Greenpoint
Lorven Pharmacy
Culture on the Cheap
My Trip To Jackson Heights
As I mentioned in this post, yesterday I accompanied some visiting friends of mine on a day trip Jackson Heights, Queens. Nary a hipster was to be found when I got off the train at 82nd Street. Rather, I was greeted by this anthropomorphic garbage can and a chap standing directly across from it. He promptly made a rumble in his throat and proceeded to hock up a loogie. “This is going to be interesting” I thought to myself. It was.
My guests are quite the bargain hunters. To this end we perused a number of shops for deals and steals. I found this store on 82nd incredibly amusing. When I hear the phrase “Live it… in leather!” the movie Top Gun does not come to mind. Although the “Iceman” did strike me as possibly having those kind of inclinations.
I’d pay good money to see Val Kilmer in this get up (located just across the street).
Back in graduate school I had to take a course on Constructivist art and architecture in Latin America. Rest assured this class was as boring— probably more so— than it sounds. Looking at architecture reminiscent of that hideous parking lot gracing Queens Plaza is no way to go through life. A classmate of mine agreed, so we’d bring in copies of the Village Voice and HX and review the personal ads. We were always fascinated by the sheer quantity of kinky adverts hailing from Queens. Ten years later on Roosevelt Avenue it all began to make sense.
Hell, even the culinary fare had a certain smuttiness to it.
I don’t think this requires any comment.
But as I stated earlier the purpose of our mission was to shop. And shop we did. This 99 Cent store (America’s 99 Cent Store) at the corner of 78 Street had some of the most interesting wares I have ever seen.
True to its name, patriotism was present.
What’s more American than dogs playing poker? Don’t everyone speak up at once.
And while you’re there, why not pick up a Chador Barbie backpack (or two) for the young ‘uns?
This brings a whole new meaning to the term “sniff test”. 
All in all, I had a terrific time in Jackson Heights.
I wish I knew about this before I eloped. It sounds intriguing.
But would I pack up and move to Jackson Heights? Probably not. It takes more than fruity underwear, leather men and the Kinng (as cool as he is) to make me feel at home. Some things money can’t buy. For those, I can always trust the G train to deliver.
When I arrived at Court Square the mighty Crosstown Local was waiting to whisk me back to the enchanted village of Greenpoint. Everything seemed normal. Until the train started moving, that is. As if someone had flicked a switch, the rather portly gentlemen across from me started talking. Thinking his conversation was directed to yours truly, I did my best to ignore him. It quickly become apparent I was not the object of his attention after he started rifling through the Chinese laundry bag to his left. (NOTE: if you see someone with a Chinese laundry bag on the subway and said bag does not contain laundry, WATCH OUT).
He pulled out a fifth of Alexi vodka, turned to the right and offered a toot to his “friend”. This would seem unremarkable except no one was sitting next to him. After his imaginary friend declined (I guess he— or she— knows when to say when) he polished off the bottle, put it back and chugged down a bottle of mango juice. DIY screwdrivers. On the G train. At 2:30 in the afternoon.
A Polish woman next to me shot a knowing look my direction. I returned the favor. I speak no Polish whatsoever —and in all probability she speaks little English— but we understood each other:
Welcome to Greenpoint.
I was home.
Miss Heather
Jubilatka Is Closed!
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
Anyone craving a Polish donut or a little babka before work this morning probably noticed that Jubilatka was shut down by the New York Department of Health yesterday.
Initially I was pretty shocked by this development (I love their apple pies) but when I looked up their latest inspection online what I found was quite horrifying: 45 points*. A maximum of 27 is allowable for a restaurant to pass inspection. Here’s the violation that creeped me out the most:
Plumbing not properly installed or maintained; anti-siphonage or backflow prevention device not provided where required; equipment or floor not properly drained; sewage disposal system in disrepair or not functioning properly.
Looks like I might be shopping for another bakery. Yikes!
Miss Heather
*As a point of comparison, the shuttered Sunview Luncheonette racked up 47 points.
Peace, Love, Understanding And All That Slop
In case the tone of my humble soap box hasn’t made it clear: I hate hippies. As a teenager the whole idea of “peace”, “love” and “understanding” made sense. Then I came of age and entered the workforce; many of my supervisors were former hippies. Baby Boomers.
I suffered a Communication Breakdown. First it was the way I wrote the number eight. I did not write the number eight like an infinity symbol. Rather, I scribed VIII by making two discrete circles atop each other. “Cindy” said it looked too much like the number 3. I was written up. I didn’t smile and say “Hi” every morning when “Cindy” came into the office. This too was noted by Human Resources and I was taken to task. As was the (second) time I brewed coffee (given to me by “Cindy” for Secretary’s Administrative Professional’s Day), noting that I would like the office vultures to leave me a cup. Then I was admonished for not fostering a “sense of community”. So much for shiny happy people holding hands.
The age old hippie argument seems to be if people can/will communicate with each other better everything will be hunky dory. I disagree. I am a firm believer in smiles and nod school of diplomacy. When someone screams at you in a foreign tongue (and you’re not standing in front of a moving bus) put on a grin, shake your head and look like you understand. Or feel really bad. Guilt becomes Americans.
Simply put, if everyone— everywhere— was better able to communicate with each other we’d be in a helluva lot more trouble than we’re already in. The U.N. would be a diverse chorus of “fuck yous” in every language imaginable with stenographers running for cover.
What is my reasoning for the previous, you ask? Very simple: 1105 Manhattan Avenue.
El Encanto Mexicano.
More specifically, what graced its front door. In Greenpoint this is tantamount to wearing your aunt Tillie’s 300 thread count white sheets at the Million Man March: highly inadvisable.
Amusingly enough, another missive was scrawled in front of Papasito’s.
Mexico Sucks!!
Papasito’s fare is very tasty, but I would not call it Mexican. When I want Oh my god where have you been all my life south of the border vittles I go to…
But did I choose to take up the matter of why Poland sucked, Mexico sucked, or Papasito’s being Cal Mex (as opposed to being more traditional) fare? No I didn’t; I simply smiled and nodded.
Miss Heather
*Very honorable mention: Taco Bite, right here in north Brooklyn. Not only do they serve up “Jamaica” (sweetened hibiscus tea) but they are the damned nice to boot. Check them out!
Subway Posters du Jour: L.I.C. Vs. Greenpoint
Everyone knows that Long Island City has a reputation for being a haven of ladies of the evening. Queens Crap has written about it (on more than one occasion). Mr. Heather has even had the pleasure of riding the B61 bus while a satisfied customer crowed to his buddy via cell phone:
I banged her twice for $300!
Yes, it would appear that prostitutes are to Long Island City what Colt 45 thievery and pageantry are to Williamsburg (or alcoholism is to Greenpoint): a dubious, but highly documented distinction. One which I recently learned merited special mention at 23rd – Ely Avenue.
My parents always impressed upon me the value of getting a good education. While I cannot say that it has netted me much in the way of compensation, I do consider it time (and money) well spent. But I realize not everyone likes to hit the books as much as I do. Some people require slight different forms of motivation: for them there is Keller Business School…
or the Queens-bound platform of the Crosstown Local at Greenpoint Avenue. Shortly after I took the above photograph a man sporting the ubiquitous iPod with earbud combo stopped in front of this poster and roared:
AWWWWRIGHT!
Watch out Long Island City. Your next pupil (or john) just might hail from the Garden Spot of the Universe!
Miss Heather
Greenpoint Photo du Jour: Somewhere Under The Rainbow
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
Erin of Leonard writes:
Tonight we found that Greenpoint IS the end of the rainbow. Or is that actually the sewage treatment plant? I think it is.
It’s our pot of gold(en water), Erin! Don’t you remember what Emily Lloyd said at the digester tank lighting ceremony? The digester tanks at our local sewage treatment plant will be visible from the observation deck of the Empire State Building! Tourists from all four corners of the earth can gaze upon our “shit tits” and take a dump knowing we are the ones who will receive their offerings. Talk about street cred!
Miss Heather
Photo Credits (and big thanks go out to): Erin of Leonard
Is It Really That Bad?
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
(The stench at Nassau Avenue, that is.)
After listening to a city employee shout at her cohort Friday night on the Crosstown Local:
Hey, are you familiar with this stop? It stinks. It smells like (expletive) sewage or something! (Waving hand in front of nose) NASTY!
And learning about this missive on Craigslist I decided to head down to the Nassau Avenue stop of the G and see smell for myself. It was pretty bad. Even by Greenpoint standards. And before I continue, let me explain to you what the previous entails:
- Miss Heather leaving her apartment Tuesday, August 12, 2008: Smells like someone pissed behind our stoop again. Or was it the vestibule of our building? I can’t tell.
- Miss Heather on McGuinness Boulevard at Dupont Street, Monday, August 11, 2008: Gee, the sewage treatment plant is particularly ripe today.
- I have looked at (and occasionally stepped in) dog shit damned near every day for over two years.
- I have survived the McGolrick Park crapper of death.
Over the years I have developed a palette for stink. It comes with living in Greenpoint. Oenophiles often invoke terms such as “berrylike”, “astringent”, “citrusy”, “peppery”, “prickly” or “oxidized” to praise or pan the wines before them. I will endeavor to use some of their terminology to describe what I smelled at Nassau Avenue:
ASTRINGENT:
Descriptive of wines smells that have a rough, puckery taste. Usually can be attributed to high tannin content. Tannic astringency will normally decrease with age. However, sometimes the wine fails to outlive the tannin.
Check.
ATTACK:
The initial impact of a wine smell. If not strong or flavorful, the wine is considered “feeble”. “Feeble” wines are sometimes encountered among those vinified in a year where late rain just before harvest diluted desirable grape content.
What I smelled was hardly feeble. In fact it was…
OXIDIZED:
Powerful, attack aroma. Usually denotes high level of acidity, alcohol and/or other flavor faults. (Like piss and sewage— Ed. Note.)
with a hint of…
ROTTEN EGG:
Smell of Hydrogen Sulfide gas in wine. Thought to be a characteristic imparted by certain yeast strains. A decided flaw.
Simply put, it was gross.
Much has been made of aromatherapy. Pleasing scents are purported to help healing. So Psychology Today says, anyway. What about aromaterrorism? Has anyone done any research as to what the effect foul odors have on one’s psyche? Probably, but I suspect this poster will suffice.
A mind soul is a terrible thing to waste.
Miss Heather
Greenpoint Photo du Jour: Lorimer Street
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
Very true. But a little compensation is always welcome.
Miss Heather
Summer Is Here
Is it just me or has summer truly arrived here in New York Shitty? Sure the calender indicates this season arrived back in June and our weather has been unseasonably cool and wet— but I am not one to trifle with empirical data. I leave the crunching of dates and statistics to the experts.
Rather, I am talking about anger. Lots of it. The later the sun sets, the more surly people get. In the last week alone I have seen two people ripping someone a new asshole on Manhattan Avenue. The fact that the objects of their respective ire were not visible to the naked eye is immaterial. We New Yorkers undergo a transformation in summer. It’s not necessarily a pretty one either. Thankfully the city has seen fit to provide us with an ample amount of advertising to take the edge off.
Case In Point: The Visiting Nurse Service of New York
I am of the understanding that there is a lot of money to be made in advertising. Or at the very least a lot of money is spent on it. One would think that during their “focus group” session someone at this ad agency would have had the presence of mind to point out that thought-provoking, “worst case scenario” missives are lost on G train patrons.
Waiting for long periods of time at sewage stench-laden stations to ride what was recently deemed the filthiest subway line in the city predisposes one towards a certain kind of existentialist cynicism.
As does being forced to look at the 21st century’s solution to Jocelyn Wildenstein.
No sir, Ms. Dickinson’s heavily air brushed bod doesn’t sweeten the pot one bit.
What’s more, reminders that some of us might stand to lose a pound or two only pisses us off.
I quite aware that advertising sees fit to capitalize off the viewer’s vanity/insecurity. (That’s the only reason I can think of why someone has seen fit to market hair dye for pubic hair, anyway.) When one rides the G train such frippery goes straight out the window. Who cares about looking good (or having dignity for that matter) when he (or she) is doing his (or her) best not to throw up?
Think about it.
Miss Heather
UPDATE: It looks like the folks at 23rd – Ely aren’t too big on Ms. Dickinson either.
P.S.: If any advertising/product placement wizards are reading this, give Greenpoint more Dexter posters. We seem to like those.
Could It Be?!?
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
After serving up free samples of soup last year and months of inactivity, something appears to be happening at 1013 Manhattan Avenue. Will Ichiran be opening for business soon? If so, will it be a ramen shop? I do not know. But this storefront has been open the last three days and signs of human activity have been noted. (Hell, they’ve even been checking their mail!)
Maybe they got wind of Sakura 6?
Miss Heather
UPDATE: Check out this post on Williamsburg Is Dead. It looks like Ichiran will be gracing us with its presence. And soon!
Summer Doldrums
Today I have made two efforts to get out of the house and take a walk. Both times I found myself hauling my ass back home in the rain. I guess it is just not in the cards for me to go out today.
To alleviate my boredom I have tried— really tried— to spend my time productively. Over the last hour IÂ have fired up the dishwasher, bagged recyclables and even made preparations to vacuum the floor. The bugger is being productive is dull as dishwater. What’s more, I had a creative itch to scratch. Not wanting to bother cleaning this up so I would have a work surface, I decided to venture around the block. It didn’t take long for me to find inspiration.
This piece is entitled “Orphans”.
When I got done I noticed I had an extra leg, so I said “What the hell?”. Waste not, want not.
Surprisingly enough, it didn’t take much time for my petit opus to garner attention. This man not only stopped and looked at it, but he also took several photographs of it with his cell phone.
Back to bagging up trash.
Miss Heather
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