Greenpoint
Lorven Pharmacy
Culture on the Cheap
Alas Poor Fozzie
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
Yesterday I had an interesting conversation with a customer at work. The woman I bantered with is a lifelong Greenpointer whose mother, at 99 years of age, has lived her entire life on North 8th Street. The topic of our discussion is a pretty popular one here in Greenpoint. It was instigated with an observation (along the lines of):
Gee, it smelled pretty bad here a couple of days ago… I wonder what it was?
This is an excellent question. Was it the sewage treatment plant? Was it Newton Creek? Was it the oil spill? Is it (shudder) something else? The world may never know.
All I’m saying is something’s gotta smell pretty damned bad if even a Muppet sees fit to take precautions.
Alas poor Fozzie, I knew him well.
Who knew the D.O.T. recruited Muppets? Perhaps the Foz and his fuzzy brethren got pushed out of Prospect Heights by gentrification and were relocated to the ‘affordable housing’ being built here? Perhaps Big Bird procured it for them? With Snuffalufagus’s help, obviously; it takes a non-entity to find a non- entity.
Maybe Fozzie couldn’t adjust to his new digs and decided to say Goodbye cruel world! I bet Oscar is adjusting well, though. He would like the Garden Garbage Spot. A LOT.
In any case, Fozzie (R.I.P.) left behind some pretty phat wheels. The McGuinness Boulevard sign is a nice touch.
Miss Heather
Loathe Thy Neighbor
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
Good fences make good neighbors
-Robert Frost, “Mending Wall”
One of the biggest learning curves for me after moving to New York City was getting acclimatized to having a lot less space. When people are stacked chock -a -block (as they are here) concepts such as “personal space” and “privacy” become a much more relative thing. In fact, I have occasionally amazed myself with what I have managed to tune out, e.g.; street noise, music, noisy neighbors, a PILE DRIVER, etc.
People are, contrary to popular belief, a pretty tolerant lot here. That said, when the reach the breaking point things can get interesting. Anyone who has lived in New York City must (in my opinion) have a rite of passage called the noisy neighbor. You know; some cretin who is either unwilling or unable to understand what impact his (or her) actions have on others and persists in making ungodly amounts of noise (usually at ungodly hours of the night). Many try to entreat these people by employing reason. Sometimes this works.
Usually it doesn’t.
Of course, if one is willing to get his hands dirty redress can be had, as in this case of today’s tale pf Greenpoint hooliganism from the October 13, 1902 edition of the Brooklyn Daily Eagle. The issue at hand: a fence. Enjoy!
FAMILY FEUD IN COURT;
A GATE CHOPPED DOWN.
Sequel to Wright-Jackson and Jackson-Wright Complaints to Health Board
A COP VS. A REAL ESTATE MAN
Latter Comes Out Ahead in the First Round Before Magistrate— No Proof to Convict Chopper
The cause of it was a plain, long, high, unpainted gate. The gate isn’t to blame, but it has divided two families, caused a great deal of trouble and finally involved the principals in court proceedings. As is usual in such cases the sacrificial offering was an innocent victim of circumstances. He didn’t know and of course didn’t understand.
Patrolman Charles Jackson of the Greenpoint Avenue Station lives in 160 Calyer Street. Next door, in 162, is the home of George Wright, a well known real estate dealer. In his employ is Thomas Sharp, a laborer. In the side of Jackson’s house is a gate, which swings into the alley, and, incidentally, strikes against the house of Wright.
For two years this gate has been the primary cause of the friction between the families, The Wrights didn’t like to hear the banging of the gate against their house. Little things tell and the bangety-bang so worked upon the nerves of the Wrights that finally the friendship between the families turned into enmity.
Wright fumed and Jackson defied. Jackson determined to get even. Wright has two bantam roosters. They know how to crow at the most unreasonable hours. Mr. Jackson, or somebody else, sent word to the Board of Health that the crowing disturbed the slumber of the neighborhood.
The war was on. Mr. Wright, or somebody else, then complained to the Board of Health that Jackson’s yard was in unsanitary condition and that he should be compelled to have it drained. On the day this complaint was made Mrs. Wright became ill. Her illness was attributed to the constant banging of the Jackson gate.
Wright, in wrath, again complained to the Board of Health. The next day Jackson, or possibly someone else, complained to the Boards about the condition of Wright’s yard. It was in unsanitary condition, it was alleged, and threatened the health and happiness of the neighborhood.
Hearing of this Wright got “mad clear through” and when an inspector from the Board informed him that his yard should be drained in compliance with the law, the real estate dealer said that he was in financial straits and couldn’t afford to have the work done.
“Why don;t you look after Jackson’s yard,” said Wright.
The inspector told Wright that Jackson’s yard was all right.
When Jackson heard that Wright had talked about his yard the pot of his temper boiled over and the Wrights say that subsequently the gate was banged with greater force than ever. Wright became furious. Mrs. Wright and her family talked about nothing else but that gate and Wright may be pardoned if the constant reiteration caused him to forget the virtue of patience. There was a family council. In anger Wright declared to his admiring family that he would end it all and forever. Alas, poor Sharp! Wright, Jackson claims, got his laborer to chop down the gate. He did, but for the time being, at least, that was the undoing of Sharp. Jackson, in a rage, had Sharp arrested.
Before Magistrate O’Reilly in the Manhattan Avenue police court this morning Sharp was arraigned. The Wrights and the Jacksons were there. They glared and glared, but the justice was calm. Nobody had seen Sharp chopping down the gate. Sharp grinned. Wright looked elated. Jackson frowned. Sharp was discharged and the Magistrate told Jackson that he should not have had Sharp arrested. With a merry ha-ha the Wrights, followed by faithful Sharp, left the court room.
Jackson and his friends marched out as if there were in the wake of a hearse— but the end is not yet. The Wrights and the Jacksons still live in adjoining houses and new gates are easily constructed.
You know, this story reminds me of the lovely Pre-Perestroika fence Magic Johnson’s crew erected on my block earlier this year. A fence that was, not surprisingly, built without a permit. I hate this fence. What’s more, I hate the fucking surveillance cameras mounted atop it. I have quietly wished someone would destroy those things for months.
Thankfully, I did not have to lift a finger. Magic Johnson’s crew did all the work themselves.
My husband and I noticed that something, uh, happened when were walking down the block a couple of weeks ago. I noticed a couple staring at the destruction and struck up a conversation with them.
Me: Yeah, Magic’s crew managed to knock out their own cameras and electricity.
Man: I know, I helped wire the lighting. I was pretty bummed out when that happened.
I smiled and proceeded down the street.
The cameras have since been re-wired. Last week I called the 311 to report that 110 Green was doing after-hours work without a permit. Again.
The bleak goes on.
Miss Heather
What is wrong with this picture?
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
All you Greenpointers out there know where this intersection is: Franklin at Calyer Street. In fact, I bet a number of you have walked down this very block hundreds of times without noticing that something is amiss. I know did. That is, until I looked up one day.
Your eyes are not deceiving you. The cornerstone of this house reads “Clinton S(t)”. Pretty neat, isn’t it?
What’s even more interesting is I have not found any direct reference to Greenpoint’s very own “Clinton Street” in the Brooklyn Daily Eagle online archives. Rather, I (might) have found it mentioned in an article entitled Vaccinators in Greenpoint. Here’s an excerpt:
Dr. Robert A. Black, the local health officer, with his associates, is trying to stamp out the present outbreak of smallpox in Brooklyn and the physicians of the vaccinating corps have been kept on the jump for over a week. There were five new cases reported at the office on Clinton Street today. The patients were all taken to the Riverside Hospital on North Brother Island . They were Walter Brush, a boy, age not stated, from 275 Driggs Avenue; Helen McMahon, aged 12 years, and Rose McMahon, aged 9 years, from 275 Driggs Avenue; Emma Schwartz, aged 23 years, from 31 Meeker Avenue, and John Devaney, aged 7 years, from 100 Warren Street. The cases from the house at 275 Driggs Avenue are believed to have received the infection from 273 Driggs Avenue, where there was a nest of cases.
The previous probably sounds like something from the 17th or 18th century to many of you. It isn’t: this article dates from March 11, 1901.
That said, I hardly find it surprising that there was a Clinton Street in Greenpoint. At one time there was both a Washington and Lincoln Street here as well. Naming streets after public officials (especially presidents or in this case, DeWitt Clinton) was a very popular practice in not only Greenpoint, but in Brooklyn as a whole.
This practice resulted in a slew of duplicate street names* which took years to unsnarl. It was a long and very contentious process. One which, amusingly enough, often saw “North Brooklyn” (AKA: “The Eastern District”) in opposition to “South Brooklyn” on a number of occasions.
Could you imagine trying to get your mail if (for example) there were five Washington Streets extant in the Borough of Kings?** In addition, if one happened to be a flim-flam man with a sketchy command of Brooklyn geography, all the name changes (that were eventually implemented) would pose a serious problem.
Keeping your story straight when you’re being interrogated by the cops is hard enough. Especially if you have trouble remembering your own name, as I learned from this article in the December 3, 1886 edition of the Brooklyn Daily Eagle.
Note to self: If I want to blow someone off, tell them to meet me at Tompkins Avenue at the corner of Center Street.
Miss Heather
*This list is simply too lengthy for me to feature here. Go to the Brooklyn Public Library’s Brooklyn Daily Eagle online archives, run a search for “duplicate street names” and see for yourself!
**This was once the case, by the way.
Steal this woman’s caulk and you will rot in hell
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
As many of you are aware, Sunday I co-conducted Forgotten-NY‘s tour of Greenpoint. I think most of the attendees will agree with me when I say that it was a very enjoyable (if lengthy) experience. Not only was I pleased by the high turn-out (of very nice and interesting people), but I am proud of my fellow Greenpointers for making them feel right at home.
Without argument, the above woman was one of my favorite (if accidental) highlights of the tour. We encountered her on Calyer Street just west of McGuinness Boulevard. You will notice that a sign graces her fence. Her companion was kind enough to model it for us.
As I have said many times before, Greenpointers are not afraid to speak their minds. When asked about why she put up this sign, my new Greenpoint heroine was more than happy to oblige. Apparently a friend of hers dropped off $70.00 worth of caulk at her house. He (or she) left it inside the gate. Before this woman could put her newly acquired cache of caulk to use, someone saw fit to steal it.
May they ROT IN HELL indeed! Why the fuck would someone steal $70.00 worth of caulk anyway? I hope she finds the perpetrator and kicks his ass.
Only in Greenpoint, folks.
Miss Heather
What happens when bureaucracy and reality collide
Filed under: Area 51
I suspect I am not the only person who has wondered what would happen if there was an accident in the middle of the Pulaski Bridge. Would 108th Precinct (in Long Island City) handle it or would it be delegated to Greenpoint’s very own 94th? I have no fucking clue. But if the following tale from the March 4, 1906 edition of the New York Times is any indication, I don’t think I want to find out.
PRISONER NOBODY WANTS
New Order by Bingham Confuses the Hunter’s Point Police.
The police of the Hunter’s Point Precinct have a prisoner on their hands whom they cannot get rid of. The precinct was recently extended by Commissioner Bingham to take in all of the Newton Creek Bridge. The bridge extends to Manhattan Avenue and Ash Street, Greenpoint, and yesterday Patrolman Campbell on duty at the Greenpoint end of the bridge was called upon to arrest a young man who was flourishing a revolver.
The prisoner described himself as Robert Marcantino, 18 years old, of 479 Graham Avenue, Brooklyn. In the Long Island City Court Magistrate Connorton refused to consider the case as the arrest was made in Kings County. The policeman cannot go to Brooklyn with the prisoner without a special order from Commissioner Bingham, and in the meantime the prisoner is being deprived of his rights under the law, which states plainly he must be arraigned before the nearest magistrate.
Any Greenpointers out there who are contemplating committing crimes on the Pulaski Bridge consider yourself warned; not only will you be jailed in Queens, you may never come back!
Miss Heather
Potty mouth? Moi?!?
Filed under: Area 51
Yesterday an anonymous commentor on The Gowanus Lounge had the gall to take issue with my colorful language, among other things:
Nice potty mouth, Miss Heather, way to go. Talk about upbringing! And you are offended by the sight of a toddler peeing? Get a life.
Is it me, or someone taking issue with profanity— much less calling me a “potty mouth”— sort of ironic given that the topic I was passionately commenting about was public urination? More specifically, I was taking issue with a 30-ish year old man who elected to hold his 3-4 year old child’s penis as he tinkled on the street. Speaking for myself, public parental penis wrangling is much more objectionable than the odd f-bomb (or two). It’s enough to make me wonder about this dude’s upbringing. Maybe Michael Jackson was his nanny?
Come to think of it, I learned just about every nasty epithet I know from my dad. Time-tested classics such as:
- Shit
- Fuck (in all its many forms and applications)
- Hell
- Jesus Christ
- Judas Priest
- Damn
- Goddammit
- Asshole
- Pissant
- Cocksucker (a big favorite of my old man)
- Dickhead
- Bitch
- Son of a bitch
- Bastard
This is why my mother never punished me for using profanity; she knew I learned all the above words from her own husband. She felt disciplining me for using words I heard 4,5,6+ times a day at home would be hypocritical. Only the word “cunt” was picked up by yours truly elsewhere. I learned that one in high school. God bless public education.
Who is this mysterious man known only as Heather’s dad? Well, to give you a clearer picture of the man (and legend) I will share my favorite fatherly anecdote…
Five years ago both my grandmother and great aunt were in failing health. My parents (unable to repeatedly drop everything and drive to Texas on a moment’s notice) brought my grandparents back to their house in New Mexico. They had plenty of room to accommodate Daisy and Bertha. In fact, they only lacked one essential item: an additional bed. Dear old dad was delegated the task of rectifying this problem.
Several hours later he came home pissed off and bedless. After five minutes of gentle coaxing, my mother learned that he has been asked to leave the store. Naturally, my mother then asked WHY he was asked to leave the store. This was when the real fun began…
In order to rent a bed, my father was asked to provide references. He (rightfully) took offense at this. The salesperson advised my dad that he need only provide the names of a couple of friends for this purpose. To wit, my father replied:
All my friends are dead.
After some more bickering, he finally caved in and filled out the reference form placed in front of him. Once the salesperson saw who my father had listed as a reference, he was asked to leave the store. He had written:
William Jefferson Clinton
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW
Washington, DC 20500
That’s when my mother decided to take charge of this task and a bed was secured.
Miss Heather
P.S.: I recently asked my dad about something he did twenty years ago. I wrote:
Remember that time you wrote “Magic Sucks†in lipstick on the bathroom mirror? I do. What was that about? Just curious.
And here’s his reply:
I vaguely remember writing something on your mirror… but do not remember what or why! Given that I do not care for basketbell ….
I suppose “Magic” runs in the family.
A few thoughts about the 2007 Brooklyn Blogfest
Filed under: Area 51
As some of you know, I attended the 2nd Annual Brooklyn Blogfest this week. Although I found it enjoyable (despite being VERY crowded) I feel compelled to write about a few thoughts I had about the experience. Although (to paraphrase something Dope on the Slope emailed me) the origins of this event are largely to blame for its distinctly South Brooklyn flavor, I felt there were some greater issues at hand. Issues I would like to share with my fellow Greenpointers (and any other Brooklynites who might be reading this). The purpose of this exercise is two-fold:
- to offer up some constructive criticism
- to initiate an amicable dialogue and/or hear what you think
The previous having been said, here we go…
I read a lot of comments on a number of different blogs yesterday about the Blogfest. The most common criticisms to be found were:
- lack of diversity
- this event was nothing more than “mutual backslapping”
More often than not, the comments I read of the above nature were worded in *a hem* a very hostile and belligerent manner. Although I disagree with the way these people chose to air their grievances, I agree with the point they were trying to make. Being someone who is friendly to what the Blogfest is trying to do (but has some very serious concerns) I feel compelled to give my two cents. Here they are.
Regarding above point #1
Although race was brought up often, I think geography and/or lifestyle are the real issue. Actively courting other ‘nabes (and the up and coming blogs to be found in them) may help address this problem. Dope in the Slope’s idea of having meet-ups in different ‘nabes is a good one as well.
As I said before, the origin of the ‘fest does predispose it to having a distinctly South Brooklyn flavor, but (and this is a big BUT) the roster of speakers could have been tweaked and/or pared down to mitigate it. Which brings me to…
Above point #2
The amount of attention given to real estate issues (READ: Atlantic Yards and Bruce Ratner) was excessive. Enough so that it even struck me (she who seethes over 110 Green) as being ‘mutual backslapping’ or clique-ish. While I believe the awareness-raising/fact-checking the Atlantic Yards Report does is both laudable and very necessary, I all too often found myself asking “But what about Coney Island, Kensington, Sunset Heights, Flatbush, Greenwood Heights, Bedford-Stuyvesant, Bushwick, Williamsburg, Greenpoint, etc., etc.?†In other words:
What about everyone else?
In particular, Norman Oder (of the Atlantic Yards Report) said something that really disquieted me. It was something to the effect that there are enough blogs that feature criticism (and/or were of a personal nature) and what was needed were more blogs featuring real news. There is a value judgment embedded in the previous statement— and it is one I vehemently disagree with. While I understand that Mr. Oder is entitled to his opinion and his interests and/or ambitions are directed towards journalism, my (and many other’s) interests and/or ambitions are not. I am entitled to my opinion too. *Whoop* here it is…
I am an artist (by education) whose favorite avocation is being a jackass. Dishing out the dirty deets and duplicity about the Atlantic Yards Project may be his cup of tea but featuring festering piles of diarrhea is mine. Neither of the previous endeavors is any better than the other; they are simply different. As are our respective purposes and (in all likelihood) readerships.
I honestly don’t care what the subject matter of a blog is. Just as I would critique any other work of art or letters, my only concern is whether or not it is GOOD. It’s a matter of craftsmanship, not content— and I have seen a lot of blogs (of a journalistic flavor or otherwise), that are downright awful.
The issue I am trying to get at this: what qualifies one as being “Brooklyn blogger”? Does earning the sinecure of being a “Brooklyn blogger” require writing about Brooklyn or is simply being a resident of Brooklyn who happens to blog sufficient creds? Speaking as someone who is both of the previous (mostly the latter), I think the answer is both. It is much better to err on the side of inclusionism than exclusionism. And there was (albeit unintentionally) much exclusivity to be had at this year’s the Blogfest.
Hopefully next year’s event will address the above issues. I understand that this being only the second time the Brooklyn Blogfest has been conducted it would be unreasonable to expect geographical or topical parity. Moving forward, (speaking as someone whose readership includes a number of very talented artists in the Greenpoint/Williamsburg area who often have their own blogs/web sites), I would strongly recommend that more effort should be directed to welcome blogs that are outside the realm of local current events.
The boro of Kings has a lion’s share of amazingly talented and interesting people— many of whom also happen to have blogs. These people usually do not identify themselves as “bloggers”. I don’t. But does that make their contributions (or my own) to the Brooklyn blogosphere* any less significant?
I have lived in Greenpoint for some time and I have a pretty good feel for the people who live here. More importantly, I have a clear idea of what interests my ‘nabes. And Ratner-bashing and waxing philosophical about the role of bloggers (as journalists) are not among them.
Miss Heather
*Apparently Clinton Hill is the ‘bloggiest’ neighborhood in Brooklyn. I beg to differ. Greenpointers, Williamsburgers and (last, but not least) Bushwickers unite! Anyone up for a starting a North Brooklyn blogger insurgency? I am! Let’s set aside our respective differences, build a web ring and kick some brownstoner ass!
Night Smelling Committee
Filed under: 11101, 11222, 11354, Blissville, Blissville Queens, Greenpoint, Greenpoint Brooklyn, Greenpoint Magic, Long Island City, Long Island City Queens, Maspeth, Maspeth Queens, Newtown Creek
A weekly feature I have inaugurated of late (albeit irregularly to date) is featuring an odd, provocative and/or strangely relevant chunk ‘o’ Greenpoint history for all to savor.
To steal a phrase from my buddy Judy McGuire, Man, oh Manishevitz do I have a fun tale of “Oy vey” before the l’oi ill’splay to share today. Oil spill or otherwise, Newtown Creek stinks… even back in 1892, when the Mayor of Brooklyn came down to inspect the stench personally. The following article is from the August 27th, 1892 edition of the Brooklyn Daily Eagle. I have taken the liberty of condensing this VERY VERBOSE article and bold-facing my favorite passages. Enjoy!
SMELLS FOR THE MAYOR
Two Newton Creek Samples Were Quite Enough
His Honor’s Brief Trip Upon the Slimy Stream With the Health Commissioner, the Corporation Counsel, Alderman Fitzgibbon and a Committee of Citizens— Relief Promised.Mayor Boody had cold and rainy weather for his visit of inspection yesterday to the much complained of factories on the shores of Newton Creek. The citizens from the Fifteenth and Seventeenth Wards who accompanied him would have been much better pleased over a heavy and sultry day. The smells would then have been at their worst, so far as the daytime is concerned, for after all it is at night that the vileness of Newton Creek odors is most apparent and oppressive. As it was Mayor Boody in a very few minutes yesterday got quite enough of creek smells and was more than satisfied long before the committee of citizens was.
The mayor, accompanied by Health Commissioner Griffin and Corporation Counsel Jenks, was driven in a carriage to Chapman’s docks at the head of Grand Street. He was met there by the committees of eastern district citizens. The only other representative of the city govenment was Alderman Fitzgibbon, who accompanied the Seventeenth Ward delegation and whose home is within the district invaded by the noxious smells…
Alderman Fitzgibbon and other members of the party welcomed the mayor, health commissioner and the corporation counsel and escorted them to the steam propeller Mascot. It was raining smartly then and a stiff breeze was blowing, but the heavy, sickening odor from the neighboring fertilizing factories and from the filthy creek itself saluted Mayor Boody’s nostrils even before he left his carriage. Health Commissioner Griffin bore the smell like a veteran, but Corporation Counsel Jenkins looked unfeignedly sick from the start. The smell seemed a little worse than he had prepared himself to meet.
Through the slimy waters the boat coursed, while members of the committee sitting in the wheelhouse with the mayor told him they were sorry the tide was not low, for then the smell would be many times worse. Mayor Boody, intimated, with a laugh, that the situation as it was seemed sufficiently atrocious. A stop was made at Cord Meyer’s bone boiling establishment on Furman’s Island, only a hasty and superficial examination was made, but the smell was such that Mr. Jenks turned away in disgust and gasped for fresh air. The mayor tried hard to conscientiously sniff all the odors that were to be caught, but began toshow signs of not relishing the task. When the party re-embarked the boat steamed to Andrew Wissel & Co’s place, also on Furman’s Island. Wissel has the contract to remove offal from King’s County, and out of his unsavory stock he manufactures fertilizing preparations. Wissel’s son in law, a young man of pleasing manners and speech, tried hard to convince Mayor Boody that the atmosphere was not polluted, but the mayor’s nostrils were as wide open as his ears, and with a significant sniff and a still more more significant look he started off towards the boat.
A whole creek full of stench producing establishments remained, but Mayor Boody asked to be taken back to the Grand Street dock, where his carriage awaited him, “I have had enough of this,” he said. “I realize that you have a grievance and I want to live to help you.” “It is a crying shame.” said Corporation Counsel Jenks. The he stopped suddenly and listened without comment to members of the committee who explained that the odors which had sickened him were nightly pervading miles of Brooklyn thoroughfares and ruining the comfort and the health of thousands of people. The health commissioner had little to say, but both the mayor and corporation counsel freely promised to do what they could to abate the nuisance. “We will use all the power possible,” the mayor said in substance, “but it is your duty also to exert yourselves. A nuisance exists here and it is for you to prove it a nuisance. Everybody who suffers from this nuisance should be prepared to come downtown and testify against it. The trouble has been that when two or three citizens came down to testify that these smells were a nuisance the other side invariably presented a greater number of witnesses who were willing to swear that no nuisance existed.”
The mayor and his party were cheered by the delegations as they re-entered their carriage. Afterward some of the delegated sailed the length of Newton Creek and paid a brief visit to Rosenberg’s fat rendering and bone boiling establishment near Calvary Cemetary Bridge. At no time during the afternoon, however, was anything like a thorough examination of the alleged nuisances on the creek shore made.
In the evening an executive meeting Seventeenth Ward citizens was held at 101 Monitor Street. Henry T. Steinhaner presented a report of the mayor’s visit to the creek and also reported, with much detail, the result of several night trips which have recently been made by Seventeenth Ward citizens to Newton Creek factories. This report is not to be made public… the intention being to use it in the courts as evidence. Members of the night smelling committee say, however, that their experiences have been quite stirring at times, and that some day they will make interesting reading.
And they have! It is interesting (and a little depressing) to learn that even in 2007 nothing has really changed. Same shit, different century.
Miss Heather
Welcome to New York Shitty
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
April 10, 2007, 6:40 a.m.
April 11, 2007, 6:46 a.m.
April 12, 2007, 6:48 a.m.
The pile-driver at 110 Green Street has been eerily silent of late. No worries, another source of irritation (READ: psychosis-inducing sleep deprivation) has reared its ugly head: the contractors who are upgrading a transformer for the G train in front of my apartment building.
This brings me to the above-listed dates and times: these indicate when I have been awakened by this crew making an UNGODLY amount of noise. I am talking about a colossal din that makes my brick shithouse of an apartment building rattle. Scary. As a result, I have not had a contigious eight hours of sleep until today. I cannot over-emphasize how much better I feel.
The same cannot be said about yesterday. It was the third morning of total and utter fucking chaos and I was going out of my mind. I understand that these guys have a job to do and all that happy horseshit, but SO DO I and all the other people whose apartments overlook this site. All because some of us keep different hours due to being ‘night people’ or working the graveyard shift (and many people here do), doesn’t mean we should be singled out for this cruel and unusual punishment.
What’s more, their shenanigans have claimed another unwitting victim: my younger cousin Jennie, who happens to be visiting right now. She and my mother arrived in New York Shitty the evening of April 11th and checked into their hotel. The next morning we were to talk on the phone and come up with some sort of plan for the day. This task is usually delegated to me by my husband. He says it’s because he will “just screw it up anyway”. I say it’s because he doesn’t want to do it. ANYHOO…
My mother calls and my husband puts her on speakerphone. In hindsight, this was probably not a wise call on his part…
Me (to my mother): …I’m really sorry, my brain just isn’t working too good right now.
Mamasan: Well grab a cup of coffee to wake you up and get down here.
Me: I am tired because some ASSHOLE woke me up at 6:48 this morning. This has been going on for THREE DAYS.
Mamasan: Was it the cats?
Me: No, it was not the fucking cats. The contractors who are doing work for the MTA have been firing up their heavy machinery before 7:00 a.m. for the last three days.
Mamasan: (laughing)
Me: IT IS NOT FUNNY! It’s so loud it even wakes Sam up. I am so fucking sick of this shit I think I am going to call the city.
Mamasan: (*chirp, chirp*)
Let me tell you a few things:
- I have not seen my cousin in over ten years.
- She was raised in a much more devout household than myself (READ: Southern Baptist). I cannot recall this person using profanity of any kind. Ever.
- I, on the other hand, drop f-bombs and other colorful phrases with total abandon. The only reason I never got in trouble for doing so when I was younger is because my mother felt it would hypocritical to punish me for using language I had clearly learned from my own father.
- Although I can exercise restraint (regarding the use of the above-mentioned language), my ability to do so is severely compromised when I have had not had a normal night’s sleep IN THREE DAYS.
I’m really sorry Jennie. Then again, you were probably going to hear someone drop a salvo of f-bombs (or worse) eventually. I mean, this IS New York after all. Perhaps it’s better that you got a taste of it from your own flesh and blood first. Oh yeah, welcome to New York Shitty.
Miss Heather
Your Psychic Fiend
Filed under: Area 51
As I continue to slog away tidying the apartment and listen to the landlord doing god-only-knows-what to the building next door, I have found ways to amuse myself. On Tuesday, for example, I had the task of parsing through an enormous pile of Chinese take-out condiment packets. In so doing, I discovered a handful of old, stale fortune cookies. Yummy. Instead of simply throwing them out, I decided to play a little game: fortune-telling for felines.
First up, Bodhi.
You would make a good lawyer.
This is very appropriate. As it happens, Bodhi regularly humps our female cat Uni (or any other cat in this apartment— male or female— that will sit still long enough) despite having no berries to power his twig. Having dealt with attorneys on a number of occasions, I am of the opinion that persistence, not intelligence, is the defining characteristic of those who engage in this profession. I will refrain from making any wise-cracks about their propensity for ‘screwing people’ because it is simply too easy.
Next up, Uni.
The great pleasure in life is doing what people say you cannot do.
Once again, this is right on the money. After being severely chastized by our vet for having overweight pussies, my husband and I put them on a diet. This endeavor has been for the most part successful. I say “for the most part” because Uni has only managed to get fatter. I honestly don’t know how she does it, but firmly believe this is an act of spite on her part.
Last up, Tortilla.
You will have good luck and overcome many hardships.
If I had to liken Tortilla to a person, it would be George W. Bush: neither is endowed with much in the way of intelligence and both are bullies. You will notice that the above photo appears to show Tortilla drooling. He isn’t; I took this photo after I caught him trying to eat liquid laundry detergent. Not. Very. Bright.
Whereas our fearless leader has an army (and god) to back up his little big man agenda, Tortilla is a quite large and exceptionally strong animal. He makes this known to the other cats here at Chateau de Ghetto on a regular basis— which is why my husband and I have erected a barrier between the bedroom and the living room. Not satisfied with merely picking on someone his own size, Tortilla takes great delight in accosting Uni.
On the evening of this psychic reading, dear readers, Tortilla got a break. Sort of. After exercising his god-given mandate to be a colossal asshole all afternoon, Tortilla managed to tear down part of our fortifications. Instead of diving into the bedroom and getting down to business (which would get him shot with the water gun immediately), he decided to stand on top of the gate and stare down at Uni menacingly. Subtlety is not one of Tortilla’s strong points.
Upon hearing the noise, I wandered into the bedroom to see what was going on. I found Tortilla pacing along the top of the gate and got the water gun. Despite his cognitive challenges, Tortilla knows this item by sight. He also knows I take great delight in shooting him in the face with it and turned his body around so as to make clear aim at his face impossible. And there he stood, looking over his shoulder at me with a “Fuck you, what are you going to do now?” expression on his face.
What I did was shoot him in the ass. Repeatedly. Bulls Brown eye! Tortilla didn’t know what hit him. He just stared at me with a mixed expression of confusion and abject hatred. I spent the next 15 minutes laughing my ass off while Tortilla fast and furiously cleaned his.
Feel free to call the ASPCA, PETA, Animal Care and Control, the FBI, CIA and/or the regulatory agency of your choice and report my ass. I dare you. You can rest assured that after the various and sundry authorities parade through this apartment and become acquainted with Tor Dubya Bush they will all walk away with the same opinion: this cat deserves to have U.N. sanctions levied against him.
Miss Heather
Little Dick Men Photo Credit: Miss Heather. For the life of me I cannot understand why I didn’t post this earlier. Maybe I got busy, who knows? This morning I emailed this fine image to my husband with the suggestion that he post it on the conference room door in his office. I don’t think he’ll do it though: he uttered some nonsense about liking his job and not wanting to get fired. Oh well.
I wish I had me some little dick men. I bet they’d help me clean all those hard-to-reach areas behind the toilet that gross me out to no end. Perhaps I should ask the landlord next door for some? SHSH!
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