Greenpoint
Lorven Pharmacy
Culture on the Cheap
Backhoe For Sale
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
You know, there have been a number of occasions I have found myself musing “You know, I could really use a backhoe— and not just any backhoe either: it must have an extendable dipper.” So you can imagine my delight when I walked by Nina’s Pizzeria on Meeker Avenue today and found this.
Wow. $19,000 is such a small price to pay for a 580K case backhoe! I wonder what these purported “other options” are? Perhaps the seat is made is covered in genuine Corinthian leather? Methinks I will have to give this guy a ring and take this bad boy out for a test drive.
Miss Heather
Crosstown Local Cavalade Volume IV: Safety Tips
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
Subway safety posters are both a source of amusement and ire to yours truly. On the one hand I find their practice of explaining what should be self-evident to anyone with a shred of self-preservation and intelligence darkly amusing. On the other, I think posters advising sick people to refrain from riding the subway is a ludicrous waste of our tax dollars. Maybe the peeps at the MTA could provide a “call in sick service” on our behalf as well?
Dear Sir or Madam:
(Insert name here) will not be in today, (insert date). He/she (circle one) is too ill to ride the subway. Please note this in your payroll records and dock his/her pay accordingly. We thank you in advance for your understanding and thanks for riding the MTA!
The fact of the matter is some people do not have the option of calling in sick. What’s more, we have the right to ride the subway regardless of the state of health we find ourselves in on any given day. If I want to guzzle Orange Juliuses, hop on the train, get motion sickness and spew copious amounts of neon orange goo at my fellow passengers* during rush hour that’s my god given right. This is America goddammit and if projectile vomiting is how I see fit to exact my $2.00 worth of fare that’s my prerogative. And none of their fucking business.
My proposal to the MTA is as follows: why not outsource the copy writing of your public service posters to the ridership of the G train? Not only do we have the time to spare, but we also have a number of interesting ideas.
These range from the motivational and uplifting at Nassau Avenue…
to slightly nihilistic…
and illucid at Greenpoint Avenue.
Granted, the advice we dispense might be questionable in nature, but it is a lot more attention grabbing. How’s about it, Metropolitan Transit Authority? Will you let us help you to help us become more savvy subway patrons and better citizens?
Miss Heather
*I saw this once while riding the N train during rush hour. It was a sight I’ll never forget.
White Birds Can’t Jump
On Saturday, February 2, 2008 I wrote:
I suspect it is safe to speculate that a number of the people reading this post are busy getting ready for this weekend’s Superbowl festivities. While I think it is pretty neat that New York made it this year, I am not big on sports and will probably find some other way to amuse myself.
Well, as luck would have it, I didn’t have to try very hard to find a way to pass my time. Yesterday, while most people were tapping kegs, rolling out the crudites, ripping open bags of potato chips and prepping French onion dip, I was standing watch over a chicken.
Yes, you read me correctly: a chicken.
This chicken — who somehow found her (?) way onto Milton Street.
As with most days when I get hit with a mindfuck a minute, it all started innocently enough: with an argument with Mr. Heather. At noon I arose to find him on the computer, as is his usual habit. I notice a take-out container on the coffee table. I open it: inside is one cubic inch of red velvet cake. Recognizing this confection as being the one we purchased at Kombit the evening before, I asked:
How was the cake?
Mr. Heather: It was terrible. Way too dry.
When I encounter a culinary item I find distasteful I rarely endeavor to eat all but one bite. If I do not like something I will cease eating it. Mr. Heather— for reasons known only to him— is not so easily deterred. I did not ask him why he left only one minuscule chunk of cake, that would have invited a lengthy explanation which I, having just awakened, was probably not prepared for. I go to the kitchen to get a cup of coffee instead.
Thereafter I proceeded to the bedroom to change clothes. Mr. Heather was busy preparing a load of laundry. Under the impression we were going for a walk (this was agreed upon the night before) I ask him what he is doing. He replies:
I am going to do a load of laundry.
Me: I thought we were going for a walk.
Mr. Heather: I thought you could help me do some laundry first.
Me: Um, no.
Mr. Heather: Well, can’t you wait?
Me: No.
I will spare you the gory details of what followed. Suffice it to say it involved a lot of passive-aggressive manipulation on the Mister’s part. Disgusted, I offered a compromise:
Fine, I will go to Williamsburg and cash out a gift certificate. You can meet me there later. I don’t want you going with me anyway. I am not in the mood to hear you curse about hipsters every fucking five feet.
And lo, a deal was made! I put on my coat and headed to Willy B on foot. When I reached Milton Street, this is what I found:
A pack of tweeners and a woman looking at a chicken.
Having never seen a chicken before (save perhaps on their dinner plate) the children took great delight in chasing her. She was not as enthusiastic and elected to hide behind a dumpster.
When one of these gutter snipes shouted “Let’s put it on a raft and dump it in the East River!” I decided it was time for action: I called 311. Before I continue I’d like to say a few things about 311. Having the pleasure of living in Greenpoint, which can best be described as being in a state of (an over) development free for all, I have called them on numerous occasions. The operators, always courteous, vary wildly in regards to their ability to direct me to the proper agency. This time proved to be no exception.
Call #1
Me: Yes, I’d like to report that there is a chicken wandering around on Milton Street between Franklin and West.
Operator: What?
Me: There is a chicken loose on Milton Street in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. A number of young boys are tormenting it. Can you get someone down here to pick it up?
Operator: Is the chicken injured?
Me: I don’t know. It’s walking around but isn’t very happy.
After being put on hold with the Center for Animal Care and Control for over five minutes I got frustrated and hung up.
Call #2
Me: I know this is going to sound really strange, but there is a chicken at large on Milton Street between Franklin and West. A number of preteen boys are chasing it, can the C.A.C.C. please come by and retrieve it?
Operator: Is the chicken injured?
Me: Beats me, I don’t know anything about chickens.
Operator: I am going to forward your request to the local precinct and they’ll follow it up.
As I got off the phone I noticed the woman with me was engaged in a shouting match with the “parent” who was charged with “supervising” these pack of prepubescent p(h)ucks. Larry, in the meantime, had seen fit to enter the basketball court. Knowing that we had him cornered, the woman and I stood watch over him.
Five minutes go by. My fellow Samaritan calls the 94th Precinct directly* and reports Larry Bird. The operator assures her a police car is on the way.
We watch the chicken.
Fifteen minutes come to pass, she calls the 94th Precinct again. After informing the operator that she has been waiting fifteen minutes for the police to show up, she was told she has only been waiting for five minutes.
We (continue to) watch the chicken. Larry Bird— cornered, confused and cute— tries to keep warm.
Twenty minutes later the police arrived and with them came the crowning coup de grace: they were the same officers who detained me last December for taking photographs of Christmas Decorations. I had told the woman standing guard with me about this incident (people tend to engage in discussions when guarding a chicken, it makes the time go by faster when waiting for the 94th to arrive) and of all things, she happened to be a photographer.
Me: Aw shit.
Woman: What?
Me: Those are the cops who detained me. If you don’t mind, I’m getting out of here. I do not want to talk to these people. You can handle it, right?
Woman: Sure, go.
And go I did. FAST.
Wherever you are little Larry Bird, I hope you are safe and sound. Perhaps you’ll find your way to a nice animal sanctuary upstate where you can shoot hoops in peace.
Miss Heather
*Because I know the phone number for the 94th Precinct by rote memorization and gave it to her. Long story.
Crosstown Local Cavalade Volume III: Subway Smackdown
I am not big on dance music. Sure, I have a fair measure of the genre socked away in my I-tunes, but when Ultra. Dance rolls out their latest compilation of “hits” I cringe. Before you cry “hypocrite!” let me clarify the reason for my distaste: looking at skanktastic syphilitic sylphs while waiting for the G train is not my cup of tea. And each year Ultra Dance makes sure I do just this. For a very, VERY, long time. 2008 has proven to be no exception.
In the spirit that is Superbowl Sunday I thought it would be fun to showcase two takes on the same subway poster: Ultra. Dance 09. Today’s subway smackdown features the usual suspects/adversaries: Williamsburg versus Greenpoint.
First up: Metropolitan Avenue
Not bad, though I personally would have explored her possible eating disorder, bad dye job and contact lenses.
Second up: Greenpoint Avenue
Is she supposed to be Popeye or Paris Hilton? I don’t know, but either way, this is a definite improvement. Why else would she have a phat wad of bennies tucked in her skivvies?
Greenpoint wins by a nose!
Or would that be a head?
Miss Heather
Superbowl Party, Greenpoint Style
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
I suspect it is safe to speculate that a number of the people reading this post are busy getting ready for this weekend’s Superbowl festivities. While I think it is pretty neat that New York made it this year, I am not big on sports and will probably find some other way to amuse myself. The way I see it, there are more than enough people here in the Garden Spot to celebrate on my behalf. What’s more, the party has already begun!
Or maybe it never ended?
For all I know this could be a holdover from Superbowl XXV.
This might sound silly, but wouldn’t it be a lot easier (and cheaper) if they bought one LARGE bottle of Jack Daniels instead of fifteen smaller ones? Of course I simply might be missing something.
I do not think placing cabinetry in a busy thoroughfare is a good idea, but clearly they think otherwise. I guess we’ll just have to agree to disagree.
Miss Heather
Greenpoint Photo du Jour: Green Street
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
This has got to be one of the oddest juxtapositions I have ever seen. Seriously.
Who knew Ron Paul was so punk rock? Silly me. I thought he was merely a Libertarian nut job.
Oh wait, that’s being redundant. Nevermind.
Miss Heather
Crosstown Local Cavalade: Volume I
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
A long time ago a coworker (Queens ex-pat) of my father warned me about the dangers of New York City:
When it’s warm they come out. The weirdos and the freaks. Be careful.
Little did this woman know that I am both a weirdo and a freak. That’s the only reason I can muster as to why I take pride in patronizing the G train. And the G train I have patronized a lot of late.
Sure I have to wait— AND WAIT— on occasion, but my fellow Crosstowners make this an enjoyable experience by annotating and/or collaging subway posters. Here is today’s offering from Greenpoint Avenue.
I hate post 9/11 cinematic apocalyptic New York City schlock. Is this really the best Hollywood can do? Really. If it is, god help us all.
But at least I can sleep safe at night knowing Mr. Sta-Puft is ready, willing and able to beat down Cloverfield monster ass.
Miss Heather
Stick Out Your Can, Here Comes The Garbage Man!
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
One task I thoroughly detest is housework. For this reason I cannot fathom what it must be like to earn one’s living by picking up other people’s garbage. Hell, picking up Mr. Heathers skivvies off the floor and placing them in the laundry hamper is sufficient cause to make my blood boil.
And so the age old question goes: hoe does one make this dirty, but necessary, more enticing? Well, yesterday on Meserole Avenue I learned the fine chaps at Mr. Rubbish have found the answer!
Festoon the front of your truck with a jaunty license plate, a slew of plush animals and a grim reaper.
But don’t stop there! Toss in Bert from Sesame Street and an American flag for good measure. No wonder the gents manning this truck were smiling: this hearse for human detritus exudes nothing but sunshine! If you have a lot of trash— and I mean A LOT— who should you call? Mr. Rubbish, that’s who!
Not only will they cheerfully remove it from your premises, but the neighbors will fondly remember the sight of Baby Bugs, Daffy and Sylvester for years to come.
Mr Rubbish: they make demolition clean outs fun!
Miss Heather
TO DO THIS WEEK: Poetry Reading
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
Earlier this week I received an email from a fellow Greenpointer named Katy about an event slated for today, January 31. She writes:
I… thought you might be interested in this huge poetry reading taking place at East Coast Aliens this Thursday. Seven independent literary publishers of emerging prominence have united to host Steal This Reading, a night of readings by 15 poets spanning immanent figures of innovative poetry such as MacArthur Fellowship winner C.D. Wright (Copper Canyon) and Eleni Sikelianos (Coffee House) to new stars such as Graham Foust (Flood) and Joyelle McSweeney (Fence).
Steal This Reading: a Brooklyn Book Burning
with C.D. Wright, Eleni Sikelianos, Graham Foust, Joyelle McSweeney, Joshua Marie Wilkinson, Julie Doxsee, Max Winter, Adam Clay, Zachary Schomburg, Morgan Lucas Schuldt, Lily Brown, Rauan Klassnik, Cindy Savett, Jon Thompson, Melanie Hubbard hosted by Black Ocean, Cannibal Books, Free Verse Editions, Kitchen Press, Octopus, Tarpaulin Sky Press & Typo.
East Coast Aliens
216 Franklin Street
Brooklyn, New York 11222
Doors open at 7:00 p.m. and $6 buys you admission and two drinks. What a deal! For more information about this event and its participants, click here and you’ll be directed to East Coast Alien’s web site.
Miss Heather
Greenpoint Photo du Jour: Manhattan Avenue
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
Yesterday Pardon Me For Asking had a rather neat post about spotting a “see-through” truck in Greenpoint. The title of this post was “See-Through Truck In Greenpoint. Explanation Please.” Although the mystery behind this machine has since been solved, I’d still like to tender my explanation:
It’s Greenpoint.
I am often asked why I choose to live in a neighborhood that sits atop 17-30 million gallon oil spill, sports no direct access to Manhattan and is home to the eastern seaboard’s largest sewage treatment plant. It is an understandable question to posit and I have often asked it of myself. Having had the time to think about it I can finally give an intelligent answer:
- Oil Spills, the Crosstown Local and the smell of sewage keep away a certain caliber of person I do not want to have as neighbors. If you are wondering precisely what “kind” of people I am talking about, board the Coney Island bound F train and exit at 7th Avenue.
- Entertainment.
Truth be told it is mostly point number two. I have lived in a number of places but none of them have made me mutter “What the fuck?” to myself as much as good old Greenpoint. Have you ever seen a piece of cauliflower suspended from a strangely Medieval-looking rack being transported on the flat bed of a truck? I didn’t think so. It may be stinky. It may at times be downright ugly, but this neighborhood continues to amaze and amuse me to this day. Which beings me to today’s Photo du Jour:
The “See-Through truck” (as cool as it is) doesn’t hold a candle compared to this bad boy. This truck is so hardcore it eats Hondas (and Park Slopers) for dinner.
Miss Heather
NYS Flickr Pool
