Greenpoint
Lorven Pharmacy
Culture on the Cheap
Real Dogs and Killer Frogs
Filed under: Bushwick
As I indicated in the previous post, the husband and I decided the luxury two family homes at Gates and Wilson Avenue were simply not for us. Being the fineass dog shit queen I am, mere Fedders boxes will simply not do: they must be Friedrich. Or— as I learned shortly thereafter, I should quit quibbling about boxes altogether and just move into one.
This one. Unlike its counterpart down the street, this palatial estate is appointed with a number of thoughtful little extras that make a house a home.
It has a knife wielding frog…
and a phat stereo system protected by razor wire and the Virgin Mary. But what’s the point of savoring some thumping beats on a brisk February afternoon if you don’t have a place to rest your weary bones and relax, you ask? Say no more!
It even comes with its own potty chair! Not only can you kick it octogenarian style, but when nature calls you can put her on hold. Indefinitely. Fuck Fresh Direct refrigerators and concierges— both are overrated anyway— THIS is what I call added value!
Miss Heather
They’re #1 At Building #2
Recently the Mister and I argued until the wee hours of the morning as to whether we should renew our (rent-stabilized) lease for one year or two. His argument was that the housing market was going to collapse, my argument was as follows:
Do you really want to move all the fucking shit we have in this apartment to another fucking apartment in the hopes of getting a better deal?
While not necessarily eloquent, my logic prevailed. We have a lot of shit. We have a lot of cats. But that doesn’t stop us from checking out all the sweet deals north Brooklyn has to offer of late. Like this gem at the intersection of Gates and Wilson Avenue.
Miss H: This is exquisite! Just look at the fake keystones, cement, exposed electrical meters and Fedders boxes.
Mr. Heather: We’re upwardly mobile, we should hold out for Friedrichs.
Miss H: You’re right, we need to keep up appearances. My parents wouldn’t be caught dead near a Fedders box. This is not the way I want to greet Pa Heather when he finally sees the light and decides New York Shitty is the place to live.
What’s more, I don’t think the outhouse could withstand his depth-charges.
If any of you are looking “high quality housing” on the cheap be sure to call-a-head and learn about this studio apartment just around the corner! They’re #1 at building #2!
Miss Heather
Bluntiquette in Bed-Stuy
Filed under: Bed-Stuy
Since Amy Vanderbilt published her Complete Book of Etiquette in 1952 the world has become a curiously more complicated place. Antiquated or not, I actually possess this book. Not so much for the advice (the contents would be wasted on most people I interface with anyway) but for the illustrations: they were drawn by none other than Andrew Warhol.
Given the oppressive time she lived in, Amy was pretty progressive. She was once quoted as saying:
The modern rule is that every woman should be her own chaperone.
I cannot agree more. It has been my experience that when left alone I find myself in a lot less troublesome situations than when I have a man in tow. But that’s another story.
Being the forward-thinking woman Miss Vanderbilt was, I suspect she would whole-heartedly sanction the following piece of “bluntiquette” I found at 184 Van Buren Street Sunday.
I am a journalist in the field of etiquette. I try to find out what the most genteel people regularly do, what traditions they have discarded, what compromises they have made.
In the spirit of such compromise Bed-Stuy blunt aficionados please dispose of your “reefer cigar leaves” in the appropriate place: in the garbage or on your (own) sidewalk.
Good manners have much to do with the emotions. To make them ring true, one must feel them, not merely exhibit them.
Miss Heather
Amy Vanderbilt Photo Credit: Encyclopedia Brittanica Online via Cooked Books.
What To Do In Ridgewood
Filed under: Area 51
Yesterday the Mister and I planned to take photographs. I wanted to go to Bed-Stuy, he wanted to go somewhere “different”. In the spirit of compromise (and ever since I got married I have been nothing but compromised) I made a proposition:
Let’s go to Ridgewood and Bushwick.
And that is exactly where we went. Over eight years have elapsed since I have set foot in Ridgewood. I looked at an apartment there. It was very nice— perhaps a little too nice. $1,200 a month rent for such a beautiful and large apartment was indeed VERY tempting, but I couldn’t shake the feeling this neighborhood was simply not for me and I elected to live in Greenpoint instead.
Today, February 11, 2008, with eight plus years of experience under my belt I can tell you, dear readers, why I didn’t move to Ridgewood: it is boring. Really boring. Sure there is nifty architecture and a certain Archie Bunker-esque appeal to the place, but the endless chain stores and shitty food (How can someone fuck up a grilled cheese sandwich? If your inquiring mind wants to know, go to the diner at Seneca Avenue and Woodbine Street and find out!) left me wanting.
Thankfully I found ample entertainment at the intersection of Gates and Seneca Avenue: let’s look at the barbecued minivan!
Why not watch other people savor the sight (and toxic aroma) of this carcass of excess as well!
This must have been some conflagration.
It even blew out the window of the local check cashing establishment. Wow.
Miss Heather
Greenpoint Photo du Jour: Oakland Street
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
Any and all Greenpointers who want to see a remnant of pre-Robert Moses Garden Spot glory should check out the southwestern intersection of McGuinness Boulevard and Nassau Avenue.
When you reach the Polskie Deli, you need not do anything more than look up. Before McGuinness Boulevard (in all its resplendent glory) came into being, it was a humble street called Oakland.
I have spent much time researching the thoroughfare that was Oakland. Most of what I found involved bar room brawls of one sort or another. But after Mr. Heather and I (working as a team) managed to kill our keyboard with bourbon Friday night (clearly that candy-ass piece of crap couldn’t hold its liquor), I decided this tome from the April 15, 1886 edition of the Brooklyn Daily Eagle was the finest. Enjoy!
Lesson #1: Don’t pick a fight with a prizefighter.
Lesson #2: Especially if you happen to be three sheets to the wind.
You don’t tug on Superman’s cape, you don’t spit into the wind, you don’t tug on the mask of the lone ranger and you don’t mess around with
JimWilly Dacoy.
Miss Heather
Intimation of Gentrification: Troutman Street
Filed under: Bushwick
Living in north Brooklyn I am often confronted with the question as to what constitutes gentrification. More specifically, I ask myself exactly what are the warning signs a neighborhood is poised to shed its rags and earn the kind of respect afforded to localities brandishing bratty babes that publicly piss on trees? It is an excellent question. And I think I found the answer on Troutman Street.
You know your neighborhood is well on its way to becoming an affluenzic breeder Valhalla when the local tagger’s nom de guerre is a childhood behavioral disorder.
Miss Heather
P.S.: I wonder where “Chronic Bed Wetter” bombs the ‘hood? I suppose I should just follow my nose.
Bed-Stuy Photo du Jour: Lafayette Street
Filed under: Bed-Stuy
Last week I shared with you, dear readers, what is in my opinion one of the ugliest and most oppressive “homes” I have ever seen. How the neighbors of this eyesore cope with having to look at this depressing monolith every day is beyond me. But I have a creeping suspicion they might be getting a little help from upstairs.
Or would that be downstairs and down the block? In any case it just goes to show how amazingly convenient a place New York City is. Anything a person could possibly desire can be delivered right to his (or her) doorstep: furniture, groceries and— as the numerous shopping carts in the above photograph attest— souls.
Hallelujah!
Miss Heather
Crosstown Local Cavalcade Volume V: Politics
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
My grandmother always told me there were two things that one never, ever discussed at a party:
- Religion
- Politics
I wholeheartedly agree, especially in regards to the latter. Some people enjoy nothing more than listening to pundits talk District of Columbia shop. If political intrigue was not popular (with a certain set of people, mind you) I doubt there would be so many blogs, web sites and print publications dedicated to the subject. However, when I encounter such subject matter existentialist boredom inevitably follows.
Unless of course it is written on subway posters advertising the movie Rambo. That’s another matter altogether.
While waiting for the Crosstown Local on the Smith – 9th Street platform, I am reminded that the age of Imperialism is, indeed, over.
And the Queens bound platform at Nassau Avenue raises awareness about how the shadow under John Rambo’s nose makes him look like a rather (in)famous 20th century world leader. Cover up the right hand side of his face and see for yourself: the resemblance is uncanny.
Miss Heather
Greenpoint Photo du Jour: McGuinness Boulevard
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
I cannot believe with as many times as I have walked by this mural (on McGuinness Boulevard just north of the BQE) I never noticed that this seemingly cute little bunny was a headhunter. Or maybe he (?) is the Cthulhu bunny and instead of candy this playful little scamp leaves shrunken heads in the baskets of unwitting children? Given the way some children behave nowadays, I can only hope so.
This horrific little hare is yet more proof that the neighborhood we call Greenpoint yields its treasure in the most unexpected of places: in plain sight.
Miss Heather
Greenpoint Photo du Jour: Kingsland Avenue
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
One thing I love about Brooklyn is each neighborhood has its own unique take on what constitutes a cozy and inviting home. For example:
In Bushwick polychromatic statuary is the way to go.
Bedford-Stuyvesant prefers to festoon their fences with flamingos.
And in Greenpoint nothing says “welcome home” like a Jason mask standing watch over your stoop. Yes sir, we Greenpointers love us some homicidal maniacs! Fake flowers, cutesy woodland creatures and colorful plumage are for wimps.
In fact, we like Jason much we are not content with him merely gracing our homes, we also take him on the road! So much for Jesus. Any Greenpointer worth his (or her) salt knows the son of god cannot protect you from the utter lunacy that is the Greenpoint motorist. In the Garden Spot Jason is our co-pilot.
Miss Heather
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