My Greenpoint Lifestyle
I had high hopes for today. I knew exactly what I wanted to write about. I had my laundry readied to wash. I had even procured a box of hair dye to touch up my ‘outer borough’ roots. Thanks to the ticking time bomb that is my apartment building, these carefully laid plans totally went to shit.
Unlike my husband, I wake up in a pretty affable mood. I do not need much time to ready myself for the rigors of the day. Give me 5-10 minutes to get dressed, wash my face and brush my hair and I’m good to go. This morning was no different. I got up, got dressed and dove right in reading my email. Here’s the one that started my day. It is from my neighbor upstairs.
Gahhhh, letting you know of a shitty situation:
There’s been the most annoying leaky drip occuring for the past two months or so in my kitchen right above the radiator that’d fill buckets in 2 days or so. Didn’t really bother me too much. I def. let the Stupor know about it….This morning there was a dimple, then it turned into a major dent, and just as I was about to leave it turned into a collapse. There’s shit all over my floor, sink, everywhere… I’m pissed off cause I went downstairs to let those douchebags know that it happened and that I needed them to, at least, look at it and see how messed up it is since I have to go to work and the bastard said “he doesn’t care.” (! – Ed. Note) Point blank. No fooling.
He can’t play that no speaking english role cause we had some words that translated in any language, knaw mean?
Anyway, I finally contacted the Stupor. He says someone will be around at 9:30ish. But I went ahead and placed a complaint at 311 with HPD: Complaint # 3712820.
I said there’s been a constant leak. No response from landlord. Hole in ceiling due to lack of maintenance.
Do you have a digital camera so I can snap a few photos for records?
This crap is messed up dood.
Shit. This building is just like herpes: when left untreated, you get ‘outbreaks’ (such as this). Unfortunately, there is no pill this building can pop to suppress its inner rot. The landlord doesn’t care anyway. He’s too busy putting the screws to us and plotting ways to (FURTHER) inflate the rent rolls for the building. Cocksucker.
After writing my neighbor back, I popped over to The Gowanus Lounge. Life is one sick son-of-a-bitch. The last thing I needed at this particular moment was being reminded of the atrocity slated to blight much of my block. But that’s exactly what happened.
Six stories and 130 Units worth of glass covered crap. Great. The one reason I really like my block (as fucking ugly as it is) is that it is not densely populated. I am not up to my eyeballs in people and their stupid little problems. I guess I should enjoy this while I still can, because in just over a year I will be deluged by entitled affluence and triple decker strollers teeming with ‘Frankenkids’. Dear god: please kill me now.
By far, the best part of the 110 Green Street
offal advertising copy laid before me was this ‘mission statement’:
The developer will focus on creating a “lifestyle” for residents as a key selling point for the units. Other amenities planned for the project include concierge, fitness center, wireless internet throughout the building, a library, children’s playroom and indoor pool and sauna.
CONCIERGE?!? Let’s get something straight: no one— I am mean NO ONE is too busy or too ‘important’ to handle their own shit. Period. I don’t care if you’re Donald Fucking Trump; if you cannot be bothered to schlep your ass the the Duane Reade (for example) and buy your own goddamn A 200 Pyrinate or diapers for little Timmy McPussyfart you (and your children) deserve to writhe in squalor. Get off your fat lazy ass and do it your self.
This goes double for anyone crackheaded enough to think that living in Greenpoint requires concierge service. Only a bona fide prick would not find such expectations to be ridiculous. Because it is. VERY. RIDICULOUS. Let’s face facts: if you’re moving here, it is because you do not have the money to buy in Long Island City or Williamsburg. Cut the crap. Or I’ll cut it for you.
Having worked my self into a fighting fucking mood, I called my husband and told him about my morning. He had a wonderful idea: we should get Mr. “I don’t care” from downstairs hired on as 110 Green Street’s new concierge. I’d pay cold hard cash to see that: asshole vs. asshole.
Photo Credit: Miss Heather. As I write this I am doing what this (admittedly cute) little girl is doing— except I am not looking for something to eat; I am trying to give myself a lobotomy.