. On Tuesday, for example, I had the task of parsing through an enormous pile of Chinese take-out condiment packets. In so doing, I discovered a handful of old, stale fortune cookies. Yummy. Instead of simply throwing them out, I decided to play a little game: fortune-telling for felines.
First up, Bodhi.
You would make a good lawyer.
This is very appropriate. As it happens, Bodhi regularly humps our female cat Uni (or any other cat in this apartment— male or female— that will sit still long enough) despite having no berries to power his twig. Having dealt with attorneys on a number of occasions, I am of the opinion that persistence, not intelligence, is the defining characteristic of those who engage in this profession. I will refrain from making any wise-cracks about their propensity for ‘screwing people’ because it is simply too easy.
Next up, Uni.
The great pleasure in life is doing what people say you cannot do.
Once again, this is right on the money. After being severely chastized by our vet for having overweight pussies, my husband and I put them on a diet. This endeavor has been for the most part successful. I say “for the most part” because Uni has only managed to get fatter. I honestly don’t know how she does it, but firmly believe this is an act of spite on her part.
Last up, Tortilla.
You will have good luck and overcome many hardships.
If I had to liken Tortilla to a person, it would be George W. Bush: neither is endowed with much in the way of intelligence and both are bullies. You will notice that the above photo appears to show Tortilla drooling. He isn’t; I took this photo after I caught him trying to eat liquid laundry detergent. Not. Very. Bright.
Whereas our fearless leader has an army (and god) to back up his little big man agenda, Tortilla is a quite large and exceptionally strong animal. He makes this known to the other cats here at Chateau de Ghetto on a regular basis— which is why my husband and I have erected a barrier between the bedroom and the living room. Not satisfied with merely picking on someone his own size, Tortilla takes great delight in accosting Uni.
On the evening of this psychic reading, dear readers, Tortilla got a break. Sort of. After exercising his god-given mandate to be a colossal asshole all afternoon, Tortilla managed to tear down part of our fortifications. Instead of diving into the bedroom and getting down to business (which would get him shot with the water gun immediately), he decided to stand on top of the gate and stare down at Uni menacingly. Subtlety is not one of Tortilla’s strong points.
Upon hearing the noise, I wandered into the bedroom to see what was going on. I found Tortilla pacing along the top of the gate and got the water gun. Despite his cognitive challenges, Tortilla knows this item by sight. He also knows I take great delight in shooting him in the face with it and turned his body around so as to make clear aim at his face impossible. And there he stood, looking over his shoulder at me with a “Fuck you, what are you going to do now?” expression on his face.
What I did was shoot him in the ass. Repeatedly. Bulls Brown eye! Tortilla didn’t know what hit him. He just stared at me with a mixed expression of confusion and abject hatred. I spent the next 15 minutes laughing my ass off while Tortilla fast and furiously cleaned his.
Feel free to call the ASPCA, PETA, Animal Care and Control, the FBI, CIA and/or the regulatory agency of your choice and report my ass. I dare you. You can rest assured that after the various and sundry authorities parade through this apartment and become acquainted with Tor Dubya Bush they will all walk away with the same opinion: this cat deserves to have U.N. sanctions levied against him.
Miss Heather
Little Dick Men Photo Credit: Miss Heather. For the life of me I cannot understand why I didn’t post this earlier. Maybe I got busy, who knows? This morning I emailed this fine image to my husband with the suggestion that he post it on the conference room door in his office. I don’t think he’ll do it though: he uttered some nonsense about liking his job and not wanting to get fired. Oh well.
I wish I had me some little dick men. I bet they’d help me clean all those hard-to-reach areas behind the toilet that gross me out to no end. Perhaps I should ask the landlord next door for some? SHSH!
2007 Crap Map
After taking some time off to recuperate from having company, this morning I bundled up, wandered into the living room and sorted some shit.
My latest route took me to Manhattan Avenue between Green Street and Newton Creek.
Not only did I find plenty of crap, but I discovered that an ice cream shop is slated for 97 Commercial Street (the former location of Bleu Drawes). This does not strike me as the most appropriate business venture to pursue this time of year, but then again at least it isn’t (yet) another bank or Thai restaurant. This ‘hood needs more pad Thai as much as it needs more dog shit: both are already in overabundance in my not-so-humble opinion.
Anyhoo, after becoming better acquainted with the vagaries of Flickr Maps (READ: I broke down and followed the directions), I have added my latest finds to my 2007 Crap Map. I have also reorganized a number of my photos so the newer readers among you can parse through my “Backdoor Crapstavaganza“: a photo diary of stuff my neighbors throw out their window. After a four month dry spell, I finally found a new item to add to it this week.
Enjoy!
Miss Heather
P.S.: After some serious thought, I have decided to (somewhat) reverse my “no profit” stance regarding this blog. I am of the opinion that “Mr. Poopyhead” mugs (and possibly t-shirts) bibs, doggie coats and thong underwear need to be made available to the general public. I am currently investigating ways to make this happen.
Holiday Special
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
Anyone who has lived in Greenpoint long enough will tell you that acknowledging the passage of time is strictly optional. Most of the residents here don’t. This is hardly surprising given:
- the retinue of old drunks who grace the intersection of Manhattan Avenue and Greenpoint Avenue on any given day. These men probably haven’t had a sober moment since Perestroika and they would just as well keep it that way. They’re going to keep on partying like it’s 1989.
- the seriously ‘retro’ fashion sensibility the Polish ladies espouse (and the boutiques that service their needs). Just like Jackie O, there is a certain timeless quality to the Polish woman: her clothes were just as unfashionable in 1985 (when they were undoubtedly manufacturered) as they are today. I do not want to give the impression that I take issue with this, dear readers. I rather like it.
Speaking as a woman whose UNcoolness and advanced age (and by ‘advanced age’, I mean over 30) is it made clear to her on a regular basis, I find Polish women (such as the one shown above), rather comforting. You can rest assured the rear view of this woman is a mere crumb compared to glory to be beheld from the front. Among other things, her jacket was left open so as to showcase two Miss Krakow ca. 1967 snack trays lovingly swaddled in Lycra.
Contrary to what some Bedford Avenue hipsturd will tell you, getting older is not a crime. Wearing shitty fashion dating around the time of your own birth (and thinking it is cool) is. That’s why I like this woman; she is a walking, talking “Fuck You” in the face of youth. And if you 20-something year old nubiles don’t want to look at some fierce AARP cleavage— move!
- The fact that most of the holiday paraphernalia here has yet to be taken down —and I doubt it ever will be. In Greenpoint the party never stops.
And if that means I will continue finding stuff like this well into next fall, it’ll be one very happy New Year for me indeed!
I didn’t know Santa’s workshop made such toys. Needless to say I am going to be a lot more adventurous when I sit on his lap this year. No wonder Mrs. Claus is so damned happy: she doesn’t live at the North Pole: she sits on it!
Miss Heather
This is so wrong, yet so very right…
Filed under: Area 51
For those of you who like to piss on flowers, this man’s products may be of interest to you. I for one like the California Poppy Urinal. I’d pay cold hard cash to see the Governator piss into that badass motherfucker.
Miss Heather
Don’t Put Strawberry Jelly on my Bagel
(…if I have jam in my pants)
After tossing and turning all night, I attempted to operate on four hours sleep (and two cups of coffee) today. My morning consisted of doing two loads of laundry and scouting the far north end of Manhattan Avenue for dog shit. Between the two previous tasks I ordered a toasted bagel from New Tulcingo.
I said I wanted a bagel with just a little cream cheese. And I got just that— with a fat glob of gelatinous sweet red slime to boot! I discovered this at the intersection of Freeman Street and Manhattan Avenue and got enraged. Instead of doing the rational thing (returning it and asking for another one) I flung the jelly off and cursed with total abandon.
For reasons unknown, a cabbie on Freeman Street found my spasmic fits of profanity interesting. Maybe he thought I was trying to hail him, as incomprehensible as that may seem; I was shouting, shaking a bagel and flinging jelly for chrissakes!
He pulled over on Manhattan Avenue and stared at me.
Me (shaking the offending bagel): Do you have a fucking problem!?!
Nothing. He kept staring.
The cabbie finally got the message when I started flinging jelly at his car.
In the clarity that is 20/20 hindsight, I suspect my menstrual anti-jelly demonstration is penny ante shit compared to what this man sees in Williamsburg, Chelsea or the East Village on any given day night. Except I wasn’t a kinked-up/coked-up nympho looking for a ride home: I was one very PISSED-OFF Greenpoint Gal trying to get that jelly THE FUCK off her BAGEL!
Please accept my sincerest apologies, cabbie. I meant no harm: you just happened to offer your services to the wrong person, at the wrong place and at the WORST possible time. You guys (and gals) have it hard enough as is. I am sorry if my mixed signals confused you.
When I got home I noticed my little friend surprised me (yet) again. I’l be serving up red jam toast for the next 3-4 days. Yummy. My husband will be delighted.
Miss Heather
Dung of the Day (of Indeterminate Mammalian Origin)
I found this pile of puddin’ poo at 1075 Manhattan Avenue last night. My husband and I were taking a couple of friends to the Acapulco Restaurant for dinner. They kept walking as I took the above photo, so I had to run to catch up with them. It would be a crime to let such an exquisite specimen go undocumented. In fact, I was so proud of this find that I showed it to them whilest we were dining. (Probably not the wisest thing to do given that we were in a Mexican restaurant. Oh well.)
A connubial debate followed as to whether this feces was of canine or human origin:
- My husband asserted that if said feces was located near a corner or some other means of support, it was human. It wasn’t— and therefore, it must be canine.
- I countered that people drop trou here at the drop of a hat. They have neither the time nor the wits about them to be so discriminating when it comes to selecting a venue for public defecation. What’s more, this pile of shit was located rather close to the Greenpoint Hotel.
Then again, who really knows?
Miss Heather
Idiotarod
Filed under: Area 51
I’ll be upfront: my responsibilities as The Dog Shit Queen of Greenpoint are such that I do not cannot keep track of what our local hipster population is up to nowadays. Thankfully, the Idiotarod was brought to my attention I rode the L train last Saturday.
What these peeps lacked in presentation was made up for by attitude (and one big-ass pole). As Theodore Roosevelt once said:
Speak softly and carry a large stick.
Very cool. But not as cool as this. Or this. When given the choice, I go with “Super-Absorbency”. New York Shitty needs as much as absorbency as it can get.
Miss Heather
NYS Flickr Pool
