Another Question “For Ask A Greenpointer”

Thankfully this one is of a more, a-hem, civil caliber. It comes from my buddy Icky. He writes:

When I lived in Long Island City (back in the warehouse days), for the price of a glance directly across Newtown Creek, you would be treated to lights, music, and and eyeful of carnival rides. Seemed to be on-or-close-to the creek. Must have been about ten years ago, and it happened more than once. What was it, and where was it?

I too was once treated to lights, music and an eyeful of carnival rides. Once a year, three nights in a row and until 11:00 p.m. at night when I lived on Clay Street. The name of the carnival in question is The Greenpoint International Festival. It was located on Manhattan Avenue between Clay Street and the waterfront.

On a lark, my buddy Rachael and I went to this festival in 2002. We were supposed to meet a friend there. Since we arrived early, we decided to check out one of the vendor’s tables. He was selling earrings. I remember this distinctly because as I was bent over looking at a pair of baubles I was slammed onto the table by two young bucks engaged in a fist fight. That was the last year they served alcoholic beverages.

The lack of fire water the following year seemed to reduce the number of violent incidents. The decision to conduct a dry carnival also had another unforeseen consequence: it significantly (and adversely) impacted neighborhood interest. The last The Greenpoint International Festival was held in 2003.

Miss Heather

Putting Some “Green” Back in Greenpoint

Contrary to the moniker given it by none other than Pete McGuinness, Greenpoint does not have much in the way of foliage. When compared to her sisters to the south, “the Garden Spot of the Universe” comes off looking pretty threadbare. But let us not confuse quantity for quality. We Greenpointers are quite ingenious at making the most of what we have. Case in point:

Got a rather tall stump gracing your property? No problem. Just head to the 99 Cent Store and buy a garland and a roll of packing tape. $1.98 (plus tax) and a little elbow grease later, viola, you have a Green Street Maple!

Miss Heather

Behold, 295 Russell Street!

As I mentioned in this post, I found the (above) purported mailing address for Square Box Realty (the fine folks who brought us the 53 Java Street house/truck smack-down) both curious and amusing. Enough so that I went down and checked it out their digs with my own eyes. Here it is, their Brooklyn pied a terre.

That half-open garage door looks inviting. I think I’ll head over and take a peek!

Hmm, this looks a little rough. Maybe they’re redecorating? I bet they are bickering over the right shade of Martha Stewart paint to use at this very moment!

Um, hello? Anybody home?

It’s sort of ironic when you think about it. The lights are on at Square Box Realty, but clearly no one is home. Just like the agency that recently saw fit to let them continue working at 51 Java Street.

Miss Heather

Socrates Gets “Chopped”

A few months ago my fellow Greenpointer 11222 noted that Socrates Diner was closing. I learned this week that this is not entirely true. Socrates is still with us, they simply leased out the northern section of their store front.

What kind of business now occupies this space, you ask?

Another fucking real estate broker, that’s who. I cannot decide which is more ridiculous: the recent (and massive) proliferation of real estate offices here or paying $1,400 a month for a one bedroom apartment on Siegel Street. Both are equally absurd (and loathsome) in my book.

Miss Heather

Credits: The “Socrates For Rent” photograph is courtesy of 11222.

The Campbell’s Comfy Chair

Now that my fellow Greenpointers who were craving free bones (and you know who you are) have headed to the Polski Meat Market and picked some up, I am certain a number of them are wondering:

I have my bone, what do I do next?

May I recommend savoring your newly acquired comfort food while luxuriating in 111 Green Street’s very own comfy chair!

Not only is this chair stylish and roomy, but it is also located only steps away from 110 Green Street and is appointed with luxurious pork and bean upholstery for your al fresco dining pleasure.

Wow, just like mom used to make!

Miss Heather

Busy Night at 143 Huron Street

I am just now enjoying the first semblance of peace and quiet I have had all evening. It is 11:13 p.m.

My evening was kicked off by my neighbor (who I have taken to calling Chatty Cathy) yammering to her friends on her cell phone. I regret to inform everyone that she and her boyfriend have broken up. She’s really upset about it too. I suppose that’s why she spent several hours recounting each and every painful detail to her numerous friends. Among them was her former boyfriend stating that he needed to “find himself”. It took every iota of restraint I had to keep from shouting out the window:

You’re ex-boyfriend is full of shit!

Eventually she saw fit to go back indoors and continue her (undoubtedly) very sad story. I suspect my shouting

If they do not stop making all that goddamn noise I am going to call the fucking police!

had something to do with this. This outburst was not directed at her (I am not the kind of person to call the cops on someone when he or she is down), rather, one of the neighboring landlords saw fit to employ an international coalition of idiots (Thanks for this one, Dategirl!) to do a little work on her building’s facade. Was there a permit posted sanctioning this? No, why should there be? In Greenpoint we don’t need no steeeenking permits. They finally saw fit to call it quits at 7:00 p.m. How very thoughtful of them.

Unfortunately, the chaps at 143 Huron were not so considerate. Despite being ordered by the Department of Buildings not to work after hours they were quite the busy (and noisy) beavers tonight. Imagine that. So on top of listening to my husband conduct a conference call regarding some I.T. meltdown at his place of employment, I also got to bask in the sound of sheet metal being cut and hammered.

After taking the above photo, I called 311. I explained to the operator that I have complained about them working after hours twice the previous month. I provided her the complaint numbers and she pulled up the records on her computer. Even she was confused by the following disposition given by the Department of Buildings.

As you can see, 143 Huron was issued a stop work order violation for “after hours work only”. My phone call to 311 was placed at 7:25 p.m. This is “after hours”. The operator asked me if they were still working and I assured her they were. See where I’m going here?

Another complaint was filed and I added it to the growing collection on my dry erase board. Remembering what a D.E.P. operator advised a fellow Greenpointer to do in such situations, I called the police. That came to pass at 7:30 p.m.

I waited, they worked.

LOUDLY.

At 7:54 p.m. I receive a call from the 94th Precinct. The woman tells me a squad car is there and the officers report they cannot hear anything. I begged to differ, so I threw on some sweat pants and walked over to 143 Huron. After acknowledging that yes, these men are making a lot of noise, I am told that the police cannot do anything about “construction matters” and that I should take it up with the Department of Buildings. I tell them I have. Repeatedly. In return I am assured they will “come by to inspect it eventually”. I go home.

The workers do not.

They finally decided to wind things down at 9:30 p.m. My husband got off the phone at 11:10 p.m. Which brings me back to where I am at right now. It is late. I am tired. Tired and very, very PISSED OFF.

Miss Heather

Polka Porn?

Yesterday I found a real gem at the Salvation Army on Manhattan Avenue.

Even though I do not even own a record player, I shelled out the one dollar required to purchase this item and brought it home. Let’s just say it tickles my admittedly perverse fancy. First, you have a man and woman who look like they are going at it. Secondly, this image is flanked by canned ham, bread, a mug of beer and a number of rather phallic sausages, of which one has been sliced by a rather menacing looking knife. Kielbasa a la Bobbit!

But the best part, dear readers, cannot been seen in the above photo: it is the ad copy on the back. Here it is in all its glory. Warning: reading the following might induce night terrors and chronic bed wetting.

Shouldn’t that be Jack Stulak on the strumpet and David Pietrzak on the sexaphone?

The concept of “adults only” Polka brings to mind a number of things I could quite frankly do without. Polka key parties, Polka wife-swapping and Polka orgies, just to name a few. I can’t believe I just thought of Polka key parties. I must go now. I need to take a nice scalding hot shower and scrub the stain off my soul.

Miss Heather

UPDATE, 10/17/07: This morning I received an email from a new reader of New York Shitty. He writes:

Polish Songs Mama Never Taught Me: Give it to me and I’ll make a high-quality CD of it. Sounds amazing.

I have taken him up on his offer.