Empire State Building

Although it is not the purpose of this blog to showcase the treasure(s) I score at local thrift stores, I am making an exception today. I got this wonderful item at “The Thing” for a cool five bucks.

As I was exiting the store, George Diaz, a local celebrity, asked me what I was going to do with this five foot replica of the Empire State Building.

My answer: I am not completely certain, but I strongly suspect there will be a puppet show*, rock opera— or most likely, a combination of BOTH featuring it.

Miss Heather

*For Example: after a long day at work, The Empire State Building comes home to his modest row house in Secaucus, New Jersey. His wife, The Chrysler Building, (clad in rollers and a muu-muu) has burnt dinner. Ralph and Alice Cramden-esque repartee is exchanged— which quickly degenerates into Punch and Judy violence.

McCarren Park Bathroom: Imitation of Gentrification*

* Gowanus Lounge called my tale this and I liked it so much I changed the title.

A few months ago I wrote a post which (among many other things) bemoaned the presence of bar soap at the women’s restroom at McCarren Park. I patronized these facilities (again) this week and am pleased to report that this disturbing indicator of gentrification has since been ‘corrected’. In fact, the new developments at this public bathroom are noteworthy enough to merit dissemination to the general public.

Thursday, August 10, 2006

After walking for over an hour and guzzling copious amounts of water and iced tea, I needed to go to the bathroom. I assessed the situation and deduced that McCarren Park had the closest facilities. Upon entering the bathroom I encountered the fetid and dank smell that is the hallmark of all New York City public bathrooms. This was encouraging.

I attempted to enter the stall on the right, but for a number of (very good) reasons I opted for the left one instead.

The left-hand stall opened more readily, but toilet paper was chained to it as well.

After completing my business, I go to the sink to wash my hands.

No soap whatsoever was to be found, but paper towels were plentiful and the garbage can was still tethered to the sink with chains.

I relayed these observations to my husband last night.

Husband: God, what kind of world do we live in?
Me: What do you mean?
Husband: A world where you have to lock up toilet paper so people won’t steal it.
Me: The people who steal toilet paper are not the ones who upset me; the ones who see fit to make toilet paper theft-proof do.
Husband: ???
Me: I have been poor (READ: a temp) many, many times. The meager paychecks I got didn’t cover the cost of living. There was no way I could afford rent, student loan payments, FOOD, and sundries like toilet paper on $10.00 an hour. I coped by eating all the free food I could find (Internet start-ups are were always good for that) and filching the occasional roll of toilet paper. If someone steals toilet paper, he/she really needs toilet paper. It is cruel to deny the needy toilet paper and the people who do so are truly evil in my book.
Husband: (nods in agreement)

After getting this crumb of affirmation, I got on my (semi-illucid, but well-intentioned) soap box…

Me: Take the bar of soap I found a couple of months ago at McCarren Park. That really pissed me off.
Husband: ???
Me: First it’s a bar of soap in the public bathroom and before you know it you have concerned parents raising holy hell because there are rats in the park.
Husband: ???
Me: Remember when we went to Cobble Hill (Carroll Gardens?) and saw that group of concerned parents who rented an inflatable rat to protest the presence of rats at their local park?
Husband: Yes.
Me (working myself into a frenzy): That was a load of shit— and a gross misuse of the ubiqitous inflatable rat. I have been to that park several times; the first time I used the women’s room there they had bar soap.
Husband: Uh-huh…
Me: The second time I went they not only had bar soap, but I had to use the women’s bathroom while a nanny/lackey presided over a little boy using the toilet. This child was at least 10 years old. I am certain he was very capable of going on his own… in the men’s bathroom!
Husband: Ok…
Me: The third time I went they had that fucking rat. Do you honestly think the nanny I saw the previous time was “on the books”? Do you think the family (or families) who employ her are paying a competitive wage, social security taxes, etc? I seriously doubt it— and that’s why it pisses me the hell off that they are using the scab-busting inflatable rat to protest the presence of rats in their precious park! Rats, I might add, that I have never seen! Fucking hypocrites.

My monologue went on…

Me: Complaining about the presence of rats in New York City is like going to France and getting angry because it is populated with Frenchmen.* Where people are to be found you will also find rats, it doesn’t take a fucking rocket scientist to figure that out. If they were so damned upset about rats they should:

1. dispose of their (children’s) food properly and not let little Lincoln (or Meghan) dribble ice cream all over place
2. move somewhere that does not have rats (good luck) OR
3. grow up and deal with it!

And on…

Remember when our neighbors were barbequing and got really drunk last year? It had to be at least 1:00 a.m. when I heard a woman shriek “OMIGAWWWWD, a RAAAT!”** That’s when I pulled you to the window and we watched her (VERY) drunk boyfriend chase it around with a 2 by 4. That was funny as hell.
Husband: Yes it was.

Rats are the foundation for a healthy marriage. Not only did my husband and I enjoy watching this melee (if you’re wondering, our neighbor finally ‘nailed’ it and apologized to us for making so much noise), but after we eloped at Brooklyn Municipal Hall, we announced our marriage by sending out pictures of us standing in front of an inflatable rat that happened to be next door.

There is a point (maybe two) to be found in the previous, hell if I know exactly what it is. But if I had to hazard a guess I’d say that I am happy that McCarren Park bathroom is utterly revolting (and bereft of soap). Because when the inflatable rat shows up here it will mean that I need move somewhere else. Fast.

Miss Heather

*This is/was not intended to be a slur against France or French people; French people live in France, rats live in New York City. Simple as that.

**Gotta love that sexy Long Island honk!

Excusez-Moi

I regret to announce that I will not be a guest blogger on Only the Blog Knows Brooklyn. It certainly looked encouraging for awhile, but alas, it simply was not to be.

In 20/20 hindsight, I do not think it was the quality of my writing (or lack thereof) that precipitated my rejection. The content of what I wrote probably did. In spades. Had I known I was submitting material to the woman also known as Smartmom, I might have selected something else to submit— or maybe I wouldn’t have— who knows? But I digress…

For those of you who are unfamiliar with this saga thus far, I will bring you up to date.

About two weeks ago Jossip.com ran a little blurb on their Only in New York section stating that OTBKB was having an open call for guest bloggers this month. I checked out the site (OTBKB), and being the fine-ass Dog Shit Queen of Greenpoint that I am, I felt had something special to contribute.

I sent an email on Friday, July 28, 2006 at 4:30 a.m. (It has been my experience that nothing else but pure literary glory comes from my person at such an ungodly hour.)

It read as follows:

Greetings,

I came across your solicitation for a guest blogger(s) via Jossip.com. I do not live in Park Slope; the disruption of G train service of late (and my lack of personal upkeep/finances/self-esteem) prohibit me from going there. Nothing personal.

That said, I do live in Brooklyn: Greenpoint, 11222 to be precise. Your blog purports to serve “Park Slope, New York, and Beyond”. Surely my Charles Bukowski-esque musings fit will within your criteria: most likely under “New York and Beyond”. Greenpoint is a very strange place indeed— and that’s why I love it. I’ve lived here for six years, have a rent-stabilized apartment (near the waterfront) and will only vacate the aforementioned apartment when I am carried out (or get a fat pay-off) — if you know what I mean.

I have neither children (they give me the creeps, carry germs and shit their pants— though strangely, I have a husband and 5 cats who do all the previous, and more— go figure) nor do I have anyone remotely “famous” in or around my ‘hood (alive, anyway). I am, nonetheless, civically-minded. Check out my blog: www.newyorkshitty.com.

Thank you for your time and consideration.

Sincerely,

Miss Heather

You can imagine my glee when I checked my email Friday afternoon to find this:

I gave her a date (August 13) and awaited further instructions. Instructions came August 2nd:

August 7th (by my standards) is a pretty tight deadline. What should I write? I asked myself this question. Over and over.

And on Friday, August 4th, I had my ‘eureka’ moment: I should write about what I know and love. Greenpoint, like a sick dog with shingles and rotting teeth or an incontinent relative, is what I know and love.

But alas, I never got a confirmation as to when my post would appear.

Follows is the manuscript (and supplemental jpegs) I submitted. I have put back all the profanity I excised because this is my blog, and as 2 Live Crew would say, I’ll be as nasty as I want to be.

Friday Night in Greenpoint
(I just called the NYPD to say I love you)

If all the sirens I heard are any indication, I’d say that the 94th Precinct had its hands full last night. Maybe it was a full moon, who knows?

Prelude
The evening unfolded like any other. Around 3 p.m. the neighbors across the street started blasting music I commonly refer to as ‘fornication tunes’. Marc Anthony mostly. I do not want you to be my hero, Marc. You look like the Crypt Keeper. You sound even worse.

Let it be known here and now before I proceed:

A. Firstly, I no longer make any effort to conceal my contempt towards the aforementioned musician or its listeners: I detest them both.

B. Secondly, being forced to listen to this slop (for hours on end, day after day) works me into a black rage.

C. Finally, I dislike the vast majority of people who live in the compost heap that masquerades as the apartment building across the street from my building.

If you walked in my shoes (and lived in my apartment building) the last 4 years, you too would harbor such dark sentiments. Among other things, the residents of that building saw fit to have ‘picnics’ in the public areas of my building, leaving their refuse, chicken bones, etc., for our neighbor cum porter to pick up.

The smooch-a-palooza continued well into the night, blaring from a stereo system whose decibel output was sufficient to make the fillings in my teeth rattle. At 9:00 p.m. Stevie Wonder’s I Just Called to Say I Love You played for everyone’s edification. I thought to myself: GOD I hate that song. Seriously, I REALLY FUCKING HATE THAT SONG.

Crisis
I tried to go about my business, but to no avail. Not after I heard the shrill call of one very angry greenpointus slatternous screaming over Stevie’s insipid crooning, anyway. Initially I found this amusing, as her rabid caterwauling echoed perfectly the black rage this song was fomenting in my soul. Curiosity, however, got the better part of me and I peered out the window.

A crowd of gawkers had formed. Hmm. “Let me guess”, I thought, “I bet this incident is the bitter fruit borne of a love triangle and a shitload of alcohol.” I have lived in Greenpoint for about 6 years now and I have noticed that most conflicts hereabouts involve drinking and fornicating.

I couldn’t make out much of what this woman was screaming aside from the odd I don’t give a FAWK and Go ahead, CAWL the police, but she seemed to be angry. Very angry. After she belched forth Go ahead, CAWL the police a second time someone did just that.

The seriously imbalanced woman kept ranting, Stevie kept singing, the world kept turning and four NYPD squad cars came a’ patrolling. The first car, apparently oblivious to the bottle-neck made by construction (courtesy of the MTA), pulled into the only remaining lane and parked straddling the curb.

Bad idea. In the maze of one-way streets that is Greenpoint, this officer just created a major snafu. Anyone seeking drugs from the dealers east of Manhattan Avenue or access to the Pulaski bridge— and I assure you there are plenty of the both to be found on a Friday night — are going to meet a major obstacle.

The officer (a woman) got out of the squad car and put on leather gloves. “Oh mama this is gonna get good”, I thought. If I have to be torn away from reading the latest gossip about Lindsay Lohan’s rumored cocaine habit, Ashlee Simpson’s new nose, or Britney Spear’s newest tribulation, I sure as hell expect to be recompensed for my valuable (lost) time with some serious knuckle-dusting.

My appetite for violence was unsatiated, but I was not disappointed.

The female officer took the rabid chick into the vestibule of the apartment building. The other (male) officer pulled a man and a(nother) woman about 20 feet away to get their take on events. The shouting and gesticulating I saw made it pretty clear that this man was indeed sticking his twig and berries into the wrong bushes. Two to be precise.

Resolution
I elected to call  the Mister (who was out of town). I did not call to say I loved him; I called to tell him about the unfolding circus unfolding outside our living room window. I am no Howard Cossell— or even John Madden— my color commentary (delivered from the fire escape) follows:

Miss H: Oh yeah, the police cut off access to the only lane left. I betcha some fuckwit will pull up behind the parked police car and start honking.

(And lo, one such ‘fuckwit’ did just that! Soon there was a queue of ‘fuckwits’, all of whom were honking feverishly.)

Miss H: Man, now there are at least seven cars backed up— one of them is a police car! These dudes are going to have to back up and turn around. There is no way in hell they are going to get through here.

My suburban upbringing made me oblivious to the possibility that these people may try to pass the parked police car by driving on the sidewalk. Like the petroleum-driven crack monkies they are, this is exactly what they did.

Miss H: Now there’s some idiot trying to pass the police car by driving on our sidewalk. Dude, no two objects can occupy the same space at the same time. Go ahead, try to subvert a widely accepted principle of physics. That crappy sedan of yours does not look like it can make 55 miles per hour, much less the speed of light. Good luck, buddy! He’s going to either hit our fence or the police car. I hope to hell it’s the police car because dammit I want to see someone go to jail.

The first car made it. Barely.

Miss H: Okay, now we have a second one. He isn’t going to make it.

He didn’t. His car door grinded against our fence and pulled the gate off its hinges.

Miss H: HAHAHAHAHA! BRAVO, BRAVO! My god, these people are so FUCKING stupid!

This is when I realized that (in my excitement) I had been speaking quite loudly: a number of onlookers gazed up at me.

Miss H: Uh, I need to go back inside. I’ll call you later.

Post-Script
This incident came to pass a couple months ago. Recently I recounted it to my best friend.

In her sage wisdom, Rachael asked: well, do you like that song any better now?
Me: What do you mean?
Rachael: You said you hated that song. Now that you have an amusing story to associate with it, do you like it any better?
Me: I don’t know. I had never really thought about it.

I have heard this song twice since. I think it was at the grocery store, I honestly cannot recall with any certainty. And it did bring a smile to my face. Rachael was right.

(End of story)

To repeat myself: had I known who I was dealing with, I might have sent something different. I suspect she found a number of passages in my tome disturbing, if not downright loathsome. Passages (for example) such as:

Around 3 p.m. the neighbors across the street started blasting music I commonly refer to as ‘fornication tunes’. I deem music by the likes of Marc Anthony and others of his ilk as such because I strongly suspect the children I see wandering the streets like packs of feral dogs were conceived to it.

Perhaps, as my husband said, “I should have done my research”. I didn’t. Then again, I do not think she did her homework either; how could anyone honestly think a domain like www.newyorkshitty.com is going to have wholesome family-oriented content? Really?

Maybe she thought I was goofing around or bullshitting?

The Dog Shit Queen of Greenpoint does not bullshit. The Dog Shit Queen of Greenpoint adores Charles Bukowski and truly is “creeped out” by children (and the germs they carry). Big time.

I went to Park Slope last weekend. This is the first time I have done so in at least two years. My husband and I were to meet a coworker of his (and his wife) for dinner. The company was pleasant enough to be certain, but I found the Park Slope/South Slope/Whatever-They-Call-It-Nowadays thoroughly horrifying.

Especially “Maggie Moo’s”.

The coconut sorbet was delicious, but I felt nothing but heartfelt pity for the poor people who had to work there. If I was God and had all the perquisites entailed therein, e.g., having say as to where truly evil people like Hitler, Stalin, Rumsfeld, etc., went after they died; I’d relegate them to slinging ice cream at “Maggie Moo’s”. High-intensity lighting, squirming children, neo-liberal parents and all. Forever.

And ever.

Miss Heather

Chalk Drawing Credit: this work is by my superintendent’s daughter. She is a very sweet girl with loads of “art star” potential. She (obviously) loves the NYPD, but does not like “Elsa” (sic?).