Greenpoint
Lorven Pharmacy
Culture on the Cheap
Greenpoint Pest Control
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
Today my next door neighbors presented me with a new, challenging piece of refuse.
It took me awhile to figure out what this assemblage is, but I did:
- One used paper towel roll.
- One sticky mouse trap with…
- a dead mouse!
While deciphering the components of this contraption was difficult (until I noticed its strong resemblance to the ‘tools’ monkies make to fish dirt mounds for delicious termites), figuring out why it came about was not; someone was too grossed out to actually pick up the trap using his/her hand, so a TOOL was improvised. A ghetto-ass tool.
It was very thoughtful of my neighbors to share this tasty morsel with me. Periodic visits to my kitchen would simply not be complete without a scenic view of deceased vermin. Thanks a lot guys assholes!
As always this repulsive, but strangely ingenius, item has been added to my “Backdoor Crapstavaganza“.
Miss Heather
UPDATE 3/25/07: The dead mouse has since disappeared. I think the pigeons ate it. I have seen them devour rancid hot dog weenies, so a dead rodent soaking in water is probably right up their alley. The raw hide bone is still there, though.
Dung of the Day: 201 Montrose Avenue
The pervasive theme this week (for me, anyway) is taxonomy. When not parsing through(and snickering at) petty quibbling over what constitutes ‘East Williamsburg’ versus what is Bushwick (don’t EVEN get me started on that whole ‘West Bushwick’ thing), I have been engaged in a friendly debate with Kevin Walsh (of Forgotten-NY) as to whether 128 Beadel Street is in ‘East Williamsburg’ or Greenpoint. As some of you may remember, this is where the coolest house EVER happens to be located. I do not think I need to state what my position on this topic is; it’s pretty obvious. (*cough* GREENPOINT *cough*)
All of this controversy has given one hell of a headache— which I will remedy with a can (or two) of Busweiser after I present today’s “Dung of the Day” hailing from 201 Montrose Avenue. Call it ‘East Williamsburg’, call it Bushwick— it makes no difference: both are full of shit. Literally, that is.
What is remarkable about this turd is its placement atop of a 1 1/2 to 2 foot tall snowdrift. The canine (or homo sapiens) who discharged this big ‘un must be pretty tall— and clearly cannot shit and chew gum at the same time.
Miss Heather
P.S.: I had to tease you Kevin, it was simply too tempting. No offense intended. 🙂
At last, the shoe is on the other foot…
…and I wanna ram it up someone’s ass!
I initially had no intention of writing today. I had a number of errands to run and preparations to make for an upcoming house guest. I have been very busy. I am now very tired. But not too tired to read this article from the New York Observer and offer up a thought or two…
I distinctly remember an unpleasant incident that happened to me seven years ago. I was chatting with a co-worker and the subject of neighborhoods came up. He asked me where I lived, so I told him: “Greenpoint”. His reply was “Man, you live out in the middle of nowhere!”
After learning that this person lived off of the Morgan Avenue stop of the L (and saw fit call it “Williamsburg”) I realized that I had an asshole on my hands. A phony asshole. Not being the kind of person to waste her breath on an idiot, the subject was never brought up again. It was just as well; I was vindicated on 9/11 when this dude (and two other co-workers) made a pit-stop at my apartment on Clay Street, AKA ‘the middle of nowhere’, before dragging his ass home to ‘Williamsburg’. Or whatever the fuck that neighborhood is— I honestly don’t care.
Before I continue I want to make one thing very clear: the purpose of this post is not to ‘B-Burg bash. Hypocrisy, one up-manship and conformity are the subjects of this rant. And the person mentioned in the above paragraph was guilty of all three. He was also a flaming dick, but I digress…
I am neither an old-timer nor a newbie here. When I moved to Greenpoint in 2000 it was because my first two neighborhoods of choice were prohibitively expensive. Greenpoint, choice #3, not only provided fast access to Manhattan, but it is safe and has all the basics an apartment dweller needs: grocery stores, laundromats, etc. My moving here was based on very practical considerations.
I did (and still do) not want to live in or near a dangerous neighborhood to earn street cred with people I could care less about. ‘Coolness’ was NOT a deciding factor. I am not now— nor will I ever be “cool”. I have accepted this.
After living in Greenpoint my first year I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. I feel at home here, and consequently, I have been able to laugh off the years of snide remarks and mean-spirited ignorance that living here seems to invite. If someone in ‘Williamsburg’, ‘East Williamsburg’, ‘West Bushwick’, etc., doesn’t like my ‘nabe, FINE. Don’t move here. I don’t want you as my neighbor anyway.
The previous having been said, dear readers, you can imagine the look on my face when I read about ‘Jessica’:
…who refused to give her last name but admitted that she moved to the neighborhood (Williamsburg), off the Bedford Avenue stop, from Virginia two years ago.
“I can’t tell people I’m from Williamsburg,†she told The Observer. “It gets people so uptight; all ‘Oooooo, you’re from Williamsburg, and where’s your Brooklyn Industries bag and your trust fund and your newsboy cap, hmmm?’ So I just lie and say I’m from Greenpoint.â€
I think ‘Jessica’ needs to learn something I (finally) grasped back in 2000: this city is filled with assholes who are not worth the time trying to ‘convert’. It really saddens me that this woman feels the need to buckle under peer pressure. I mean, fuck, if you can’t be yourself who are you? Really?
If given the money would I live in her ‘hood? No. But I do like to pop down there on occasion? You betcha! Do I make fun of Williamsburg? Yes, a lot. I also make fun of Greenpoint, Long Island City, the Upper East Side, Park Slope, Prospect Heights or any other ‘nabe that tickles my funny bone (or piques my ire) on any particular day.
Several months ago my mouth got me into a pickle with a resident of Long Island City. This woman emphatically disagreed with my (admittedly) vitriolic take on her ‘nabe. Did she go around saying that she lived in ‘Greenpoint North’ or ‘Astoria South’ after reading what I wrote? Nope. She ripped me a new asshole on her blog instead.
Believe it or not (after we had some serious ‘dialoguing’) I gained a serious measure of respect for this woman’s willingness to stand up. Perhaps this is the person who should have a nice, long talk with ‘Jessica’? Or maybe I will start calling my ‘nabe ‘Long Island City South’ instead…?
Miss Heather
Photo Credit: Rebecca1122. Those ain’t turds, kiddos. They be some kielbasa! Welcome to Greenpoint, BAYBEE!
Bushwick don’t like dog shit
Filed under: Dog Shit Signage
When I got up this morning and saw how beautiful it was outside I knew there was no way in hell I could keep my ass parked in front of a computer. So instead of attending to the ginormous backlog of things I need to do, I went for a nice two hour stroll.
Man, am I glad I did. My spring fever/laziness netted me one of the finest dog shit signs I have seen to date!
This masterpiece can be found at 165 Montrose Avenue. God, make this dude was my Super…
Miss Heather
At last, Greenpoint gets some good news!
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
Today I am very pleased to announce the opening of a new business here in Greenpoint— and the answer to my prayers…
AN HONEST-TO-GOD BOOKSTORE!
I’ll be frank: when I noticed the phrase “Kids’ Stuff” on the facade I started to get really turned off. But I overcame my apprehension and went inside to discover… books for big kids.
In English, no less!
Miss Heather gives this development two enthusiastic thumbs up. Go check them out, they just got a big shipment of books today!
Word Books
126 Franklin Street
Brooklyn, NY 11222
(718) 383-0096
www.wordbrooklyn.com
Clinton Hill Represents
Filed under: Dog Shit
The one thing that constantly amazes me about the dog shit problem in New York Shitty is that many people will complain about it, but few, very few, will actually step up to the plate. Shit or get off the pot— or more accurately, PUT UP OR SHUT UP!
I have parsed through enough chat rooms (where Brooklynites piss and moan ad nauseum about unattended dog poo in their respective ‘hoods) to become a bona fide shit cynic. Perhaps even a dog shit snob. “How bad can it possibly be in comparison to, say, Dupont Street, McGuinness Boulevard or THIS?” I ask myself. With good reason: Magic Johnson may very well pimp fund much of my block to build luxury condos, but I doubt he has enough ‘magic’ to motivate canines and humanoids not defecate here. And they do. A LOT.
My inner ‘Doubting Thomas’ was confirmed by the numerous comments I encountered from Prospect Heighters that had a distinctly vigilante tone, e.g.; take the offender’s picture and post it online, etc. Dime store Dirty Harrys (of dog shit). I have no doubt that these idle threats were issued from the comfort of air-conditioned (and dog shit free) cubicles contained within the numerous corporate dungeons that populate our fine city. The last time I went to Prospect Heights I got the distinct impression that it had become Park Slope Lite: a Park Slope for people too light on cash to live in Park Slope.* But I digress…
I, the Dog Shit Queen of Greenpoint, prefer to condemn the behavior, not the person— and get a few chuckles along the way. Which brings me to…
last week when Robin Lester of the Clinton Hill Blog responded to my solicitation for shit. She wrote:
Haven’t forgotten about sending the pics! I took a good crop this morning, so I should be able to send them tonight w/ info.
And she delivered:
All (were) taken on the west side of Waverly Avenue between Lafayette and Willoughby (2 blocks only), Clinton Hill, Brooklyn.
For those of you who are unfamiliar with the area in question, here it is:
And here is what she sent me…
One shit.
Two shits.
Three shits…
Four!
Five turds, six turds, seven turds and…
Much…
Much…
More!
Miss Heather
*This criticism is NOT directed at the earning power of Prospect Heights residents. I could care less about that (and I am undoubtedly much more poor than they are anyway). I hate the attitude— and the stroller moms. This ‘nabe is INCREDIBLY cool in its own right— why sully it by affecting Park Slope manners?
P.S.: Robin, give a shout out to Rosie Perez for me if/when you see her. She is fabulous. And, oh yeah, thanks for the shit!
Reach out and touch someone…
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
This morning I read a tale (via my email) that MUST be shared with the general public. “John” wrote:
…I’ve been on Kent between Franklin & Manhattan for ten years and believe I’ve found my spiritual home in our retarded little corner of Brooklyn.
My favorite sight by far was late last summer, when one of the bumskis was pissing OVER the pay phones onto the subway stairs by the newstand/Greenpoint Deli. At about 3:30 PM. On a Wednesday.
That one pretty much left me speechless…
Dude, that one leaves me speechless. After mulling over the physics required to pull off such a feat (and the conclusion I came to was that this bum must have ‘equipment’ like this guy), I came to the realization that some poor soul probably got a really nasty surprise when he/she exited the subway station. Speaking as someone who has been shit on the head by a pigeon (during my lunch hour no less), I understand the stages of grief that come with being used as a human pissoir:
- DENIAL: Is it raining? Maybe it’s just condensation from an air conditioner…
- ANGER: Aw FUCK, that burns! A pigeon did a deuce on my head! I fuggin’ hate pigeons!
- BARGAINING: Maybe no one at work will notice it. I will sneak back into the office and wash it out in the bathroom. No one will be the wiser.
- DEPRESSION: Nah, that bitch receptionist in our office will notice. She has undoubtedly been praying for this to happen for months.
- ACCEPTANCE: I will go back to the office and shampoo my head with hand soap. I will be utterly humiliated. This is unavoidable.
The receptionist did indeed derive a lot of pleasure from my suffering. My experience circulated through the entire office… and several weeks later this very same woman was sent home (and docked pay) because she was thirty minutes late to work (again). The lesson to be learned from my tale (if there is one) is this: when the Assistant Manager (your titular boss— READ: me) gets shit on the head by a pigeon, keep your goddamned laughter to yourself.
Miss Heather
Greenpoint is well hung (and/or delusional)
The male ego has always been a source of fascination to me. As time has gone by I have come to the realization that earning 70 cents on the dollar is a very small price to pay for not bearing the burden of life-long severe social retardation many of my XY chromo brothers seem to be afflicted with. For example…
Several years ago I came across a personals ad for some gent who lives(d?) in Greenpoint. After listing his interests, hangouts (the Pencil Factory) and describing his appearance, he closed with his biggest, uh, enticement for the ladies:
Only women who know how to handle large equipment (10″ +) need reply.
Whoa dude, put that thing away! Greenpoint is a pretty small place. For the next several months I found myself wondering if the guy sitting next to me at the Pencil Factory— or waiting behind me at the grocery store checkout had an anaconda in his pants. This is no way to go through life.
Which brings me to today’s “Dung of the Day” from India Street…
Greenpoint, where the turds are hung like just their men: too big (and TOO close) for comfort.
Miss Heather
Greenpoint Irish
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
This morning my husband was kind enough to inform me that we were dangerously low on toilet paper. Although I seriously dislike getting repeat money shots of sleet to the face, I dislike wiping my ass with napkins even more, so I went to the grocery store. The following curiousity can be purchased at the Garden. Get your green bagels while supplies last!
I was mulling over leaving this item as an offering at Pete McGuinness’s grave, but since I can’t locate it, his boulevard will have to suffice. I hope the bums don’t eat it.
When asked about his (BRIEF) stint working as a lumber inspector in the south, this fine man replied:
I don’t like that Jim Crow they got or their goddam white crow either.
God bless you Mr. McGuinness. Happy St. Pats.
Miss Heather
Beadel Street, Here I come!
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
It’s pretty hard not to get depressed when you live in a ‘hood that is having much of its character eradicated in the name of ‘progress’. With every walk I take I become aware of (yet) another high-density faux Modernist heap of diarrhea being built here. Yesterday’s walk was no different— until I hit Beadel Street, anyway. It was on this humble block that I encountered the most fucking awesome house in all of Greenpoint.
Yes, you are seeing leopard print.
Lots of leopard print.
And fringe.
As you can imagine, I was rendered utterly speechless by the sublime genius of this domicile. I am dying to know what the inside looks like, but then again, I am probably not worthy of the experience. God, I want this house.
Miss Heather
NYS Flickr Pool
