Greenpoint
Lorven Pharmacy
Culture on the Cheap
Flowers in the Attic
Filed under: Area 51
Hands down, last Thursday was one of the WORST days I have ever had in the over-priced— yet rent-stabilized— shitheap that is my apartment. Period. Hallway puke* is mere fluff compared to the unbridled idiocy I endured at the hands of the ‘management’ of this building.
You will notice that I put quotes around the word management. This is because this building is managed in only the most rudimentary academic sense. Much like Iraq or Afghanistan have functioning governments, there is a management company for this building. On paper, anyway. The day-to-day reality tells a very different story.
Words cannot adequately attest to my experience. The following photo does.
This is my bathtub. While I will not profess to being the most fastidious person in the world (the years of caked on grime in this apartment render it impossible anyway), this is not the usual state of my bathroom. Nope, what you’re seeing in the above photo is what happens when the landlord decides is ordered to repair something: a thorough sacking of my bathroom by scabs.
Every time I think this building is “under control†(and go about looking for work, making art, writing about dog shit or having a life) some horrendous latent defect (or disgusting bodily discharge) rears its ugly head. I am the resident Confessor/Mensch for the tenants of this building. Do not ask me why this is so; it just is. This is why I know damned near everything that is wrong with this building. My neighbors call me, email me, or knock on my door and tell me all about it. Often.
So it wasn’t really that big of a surprise when a man knocked on my door Thursday morning and told me that he needed to tear out part of my bathroom ceiling so he could repair the plumbing for the apartment upstairs. After years of having to use a bucket to bail out the water from their bathtub (because it will not drain), my upstairs neighbors finally had enough and brought this to the attention on their Section-8 housing inspector. Good for them.
I only have my own presumptuousness to blame for expecting to get any notice whatsoever from the landlord as to when these repairs were to take place. I should have known better. Stupid me.
After staying up late the night before I was awakened by a knock at my door. I ignored it. Five minutes later, more knocking. I answered the door to find two scruffy men looking at me.
The older one spoke: We are here to tear out your bathroom ceiling so we can repair the plumbing.
Me: ?
Repairman: Didn’t the Stupor tell you?
Me: No. He doesn’t tell any of us jack shit.
Repairman: I need to work in your bathroom.
Me: That may very well be, but you are going to wait 15 minutes so I can get dressed.
Repairman: ?
I close the door and lock it. Fifteen minutes (and one very angry phone call to my husband) later, he comes back.
Me: How long is this going to take?
Repairman: One hour.
Me: Am I going to be able to use the toilet?
Repairman: Do you need to go to the bathroom?
Me: Not right now, but this isn’t exactly something that is within my control, now is it?
The repairman’s assistant thought this pithy response was funny as hell.
I spent the next FOUR HOURS yelling at my husband/friends/neighbors via telephone over the din of this demented duo pommelling the shit out of my bathroom, shouting at each other and repeatedly slamming my apartment door. When they finally completed their task, they had also effectively rendered an entire afternoon spent cleaning the kitchen and bathroom useless. Even after ‘cleaning up’ my bathroom, it looked like it belonged at a gas station. The only notable difference being that gas station lavatories don’t usually have a gaping HOLE in the ceiling.
Nice, eh? I for one like the evidence of a previously aborted attempt to penetrate my ceiling. I was told by the repairman that the Stupor would be by on Saturday (today) to fix the hole. Like hell he will. Even if the Stupe bothers to show up, I sure as fuck am not going to let him fix it. He’s a fucking moron.
After working a 10 hour day my husband came home and started sealing up the hole. Before doing so he peered inside the dropped ceiling with a flashlight. He came into the living room and told me to come in and have a look. I really wish he hadn’t done this.
This is the ass-end of our neighbor’s bathtub.
Suspecting that my husband might be onto something interesting, I grabbed my digital camera and took blind photos of the rest of the space. I then ran into the living room and uploaded them.
Um, this doesn’t look right…
EWW! There are movies with stage sets that look like this.
They are called snuff films.
Come play with us, Heather.
Forever.
And EVER.
AND EVER!!!
After telling my husband that I was totally convinced someone had stashed dead fetuses in there, I quickly retreated to the living room. I did not come back until he had sealed off this Whatever Happened to Baby Jane-esque chamber of horrors.
Fuck 311, I’m calling an exorcist!
Miss Heather
UPDATE
2/25/07: True to form, the Super did not show up Saturday to repair the ceiling. He was probably too busy aspirating on his own seminal fluid, jacking-off or standing around looking stupid. Perhaps all three (at once, mind you).
2/27/07, 6:00 p.m.: I hear a knock at my door. It is the Stupor accompanied by yet another ‘scab’. He says he wants to repair my ceiling. I tell him that my husband (a former finish carpenter) had already done so and shut the door. Not satisified with this answer (what would I know, I AM just a woman, after all), the Stupor asks my husband about one hour later. And got the exact same answer. The Stupe seems to operate under the (antiquated and sexist notion) that my husband is behind much of the HPD complaints, DOB inspections, etc., here. He isn’t: I am.
*This finally got mopped up yesterday. I know this came to pass because, I shit you not, the puke had managed to eat through the fucking paint!
Why would someone paint a tile floor you ask? Very simple: it’s a nice way for the Stupor to kick some business to his retarded cronies and pocket a little dough. Oh— and didn’t I mention already that the Stupor is a fucking moron?
Fargo
Today’s “Dung of the Day” comes from a frequent commentor here at New York Shitty. “Rebecca11222” writes:
I call this pile “Fargo.”
The lattice-work layers of the poop on top of the snow remind me of Grandma’s apple pie in Winter. And the lone cigarette butt reminds me that poop don’ git done by itself. But why the cliche of the single gig butt lying near the aftermath of dog butt? I’d like to believe that the dog needed a fix after laying down the brown, but it’s probably just some asshole not taking responsibility for his dog or himself.
If you wanna see something choice, check out the creepy bodega on Manhattan Avenue between Huron and India Street*. The one where old Hispanic dudes loiter, watch television and hiss at female passersby. They’re a real bunch of charmers, these guys. Here is a picture of their handiwork. Here’s another one.
Be advised that a sign has been erected requesting that they cease littering. I seriously doubt it will do any good. They’re a bunch of fucking pigs.
Miss Heather
*NOT Green and Huron Streets as indicated in this article I read recently. An article, I would like to add, that is one of the biggest pieces of smug white liberal horseshit I have ever read in my life. And given that I AM a white liberal, that’s really saying something.
It depresses me to no end to see that so-called progressives believe in the good ol’ Calvinist/Victorian work ethic, e.g.; these ‘bums’ live on the street because they cannot or will not work. To be “workless” (or poor) is indicative of a lack of moral character. Or conversely, in the case of this offal, the bum ‘earns’ his right to sit on the author’s stoop by handling her packages. NICE.
The reason ‘bums’ blight this neighborhood is because we, the registered voters of this fine country, have failed them. A number of these men have very serious substance abuse and emotional problems. They should be in a residential treatment program, not being some bitch’s ghetto-ass concierge.
You’re one arrogant cunt, Sabine.
P.S.: Get your damn facts straight. Fuckweasel.
High Velocity Vomit Spatter
After a pleasurable day trip last Saturday, my husband and I came home to find a new pool spatter of vomit on our landing. By all appearances it looks like the author of this puke leaned over the railing of the third or fourth floor and let it rip. Or at least this is what my Court T.V. viewing habits would lead me to believe.
This still blights my building as I write this post. And there it will remain until someone cleans it up. It sure as fuck isn’t gonna be me, I’ll tell you that much. I did my good deed two years ago. I had to; it was stinking up the entire second floor.
It was the morning of the Puerto Rican Day parade. It was already getting very balmy when my husband and I left the apartment at 11:00 a.m. When we arrived home two hours later (after running errands) our senses were assaulted by one of the most vile odors I have ever smelled in my life. I’m talking about the kind of stink that makes your eyes water. Bad.
Covering my mouth, I looked around the foyer of our building to find the source. This didn’t take long: someone had puked BEHIND the door leading to the stairwell. As shit-faced as this person was, he (or she) had the presence of mind to ‘hide’ it. I still chuckle at this stupid and futile gesture.
Naturally, I brought this to the attention of the Stupor— and he did what he does best: absolutely nothing. I finally broke down and cleaned it up one hour later. I suppose this was (is?) still better than giant puke monster that inhabits my floor now. At least that one was good for a laugh.
My neighbor in apartment #8 and I have a very good idea who is responsible for this (latest) incident. This is not a very difficult task given that there are only 8 occupied apartments in this building; once you rule out my floor and all the older married couples, only one apartment is left.
Miss Heather
P.S.: I have added this item to my “House of Pain“. If the latest building-wide scuttlebutt is true, I suspect there will be much, much more to come. So stay tuned. Word has it that apartment 6 has been rented out to an old Polish man who “reeks of alcohol”. Great.
A very special Dung of the Day
Yesterday evening I found a very special submission in my inbox.
Not only does this photo feature Greenpoint’s nastiest sign-maker, but the person who sent it is someone Miss Heather holds in high esteem: none other than Kevin Walsh, the creator of Forgotten New York! Way cool. Thanks!!!
He wrote:
This was found on West St about a year ago…ab(ou)t Green St.
I actually remember seeing this and laughing my ass off. I have mulled over giving dog shit walking tours, but frankly, it’s a little too unpredictable. I am of the belief that selling Mr. Poopyhead merchandise is a much better use of my talents (READ: two art degress) anyway. I worked on this project yesterday and it it looks very promising.
Miss Heather
P.S.: I also have a line of thong underwear featuring chicken bones in the works. Tres Sexy!
When it’s time to party Greenpoint parties hard
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
Yesterday morning I got up early so I could buy some garlic bagels at the Garden before they sold out. There are serious benefits to shopping at the Garden early on a Sunday morning. For starters, you avoid the stroller nazis—- which is a good thing for me, because they piss me off royally. Secondly, the powers that be there play some fierce tunes before ‘peak’ shopping hours. This particular morning I got to rock out to Billy Idol’s “Rebel Yell” while foraging for breakfast foodstuffs. I enjoyed this tremendously.
Anyhoo, on my walk to the Garden I came across the remains of one swinging party. Perhaps someone decided to celebrate Chinese New Year? Although there are no Chinese people to speak of in Greenpoint, an opportunity excuse for partying ’til one pukes is seldom left unexploited. And this person had clearly partied hard, as you will see…
Confetti was involved.
Fornication came to pass.
Lots of fornication.
While I’m happy to see that safe sex practices were followed, I found this a bit unsettling.
Note the phone card located under the hypodermic. I’ve heard of drunk dialing, but junk(ie) dialing? Long distance no less. Wow.
And like all good things, this party had to come to an end.
This explosive spray of vomitus was located in front of the C-Town. When I walked by there later I noticed that it had been removed. I suspect either a dog ate it or the store Manager decided that having a rancid pile of puke outside the entrance (or more importantly, the EXIT) of his/her grocery store was not good for business.
Miss Heather
P.S.: Later this same day my husband and I returned to the Garden to get (yet more) food. Van Halen’s Dancing in the Streets was playing over the PA system. I busted out some moves I learned while watching Mexican music videos recently. This irritated/embarrassed my husband to no end, thus increasing my pleasure/hamming it up ten-fold. He hates it when I dance in public.
Gotta get back to mopping the kitchen. To make this chore more interesting, I have decided to pretend that I am Diamond Dave. The mop is my mike. About five minutes ago I marched into the hallway and shouted Mr. Roth’s monologue from Unchained to my husband who happened to be sitting in the living room. He was clad in a t-shirt and boxer shorts. I just about pissed my pants laughing. He was not amused.
Footprints
One night I dreamed I was walking along Manhattan Avenue with the Lord. Many scenes from my life flashed across the sky.
In each scene I noticed footprints in the shit. Sometimes there were two sets of footprints, other times there was one only.
This bothered me because I noticed that during the low periods of my life, when I was suffering from anguish, sorrow or defeat, I could see only one set of footprints, so I said to the Lord,
“You promised me Lord, that if I followed you, you would walk with me always. But I have noticed that during the most trying periods of my life there has only been one set of footprints in the sand. Why, when I needed you most, have you not been there for me?â€
The Lord replied, “The years when you have seen only one set of footprints, my child, is when I carried— wait a minute— I just stepped in something. Aw FUCK!!!â€
Miss Heather
P.S.: I hate this fucking poem.
Miss Heather: an inspiration to today’s youth?
Filed under: Area 51
I am frequently asked why I created this blog. This is a very reasonable question. The Dog Shit Queen of Greenpoint makes periodic visits to Normalcy; enough so to understand why some might find my painstaking documentation of dog shit, bum shit (my personal favorite), chicken bones and the many other endearing qualities of my ‘nabe to be a bit odd, if not outrightly disturbing.
I have even asked myself this very question on occasion and have yet to come up with a satisfactory answer. To be certain I enjoy the ‘prestige’ my (admittedly self-created) title confers unto my person, but I suspect I am searching for something more. Fame? Fortune? A run for City Council Mayor? Only time will tell.
Recently I made a discovery that frankly made feel a little touched (in the heart, mind you, not in the head— where I am constantly ‘touched’). I was poking around my blog when I discovered a new incoming link. Being an inquisitive person, I checked it out and was astonished with what I found. A teenage girl in Flushing, Queens seems to have been inspired by my rogue activities and has started a blog of her own:
let me give you a little insight into my world and my what goes on in it. i live in the old italian infested portion of queens known as flushing, more commonly known for the ridiculous amount of asians, but i digress. we don’t do much here, not by choice but because there’s nothing to do. i have a close group of friends. we are, inevitably at times, the obnoxiously loud teenagers you wanna take a machete to. we then bash other, more obnoxiously loud people. it’s quite fun. i have a family, they’re quite loud and disfunctional. there are days i want to kill them all, but thats how family is: can’t live with em, can’t live without em. life is complex, i realize that and i think about it often: all the aspects of it. and i guess that’s what thats what i’ll really write about. i don’t think this will be as funny as Miss Heather’s www.newyorkshitty.com, my inspiration for this blog. but i promise i’ll try to make it something worth reading. that’s all for now.
Whoa! I have no doubt that when these words were written hell froze over. Or pigs started flying. Or George W. Bush got a brain. (Take your pick.) I may or may not be the best role model to be had for today’s youth, but it makes me VERY happy to see that I have motivated someone to start writing. And when I read her blog this morning I realized that this is a very good thing: she’s fucking hilarious. I particularly enjoyed her “About” statement (which appears to have since been excised):
life as a teenager in new york city…cuz we’re not all assholes
I would like to take this moment to go on the record and state that I never found teenagers to be assholes. Not in any more significant numbers than the general population anyway. In fact, I sort of envy them; they can get away with a lot more shit than so-called ‘adults’. This is undoubtedly a sign of my own immaturity and I can live with that.
Follows is a little story a good buddy of mine sent me recently featuring some more (admittedly deliquent and less witty) examples of today’s youth. Enjoy!
I don’t even know why i’m bothering to write this because I can’t do it justice, and it’s going to end up being one of those ‘you had to be there’ things.
But it’s still a good story.
I’m on the way home from work (at a decent hour mind you)–just chillin’ and reading my magazine. The train is crowded and I’m lucky I got a seat. Even so I’m sitting between other people with thick coats to bundle up against the cold, so I’m kind of squished and holding my magazine at a slightly awkward angle.
Suddenly a fight breaks out a few feet away. I can’t see it because of the crowd, but I can hear it because of the piercing trash talk–it’s coming from a group of innebriated 13 year old hispanic girls.Straight out of a TV show: bitch I’m gon’ kick your ass, you comin out your mouth like that to me! I ain’t gon be disrespected.
All the guys look on with interest, the women try to ignore it. Suddenly there’s a bunch of jostling and the trash talk and it is getting louder–because it’s approaching. Someone gets up next to me and stomps off down the car with a “I can’t take this shit” air. So what happens? Two of the girls’ friends drag their hyped up little asses down, slam them down next to me and then sit on them. They are screaming.
“Shut the fuck up you are not going to fight her!”
“The fuck I ain’t!”
“I’m telling you you ain’t cuz you fight her I’m ‘onna wind up in jail tomorrow morning, fuck that shit. SHUT THE FUCK UP!”
(Piercing 13-year-old screeching ensues.)
This goes on for a bit. With the fighting girls pretending to be calm and saying “hold this bag. It has my money and my cell phone. Hold it for me.
I am calm but I’M GONNA KICK HER MOTHER FUCKING ASS! I’M GONNA TAP DANCE ON HER FACE LIKE SHE WAS FUCKING ROACHES!”
I started giggling at this point, so they start hamming it up for more attention. I keep reading my magazine and start emitting calm vibes.
Next thing you know one of the fighting girls is leaning her head on my shoulder. One of the caretaker friends says “bitch quit leaning on that lady’s shoulder she dont’ like you. Oh wait, yes she do, cuz you look white.” They start giggling but they all calmed down.
It was a New York moment.
Ah, the lost pleasures of youth…
Miss Heather
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.
Miss Heather
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.
Anyone looking for an apartment share?
Filed under: Area 51
I found this at the Jay Street/Borough Hall stop of the A train yesterday. While I applaud this person’s ingenuity (advertising ON a subway map will get your message out to A LOT of people), I do harbor concerns about the caliber of person who might take this guy up on his offer. This ad hoc advertisement is located one block away from the Criminal Court Building after all…
Miss Heather
Greenpoint Pride
Filed under: Area 51
I came across this shirt at a new store in the ‘hood: Alter. They also sell one with the Greenpoint Terminal Market screenprinted on it. WAY COOL.
Can you think of a better way to show your Greenpoint pride? I think not. I also loved this jacket. Very cute. Check them out!
Alter
109 Franklin Street
Brooklyn, NY 11222
718-784-8818
www.alterbrooklyn.com
Miss Heather
NYS Flickr Pool
