Greenpoint
Lorven Pharmacy
Culture on the Cheap
A Little Piece of Fedders History
Filed under: Articles of Fedderization
Sometimes irony smacks Miss Heather’s lovely little face so hard even she feels compelled to give (snarky) props. My good friend Kevin from Forgotten-NY recently brought this article (from the March 12, 2005 edition of The Brooklyn Paper) to my attention. He writes:
Looks like Bay Ridge activist Vicky Hofmo and I arrived at it separately.
Who knew the origins of this dubious piece of terminology lie in Kings County’s very own Bay Ridge? I didn’t; I thought it was Kevin’s creation. I suppose it doesn’t really matter who invented it. The overall effect these buildings have on my person remains the same: a hint of nausea mixed with abject revulsion.
For your dark delectation folks, I present to you the following excerpt from this article:
Perhaps most vocal among the complainants decrying the development of “Fedders houses,†as they have come to be known, are residents of Bay Ridge, whose neighborhood awaits city approval of a rezoning measure that would bar such housing developments.
So ugly and bland are those buildings, say some, that their most striking architectural trait may well be the air conditioner sleeve itself.
“It’s not even on our radar,†Laurent told The Papers, adding that, unlike Fiscal Year 2004, the preceding year was one of record sales totaling $421.7 million. “But I would hope the houses are as well built and as high quality as the air conditioners they’re named after.†(*snicker*— Ed. Note)
The colloquialism, while originating by most accounts in Bay Ridge several years ago, has spread to all corners of the city in recent months, thanks to preservation efforts like the 249-block down-zoning proposal for the southwest Brooklyn neighborhood that, if passed later this month, could reduce by half the potential number of row house-style condos built there.
Eager to fit in, the term has been uttered by no less an authority than Mayor Michael Bloomberg, who said it at an Oct. 30 speaking engagement in Dyker Heights.
Do read this article in its entirety— but be careful! I shot Claret out of my nose when I read the following statement from Fedders’ CFO:
I guess it’s a well known name. And we’re proud of the fact that everyone knows it, but I hope in this case people aren’t using it in a derogative way.
BWAHAHAHAHA!
Miss Heather
Astoria Has Eyes
Filed under: Dog Shit Signage
I once lived in Astoria, Queens. What’s more I liked it. The year was 1998 and the rent for my illegal basement apartment was $550 a month. All bills and endless offers of lamb stew and powerful coffee from my sweet Greek-speaking landlady included. Too bad I was (and still am) a vegetarian who eschewed caffeine.
In any case, my memories of this ‘nabe are warm and fuzzy ones. This is why I find the following dog shit signs (from Joey of Astoria) all the more disquieting.
Repent, sinner! REPENT!
Um, that’s sort of scary. Where’s Bucketman when you need him?
Miss Heather
P.S.: I’d like to give a big shout-out of thanks to Meg over at Joey in Astoria for bringing these wonderful signs to my attention. Thanks!
This picture is worth a thousand words
Filed under: Crazy People
Let’s face facts: being the owner of a S.U.V. nowadays is the moral/ethical equivalent of being a child molester in the eyes of many. After hammering out this post last week I vowed to leave the much-maligned owners of these vehicles alone. I had said my piece and Queens Crap had said theirs. It was time to let things be, right? WRONG!
Today I am reneging on this promise because I beheld something that is a living testament to why people hate S.U.V.s (or more accurately, the people who drive them).
I found this sign adhered to a sedan whose rear was grazing the driveway of a business on Eagle Street. While I personally eschew the use of motor vehicles, I do understand people have the right to own them. I also understand that parking in Greenpoint (and New York City in general) is a bear. Sometimes a driveway will be intruded upon as a consequence. While the practice may not be a correct one, it is understandable.
Then you get shit like this.
This behemoth was parked behind the aforementioned sedan. As the more eagle-eyed among you will notice, the curb clearly reads “NO PARKING ACTIVE DRIVEWAY 24 HOURS LOADING ZONE”. The grammar employed here might be questionable, but the point is not: do not park here— EVER.
The next time, dear readers, you find yourself listening to the owner of one of these vehicles grousing about the flack he (or she) gets from other people, e.g.; they think he (or she) is an asshole for driving such a monstrosity, show them this picture. I don’t which bothers me more:
- This person’s flagrant disregard for a clearly stated request that this stretch of street be left unobstructed or
- the possibility that someone who owns a $60,000+ vehicle cannot read plain English.
Miss Heather
Drunk Spotting on Green Street
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
I think it’s safe to wager that someone on my block might not. After leaving Nick Zedd’s film retrospective at East Coast Aliens last night my buddy Rachael and I encountered a 20-something woman lying on the sidewalk at Green and Franklin Streets. Two people were standing over her. We walked over.
Me: What’s her problem?
Guy: I don’t know. She’s drunk or something.
Me: Why don’t you reach into her purse, get her cellphone and call her keeper?
Guy: I am her boyfriend.
Me: Oh, so you ARE her keeper. Good luck.
That’s when we walked off and, curiously enough, the woman got up and walked home with her boyfriend.
This woman seemed a little too coordinated to be drunk. I imagine she was perpetrating some prank or “guerilla art” project. If so, it was a crappy one. She was hardly convincing as a drunk person passed out on the sidewalk. I should know; I have seen people slumbering on the sidewalks here many, many times. Still do.
Once, back in 2002, my Rachael and I were walking back to my old apartment at one or two in the morning. When we rounded the corner we found a guy passed out on the stairs of (what I presume to be) his house. He was splayed out on his back, flat as a board, car keys still in hand. This chap almost made it home. ALMOST.
He was missing his shoes. I guess someone stole them. The next morning he was gone. I wonder if he remembered what he did yesterday?
Miss Heather
P.S.: In related news, I am proud to announce that Rev. Jen’s Lower East Side Troll Museum received a very special addition last night courtesy of yours truly.
I have found this stunningly-wrecked troll (who I have named “Gimpy the Greenpoint Troll”) on Greenpoint Avenue a week ago. As soon as I saw it I knew her museum had to have it. Not only was Jen pleased with my donation, but she said a special exhibition of Brooklyn trolls was in the works. I can hardly wait! There ain’t a troll in this fine boro of Kings that can top Gimpy. Game over!
Construction Soup
Filed under: Area 51
Since the weather was actually tolerable yesterday I took a nice long walk along the waterfront. When I reached the end of Green Street I beheld one of the many (seemingly) abandoned construction sites that pepper my part of the Garden Spot.
What is that I see to the bottom left? Could it be???
Yes, yes it is!!! Although it is unintelligible in the above photo, a handwritten missive ordering the fine folks at Bridge Realty to pump the excess water out of their construction site is scribbled on this ancient Stop Work Order. Now that I think about it, I do remember seeing some dudes pumping water out of this site a few months ago.
Looks like they need to come back and do it again.
Perhaps the Stop Work Order issued last month has discouraged them from doing so? I fail to see why; they seem perfectly amenable to doing work without a permit.
Miss Heather
P.S.: For those of you who are keeping track; Greenpoint’s favorite piece of advertecture is still alive and kicking at 609 Manhattan Avenue.
No Child Left Behind
Filed under: Dog Shit Signage
Today I had the pleasure of finding a brand new piece of dog shit signage in my inbox! This soon-to-be-loved masterpiece comes courtesy BARC‘s very own Lisa Vallez, a fellow Greenpointer. She writes:
I found one for you and actually had my camera on me! This is the work of a woman known on the block as “Cursing Mary”. She is a true Greenpoint character who loves animals, hates people who don’t pick up. She lives in the hold-out house you posted a photo of awhile back. I can’t find it but it was captioned something like the “meat” between the 2 slices of ugly new development on my block of Monitor Street. Enjoy!
Hmm… Let’s go in for a closer look, shall we?
For god’s sake, won’t you folks pigs PLEASE THINK OF THE CHILDREN!?!
Miss Heather
P.S.: Those of you who haven’t beheld this piece of cinema verite already, please click this link and watch some dude piss on T&N Liquors as no one seems to notice. It is Greenpoint glory at its very finest.
North Brooklyn Street Theater
This evening my husband and a number of friends went out to dinner. Among the people present was my friend Chin who I have known for years. She lives in Bushwick and I (of course) live in Greenpoint. Over dinner the subject of neighborhood spectacles was brought to the table and as luck would have it, I had a choice morsel to share from this morning.
Before I go to the junk shop I swing by the Garden and pick up a few refreshments. This morning was no different— save something I overheard a man shouting into his cell phone on Java Street:
Welcome to the suicide hotline. Your call is important to us, so please stay on the line for the next available operator.
This elicited a chorus of chuckles from the table, as well it should. Then my buddy Chin remembered something she overheard recently. During the commission of a crime, no less.
She was at the Duck Duck Bar. After snatching a woman’s laptop computer, a pair of young toughs bolted out of this establishment. A handful of hipsters gave chase. The teenage thieves were caught, but not before tossing out one of the finest anti-hipster insults I have ever heard (albeit second-hand):
I can get a gun before you can get a job!
Someone should make a t-shirt with this phrase emblazoned on it. I know I’d buy one. How about you?
Miss Heather
Elizabeth Murray 1940-2007
Filed under: Area 51
Yesterday I discovered a disheartening piece of news as I slogged through the 23rd Street – Ely Avenue hub of the subway.
I was never a big fan of her work as an angry feminist art student, but her subway murals (which can be seen at 23rd – Ely Avenue in Queens and 59th Street and Lexington in Manhattan) forced me to make a reassessment. If a work of art can make places I find otherwise repulsive less of a chore (and trust me, I avoid 59th Street and Lex like the plague) it is worthwhile in my book.
Thank you for making my numerous schleps through both of these subway hubs a little brighter, Elizabeth. You will be missed.
Miss Heather
Fettle Fit For A Dog Shit Queen
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
One of the more vexatious questions a dog shit queen has to address is what to wear. When I am mixing with my people here in Greenpoint a simple tank top and skirt combo will suffice, but what about the occasional diplomatic affair(s) I attend outside the confines of the Garden Spot? Since there are no precedents for me to follow, I pretty much make it up as I go along.
In this solitary respect I envy the office fraus I used to have the honor of calling “co-workers”. The parameters set for them (and myself) were clear cut: take any drab article of clothing you grouse about outlaying money for (and would never, EVER wear on your free time) and presto you have suitable business attire. The one thing I have noticed about people wearing office attire is they rarely smile. I, on the other hand, never wear office attire and usually can be seen smiling. Perhaps there is a relationship between the two? I certainly think so.
Anyhoo, this week I scored a vestment fit for a (dog shit) queen at (where else) the junk shop.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
After being holed-up in the apartment for three days (sick, sleep-deprived and/or waiting for Verizon to install a second line) I went to work. Grudgingly. This was the first day I have felt near 100% and was pretty grumpy about spending quality time working. To bastardize John Lennon:
Work is what happens when I am busy doing other things.
And as I was busy doing other things (at work) a customer pointed out something I found of interest.
I tried it on atop of my clothing and it fit. I liked it so much I found a couple of pink shoe laces with Alpha Kappa Alpha emblazoned on them and strapped myself in. Half of my three hour shift was spent being a Greenpoint Marie Antoinette (or as I would prefer, Madame de Poopie Dour). On a lark I drug my person and my eight foot long train from behind the counter and shouted at my boss:
Let them eat shit!
He was amused. No one else got it— then again, I once wore a pair of fairy wings to the grocery store and no one “got” that either. As was the usual case, my shift was spent dealing with hagglers and hipsters— mostly assuring him (or her) that the jewelry in their hand(s) was INDEED real sterling silver. No one found a blue-haired woman wearing 18th century apparel hawking jewelry the least bit odd until…
a customer from last week came in. I remembered this woman because she was a particularly hard-nosed haggler. Nonetheless, I liked her. Customers with taste are very rare in my line of work: most raise an unholy fuss over outlaying more than $1.00 for some ugly piece of shit or another. This woman had taste, and for this reason alone I would cut her a fat discount on the stuff she wanted.
Our haggling session was a little more contentious than the previous one, but hardly hostile. Once it had been established that I was not going to go lower than $16.00 for the stuff she selected, she relented and shelled out the dough. That’s when she noticed what I was wearing.
Customer: Can I come behind the counter and look at what you’re wearing?
Me: Sure.
Customer (coming behind the counter): Is that a costume piece or is it vintage?
Me: We get a lot of costumes here, so I’m going with that.
Customer (handling my train): Can I give you a piece of advice?
Me: Sure.
Customer: I own and operate an antique store in Los Angeles. This is authentic.
Me: Really? I was planning on wearing it at the BARC Dog Parade this October. Of course I could have someone hold the train up so it doesn’t drag along the street.
Customer: (look of abject horror)
This is Greenpoint, not Los Angeles. I have seen shit here that would make even the fruitiest of Golden State fruitcakes go “Whoa man, that’s weird!” I know this because I once lived in the City of Angels. This dress might be an antique there, but in Greenpoint this here item is Dog Shit Queen duds.
That’s why I saw fit to sell it to myself for the very reasonable price of $10.00.
Miss Heather
P.S.: I’d like to give a shout-out to this customer. I hope you made it back to L.A. safe and sound. It was a pleasure serving you.
Aum Shit
Yesterday I had a revelation: Green Street isn’t as shit-bombed as it used to be. In fact, my little corner of Greenpoint has cleaned up significantly. Terrified that the primary premise of my humble blog was rendered obsolete, I made a hasty trip to the liquor store. That’s when I found this and realized that everything was going to be okay.
If you step in a pile of dog shit (at 1055 Manhattan Avenue) and no one sees it, does it still make a stink?
Miss Heather
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