Greenpoint
Lorven Pharmacy
Culture on the Cheap
Skidmark Row
Last Sunday I rooked my husband into accompanying me as I went on another (albeit smallish) fact-finding mission*. Our route was as follows.
West Street has never failed to deliver (large quantities of dog shit) before and this occasion proved to be no different. Here are a few of my favorite shits.
65 Green Street
SHIT Tac Toe! I won! I won!
79 Green Street
This is just plain scary. And last but not least, my personal favorite from…
150 West Street!
It was a very fruitful trip— and the dog shit I found was only the tip of the proverbial iceberg, if you know what I mean.
When I reached Kent Street I noticed yet another group of older buildings that seemed to be awaiting a date with the wrecking ball. I went in for a closer look. And when I did, I found this. I walked another 5-6 feet and found these.
It would appear that had stumbled upon a trail, a Skidmark Row if you will, of grannie panties that spanned 59 Kent Street. Fascinating.
So if any of you:
- woke up last Sunday morning (after several rousing trysts at Mary D’s the night before) and found yourself wondering “Gee, where’s my underwear?”
- have fantasies involving Estelle Getty, The Golden Girls, getting golden showers from golden girls— or all of the above
- find the “I’ve fallen and can’t get up” lady strangely arousing
- have a thing for underwear resembling Depends undergarments
today’s your lucky day! Go on down to Kent Street (I have indicated the location on the above map with a red dot) and dig in. And when you’re done, why not swing by Brooklyn Bridge Marriott tomorrow afternoon for this?
Happy hunting!
Miss Heather
*After what transpired earlier that day, I felt my husband owed it to me.
I woke up on Sunday about 30 minutes after my husband. I got out of bed, put on my pajama bottoms (which were exactly where I had left them the night before: at the foot of the bed) and wandered into the kitchen. After I had managed to plow through two cups of coffee, my husband charged into the living room babbling “You aren’t wearing the striped pants, are you?”
“Striped pants?” I thought to myself.
Husband: Yeah, the ones you are wearing. I found those wadded up in the cat box this morning.
I must had worn these soiled ‘striped pants’ for at least 20 minutes before my husband saw fit to notice and/or tell me. I am still trying to figure out why the hell he didn’t simply put them in the dirty laundry hamper instead of putting them back on the floor. Gross.
Dung of the Day
Today’s “Dung of the Day” can be found in front of the Murder Bar (better known to non-locals as “Tommy’s Tavern”) on Freeman Street at Manhattan Avenue.
Shitastic!
Otherwise, I have parsed through Cafe Press’s merchandising opportunities (for New York Shitty) and found the following products of particular interest:
- Doggie coats: for the obvious reasons.
- Baby bibs: because what goes in the front inevitably finds its way out the back. I’m considering offering a rebate to Park Slope parents if they purchase and USE this item. Naturally, I will demand photographic evidence that the latter came to pass.
- Postage stamps: pay off your student loans with style!
- Thong underwear: although I have never been a fan of them, emblazoning the front of fannie floss with a pile of shit makes a certain amount of sense. Consider it a harbinger of things to come because I have little doubt that poo is exactly what you’ll find on the business end after you peel them off the wearer.
And (to shamelessly steal a quip from Vice Magazine) I will not shave my hairy ass before modelling them. Perhaps I’ll even pull a Farrah and select a pair that is two sizes smaller to better showcase my assets.
This is not an idle threat: it’s a promise.
Hugs and pisses,
Miss Heather
2007 Crap Map
After taking some time off to recuperate from having company, this morning I bundled up, wandered into the living room and sorted some shit.
My latest route took me to Manhattan Avenue between Green Street and Newton Creek.
Not only did I find plenty of crap, but I discovered that an ice cream shop is slated for 97 Commercial Street (the former location of Bleu Drawes). This does not strike me as the most appropriate business venture to pursue this time of year, but then again at least it isn’t (yet) another bank or Thai restaurant. This ‘hood needs more pad Thai as much as it needs more dog shit: both are already in overabundance in my not-so-humble opinion.
Anyhoo, after becoming better acquainted with the vagaries of Flickr Maps (READ: I broke down and followed the directions), I have added my latest finds to my 2007 Crap Map. I have also reorganized a number of my photos so the newer readers among you can parse through my “Backdoor Crapstavaganza“: a photo diary of stuff my neighbors throw out their window. After a four month dry spell, I finally found a new item to add to it this week.
Enjoy!
Miss Heather
P.S.: After some serious thought, I have decided to (somewhat) reverse my “no profit” stance regarding this blog. I am of the opinion that “Mr. Poopyhead” mugs (and possibly t-shirts) bibs, doggie coats and thong underwear need to be made available to the general public. I am currently investigating ways to make this happen.
Holiday Special
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
Anyone who has lived in Greenpoint long enough will tell you that acknowledging the passage of time is strictly optional. Most of the residents here don’t. This is hardly surprising given:
- the retinue of old drunks who grace the intersection of Manhattan Avenue and Greenpoint Avenue on any given day. These men probably haven’t had a sober moment since Perestroika and they would just as well keep it that way. They’re going to keep on partying like it’s 1989.
- the seriously ‘retro’ fashion sensibility the Polish ladies espouse (and the boutiques that service their needs). Just like Jackie O, there is a certain timeless quality to the Polish woman: her clothes were just as unfashionable in 1985 (when they were undoubtedly manufacturered) as they are today. I do not want to give the impression that I take issue with this, dear readers. I rather like it.
Speaking as a woman whose UNcoolness and advanced age (and by ‘advanced age’, I mean over 30) is it made clear to her on a regular basis, I find Polish women (such as the one shown above), rather comforting. You can rest assured the rear view of this woman is a mere crumb compared to glory to be beheld from the front. Among other things, her jacket was left open so as to showcase two Miss Krakow ca. 1967 snack trays lovingly swaddled in Lycra.
Contrary to what some Bedford Avenue hipsturd will tell you, getting older is not a crime. Wearing shitty fashion dating around the time of your own birth (and thinking it is cool) is. That’s why I like this woman; she is a walking, talking “Fuck You” in the face of youth. And if you 20-something year old nubiles don’t want to look at some fierce AARP cleavage— move!
- The fact that most of the holiday paraphernalia here has yet to be taken down —and I doubt it ever will be. In Greenpoint the party never stops.
And if that means I will continue finding stuff like this well into next fall, it’ll be one very happy New Year for me indeed!
I didn’t know Santa’s workshop made such toys. Needless to say I am going to be a lot more adventurous when I sit on his lap this year. No wonder Mrs. Claus is so damned happy: she doesn’t live at the North Pole: she sits on it!
Miss Heather
Don’t Put Strawberry Jelly on my Bagel
(…if I have jam in my pants)
After tossing and turning all night, I attempted to operate on four hours sleep (and two cups of coffee) today. My morning consisted of doing two loads of laundry and scouting the far north end of Manhattan Avenue for dog shit. Between the two previous tasks I ordered a toasted bagel from New Tulcingo.
I said I wanted a bagel with just a little cream cheese. And I got just that— with a fat glob of gelatinous sweet red slime to boot! I discovered this at the intersection of Freeman Street and Manhattan Avenue and got enraged. Instead of doing the rational thing (returning it and asking for another one) I flung the jelly off and cursed with total abandon.
For reasons unknown, a cabbie on Freeman Street found my spasmic fits of profanity interesting. Maybe he thought I was trying to hail him, as incomprehensible as that may seem; I was shouting, shaking a bagel and flinging jelly for chrissakes!
He pulled over on Manhattan Avenue and stared at me.
Me (shaking the offending bagel): Do you have a fucking problem!?!
Nothing. He kept staring.
The cabbie finally got the message when I started flinging jelly at his car.
In the clarity that is 20/20 hindsight, I suspect my menstrual anti-jelly demonstration is penny ante shit compared to what this man sees in Williamsburg, Chelsea or the East Village on any given day night. Except I wasn’t a kinked-up/coked-up nympho looking for a ride home: I was one very PISSED-OFF Greenpoint Gal trying to get that jelly THE FUCK off her BAGEL!
Please accept my sincerest apologies, cabbie. I meant no harm: you just happened to offer your services to the wrong person, at the wrong place and at the WORST possible time. You guys (and gals) have it hard enough as is. I am sorry if my mixed signals confused you.
When I got home I noticed my little friend surprised me (yet) again. I’l be serving up red jam toast for the next 3-4 days. Yummy. My husband will be delighted.
Miss Heather
Mary D’s Housing for Seniors
I have often wondered why there is so much dog shit on Dupont Street. Of all the blocks in my part of the ‘hood, Dupont is by and far the worst when it comes to crap. It’s fucking gross.
My initial theory was that dog owners were letting their canines crap with total abandon behind the old folks home (Mary D’s). And after last week’s fact-finding mission, I determined this to be true. What is surprising is WHO the statistics suggest as being the responsible for this doggie doo death gauntlet. Read on and draw your own conclusions.
The area I covered was a small one: Clay, Dupont, Eagle and Freeman Streets between Manhattan Avenue and Franklin Street. How much shit did I find? A LOT.
SEVENTY PILES OF SHIT IN FOUR BLOCKS.
Note: These are conservative figures. I often encountered mounds of dog shit and was forced to estimate how many separate bowel movements were present.
The above pie chart illustrates how much dog shit was found on/adjacent to Mary D’s versus the rest of the block. What is especially telling was the amount of shit located immediately outside and DIRECTLY ACROSS THE STREET from the rear exit of this facility (at 80 Dupont Street).
God I hope it was dog shit I saw back there; what kind of place are these people running?!? Maybe this is a new part of President Bush’s Medicare Plan? Hell if I know— and I don’t think I want to find out.
Elder abuse concerns aside, here’s a brand-spanking new “Crap Map” for your entertainment.
Enjoy!
Miss Heather
Say Hello to my L’il Friend!
This afternoon I came across an especially jaunty turd on my walk to the Franklin Corner Store (to procure refreshments). Being a pretty breezy and chilly day, I immediately went home and got some head protection for my new little friend.
I give this creation (which can be viewed at 125 Green Street) two enthusiastic thumbs up.
Miss Heather
Brown Suede
Today’s “Dung of the Day” comes from 96 Dupont Street. At a distance the bottle of deodorant looked like an “adult novelty item”. Maybe it was employed for that purpose, who knows? I don’t put anything past anyone anymore.
As I was taking the above photo a local meathead* (repairing his pick-up truck) shouted “You think that (picture) will end up hanging in a museum?”
My answer: I hope so.
And I do. If for no other reason because the dean of my graduate school would be forced to publicly kiss my butt (in the hopes of getting a little alumni cash/publicity). He ran the fine arts department like it was his own little banana republic: summoning and cancelling “mandatory” meetings with no regard for the schedules of his charges peons.
After he did this one too many times, I brought a puppet to an inter-departmental meeting and fielded all my questions/comments to him through her. Talk to the hand (or in this case, the puppet). And he did: in front of 40+ people, including a couple professors.
I still have “Rat Girl“. She has a few (more) things she’d like to say to him.
Miss Heather
*This is not meant as an insult. I like meatheads. I find their prosaic, yet razor-sharp, take on things refreshing.
Freeman Street Dog Shit Sign
Filed under: Dog Shit Signage
Boy am I happy I got today’s dog shit fact-finding trip done this morning: it’s starting to snow! Above one of the MANY piles of shit I documented was a new dog doo sign to add to my collection!
Yes, it is GROSS.
Stay tuned: a new “Crap Map” and numerous pie charts are in the works!
Miss Heather
Everyone Mark Your Calendar!
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
I saw this poster on the way to the post office this morning. After laughing my ass off (for too many reasons to list here) I thought to myself: I bet this ‘festival’ testosterone-a-thon would be fucking hilarious to check out.
I can already smell the gallons of Axe cologne not-so-effectively concealing the fruity vanilla undertones of B.O., stale beer and illegal steriods. Perhaps it’ll be ladies’ night? And by “Ladies’ Night” I mean the bartender will give women GHB gratis so they can spike their own drinks. This would cut out the ‘middle-man’ and save precious time often wasted on chit-chat or learning someone’s name.
“Borixon” particularly intrigues me. I imagine this word (phrase?) probably means something especially tough in Polish, but to my virgin ears it sounds like something you’d slather on a rash or use to clean your toilet. Seriously. He might as well call himself “MC Milky Discharge” (and his “Klymidia Kru”), “DJ CLo-ROXXX” or “MC Scrubbing Bubble”.
Say— I like the ring of that last one! I wonder if I can find a jeweler around here who can knock out a blinged-out gold medallion with my new ‘street name’ on it before the 19th? I best start looking now, time is running out!
WORD.
Miss Heather (AKA “MC Scrubbing Bubble”)
NYS Flickr Pool
