Greenpoint
Lorven Pharmacy
Culture on the Cheap
Aggregate Crap Map
I am proud to present a crap map featuring all the dog shit I have documented in Greenpoint from 7/12/06 through 8/7/06.
Enjoy!
Yorkville Vs. Greenpoint = No Contest
My mother came to visit about three months ago. After one of our shopping jaunts in Manhattan, I took her to where my husband works: Rockefeller University.
Before I continue, I want to point out that there is a certain irony to be found by my (our) living in Greenpoint and my husband (the primary solitary breadwinner) working at Rockefeller University. John D. Rockefeller I is, after all, the reason there is a rather large oil spill under my community. Thankfully, we live in the more industrialized (READ: less desirable) part of the neighborhood. This area happens to be bereft of underground oil, the ‘nicer’ areas are the ones affected. (All our ‘pollution’ is above ground, if you know what I mean.) Nonetheless, my husband and I live off the largesse of Mr. Rockefeller. Life is funny that way.
I had mentioned to my mother that Yorkville is a pretty reasonable place to live (rent-wise) and she got very jazzed when she saw how nice the area is. This was when she asked (the inevitable question): would you and your husband consider living here for “the long-term“?
Me: No. We’re not ruling out future possibilities, but we are very happy in Greenpoint. Thanks.
Ben Franklin uttered something once about New Jersey being a valley of humility between two giants. The same can be said for Greenpoint, a working-class enclave nestled amongst three giants: Manhattan; Williamsburg, Brooklyn and Long Island City, Queens. Living in Greenpoint (and riding the G train) will make you humble. (And very angry— Ed. Note)
My mouth and attitude (both inherited from my dear old dad— a man so utterly uncool that he is on the cutting edge of ‘hip’) housed in my feeble female body were two major contributing factors to my seeking refuge in New York City. After 30-odd years of service in this mortal coil, knocking through Texas, New Mexico, California, and yes, New York City (Bronx, Queens and Brooklyn— in that order) I finally feel at home. I can flaunt my mastery of the “f” word (and all its numerous conjugations and subtle nuances) with total abandon in Greenpoint. Frequently, Loudly, and with a measure of appreciation/admiration/ affirmation from my peers. In an uncertain world, this very comforting indeed.
That said, why would/should I unfurl the solitary pearl that is my truly creative and innovative vulgar style of language before unappreciative swine? Swine, I add, who may very well call the police because they may (mis)take my joie de vivre (in its copious, robust and abject glory) a wee bit too seriously. No way Jose. They can have their side of the East River, I can have mine and we each can do as we see fit.
My latest trip to Yorkville July 31, 2006 netted my first example of Upper East Side dog shit signage. This can be found on the west side of York Avenue at 64th Street.
I am not one to let my two art degrees, indoctrination in semiotics (a hip art fad in the late 90’s), and draconian student loan payments go to waste. My critique is as follows:
Someone put time, money, but alas, too little thought into this. He/she went to the trouble of having the sign made professionally and the execution is nice. Too nice. The same can be said about the wording; this is the Amy Vanderbilt solution to a dog doo predicament if I have ever seen one.
The person who saw fit to have such a sign manufactured clearly thought (mistakenly) that slick presentation and polite chiding would move intransigent dog owners to “do the right thing”. If the sheer amount of dog shit I saw walking on York Avenue from 68th Street to 60th Street is any indication I’d say it ain’t working.
Rating: 4 (out of 10)
Now I present this gem found on Greenpoint Avenue between Franklin and West Street.
This sign does not pertain to dog shit per se, but this does not diminish its relevance. What we have here is a solid, no-frills, no-nonsense sign. The metaphorical Honda Civic (or Yugo) of signage: direct, utilitarian and inexpensively executed (save perhaps the odd police citation for vandalism). This appeals to my plebian sensibilities. I like it.
Speaking as someone who is familiar with this person’s body of work, this is a pretty standard example:
- Medium: Sharpie marker on (any) flat surface
- Message: “Pick up your (insert word/s here)”*
- Enlarged and inappropriately capitalized “k”s
Per the book Handwriting Analysis by Karen Amend and Mary S. Ruiz, this graphological eccentricity is characteristic of a person who is prone to “impulsive outbursts” and is “rebellious to authority figures and traditional values”.
The previous example is remarkable in one respect: lack of profanity. While I applaud the author’s use of restraint, the virtuostic mastery of foul language and threat(s) of physical violence are what make his/her oeuvre truly noteworthy. Regardless, there is a decided absence of litter (and dog shit) in front of this sign, so it must be working.
Rating: 7 (out of 10)
After writing all the previous pretentious and sophistic bullshit, I am worn out! I’m going to take a very hot shower to clean off the smarm. Before I do so, I will leave you with two “Dung(s) of the Day”: one is from Yorkville, the other is from Greenpoint. I am not going to bother indicating where each came from, as it is (painfully) obvious.
Dung of the Day #1
Dung of the Day #2
*Frequently closing with “Thanks” or “Thanks Asshole”
Hardcorn
I start this post with a little thing I wrote a couple years ago…
MANHATTAN AVENUE, BROOKLYN’S GANGES?
I miss my old next door neighbors. Really I do. You see, my apartment (the back of it anyway) abuts an open cul de sac made by the building next door; I use this area as my “backyardâ€. Albeit one story up and bereft of grass. What is one (wo)man’s backyard is another man’s sewer. This weird nexus provides personal, entertaining— but treacherous insight into the lives of my neighbors. I learned. The hard way.
I have narrowly avoided being pelted with rancid curry, hot dog weenies, and bread that took a frighteningly long time to decompose (the pigeons would not even eat it). But by far, the best spoils came belching forth onto my refuge after a very vocal fight next door: a whole chicken and a fair amount of porn was enticingly jettisoned outside my bedroom window. Being as it was around Thanksgiving, I felt compelled to ‘rescue’ the chicken, stuff it with porn, and serve it up as a feast. If Thanksgiving is indeed about sharing and good will, why not share this new-found bounty with my best friends?
Instead, I rescued one intact porno tape. A BAD porno at that. But as some would say: it is best to have known bad porn, than to have known no porn at all.
Yesterday evening, I read a National Geographic in my lounge chair I and watched a Teeny Tiny Titty Chicks Vol. 3 dvd languidly roll by an unused packet of duck sauce: a pathetic, yet appropriate, sad vestige of days gone by.
July 24, 2006
I could not tear my husband from the television Sunday for love or money. Until I went behind our apartment and discovered a new bounty of porn goodness. He spent the better part of the afternoon/evening parsing through the Raw Meat dvd I found. After viewing five hours of raw footage my husband complained that it “had no plotâ€. Sure…
The point of origin of this (and previous) porn, rotten food, personal effects, etc., found behind our apartment has been a source of heated debate between my husband and I for a long time. If you have ever seen the movie My Cousin Vinnie, you’ll understand the level of debate (READ: arguing) that goes on in my household: any given task (even one requiring 5 minutes of labor or thought— at best) is only completed after at least one hour’s worth of ‘discussion’ (arguing).
Socially-minded folk often mistake our debates for outright acrimony— and nothing could be further from the truth; much like the Methuselah-esque radiatiors to be found in most New York City apartments, our relationship is grounded firmly on a constant release of steam.
My husband takes great pride from being born and raised in Missouri (mizz-or-rah, as he likes to call it). Missouri, the show me state. I was born in Texas and come from one of the best lines of nobility to be had there: Sam Houston. I’m not too sure what Texas’s catchphrase is nowadays (aside from being the Lone Star State), but if I had to assign one it would be Texas: the I’ll show you state.
Sam Houston showed them.
Charles Whitman showed them.
Lee Harvey Oswald (and Jack Rudy) showed them.
David Koresh (there’s a fun one) showed them.
H.I.M., George W. Bush (fake Texan), is still trying to show them.
My (Tejana) rage (thankfully) is of a more gentle nature. But I still like to serve up some “I showed you” on occasion— especially to my husband.
July 26, 2006
I gathered prima facie evidence as to where the (previous) items are coming from. After shouting at my cats for fifteen minutes, two very hyperactive, very young, very unattended, children (in the apartment behind us, one floor up) volleyed a 2 pound barbell weight and several pieces of Tupperware out the window. I have watched enough episodes of Forensic Files to note that this material was landing along the same trajectory as my previous finds. I recount this finding to my husband.
August 1, 2006
I awoke to the sound of my neighbors throwing more stuff out the window. Groggily, I peered out the window to discover an entire piece of corn on the cob. Perhaps it was lack of sleep or cabin fever, but I thought this was one of the most hilarious things I had ever seen. I thought to myself: I’ll go back to bed and venture out later to take a photo of this choice find. Big mistake. When I did go out— TWENTY MINUTES LATER— the squirrels had totally eviscerated it, cob and all. I am not exaggerating at all when I say that I found this very disquieting.
I did. And still do.
There have been movies made about rats, birds, even C.H.U.D.s, why not squirrels? New York City squirrels. I can easily imagine these voracious creatures making off with small children, skidrow bums or little old ladies.
All I’m saying is that I am gonna to carry a baseball bat when I go out there from now on.
Closing on that note, I have created an interactive feature where you too can experience the first-hand joy of discovering the rich bounty of goodness behind my apartment. This will be an ongoing project of mine, so check back occasionally. Enjoy!
Brevity —and Barbarians— are the soul of wit.
In less than two weeks I will be a guest author on Only the Blog Knows Brooklyn. This is a very exciting development, as I will be able to send some very special Greenpoint love Park Slope’s direction via the power of the Internet. It’s not like I can do so personally nowadays, with the heat and the ebb and flow of G train service.
Do I plan to use this opportunity to lambaste Park Slopers, you ask?
No, I don’t. If anything, I’ll probably end up ripping on everyone, myself included. Who knows. As Professor Ping said in the movie Barbarella, “genius is mysterious”.
That said, I want to relay something that is probably a literary first. My cover letter (regarding being a guest blogger on OTBKB) was as follows:
Greetings,
I came across your solicitation for a guest blogger(s) via Jossip.com. I do not live in Park Slope; the disruption of G train service of late (and my lack of personal upkeep/finances/self-esteem) prohibit me from going there. Nothing personal.
That said, I do live in Brooklyn: Greenpoint, 11222 to be precise. Your blog purports to serve “Park Slope, New York, and Beyond”. Surely my Charles Bukowski-esque musings fit will within your criteria: most likely under “New York and Beyond”. Greenpoint is a very strange place indeed— and that’s why I love it. I’ve lived here for six years; have a rent-stabilized apartment (near the waterfront) and will only vacate the aforementioned apartment when I am carried out (or get a fat pay-off) — if you know what I mean.
I have neither children (they give me the creeps, carry germs and shit their pants— though strangely, I have a husband and 5 cats who do all the previous, and more— go figure) nor do I have anyone remotely “famous” in or around my ‘hood (alive, anyway). I am, nonetheless, civically-minded. Check out my blog: www.newyorkshitty.com.
Thank you for your time and consideration.
Sincerely,
Miss Heather
This has got to be the first and only time I know of that anyone (much less a WOMAN) who openly purported an affection for a literary kinship to Charles Bukowski and actually landed a(n unpaid) writing gig. Then again, admiration for Mr. Bukowski is a pre-requisite for successful living in Greenpoint: he is to Greenpoint what peanut butter is to jelly: indispensible.
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