Greenpoint
Lorven Pharmacy
Culture on the Cheap
There’s no place like home!
A few weeks ago I did something I rarely, if ever, do: drop $60.00 for a pair of shoes. The above shoes. When I saw them at the Mini minimarket I was smitten. How often does one find red FLOCKED flats, much less red flocked flats THAT SMELL LIKE FRUIT. I shit you not, they do. After wearing them my feet smell like The Copa Cabana. Not that I’m into sniffing feet (my own or anyone else’s), mind you.
Which brings me to a recent dialogue I had with one of my readers, “jukeboxgraduate”. She writes:
Ah, Miss Heather. Clearly you do not live close enough to Franklin St. to remember the hell that was the YEAR AND A HALF of its destruction, rebuild, destruction, rebuild, etc. I remember jackhammers outside my window – repeatedly – at 6am. I remember flaming man holes (no, really, actual man holes in the street – me calling 911 because everyone outside just seemed to be standing there staring at it).
To wit I emailed her back:
…I chuckled at your memories of exploding man holes and the utter hell that was Franklin Street. Remember when they had a rash of muggings there a year or two ago? I do. It was around that time my husband and I had the pleasure of walking by some young toughs smoking crack around a discarded stove… (Ah, those were the days!)
Damn, I miss those flaming man holes. Nowadays if I want to experience that kind of thing I have to consume large amounts of tofu— but somehow it just isn’t the same. Yes indeedy, to quote Archie and Edith Bunker, those were the days. The days when Franklin Street was a special place teeming with very special people. I’m going to click together my tooty fruity red ruby slippers, go back in time and tell you about one such special person…
It was a sultry summer night in Greenpoint. On a lark, my buddy Rachael and I went to the G Lounge. (This bar is long gone, Van Gogh’s Radio has since taken its place. —Ed. Note) After we arrived we noticed our friend Jez was there, so we joined her. Next to her was this tall lanky dude. The three of us struck up a conversation with him.
Or should I say two of us conversed with him? For reasons I do not recall this guy pissed Jez off and the two commenced having a shouting match. Knowing that Jez can be a bit of a hot head, Rachael and I laughed it off. We made no effort whatsoever to suppress our amusement at her scathing bon mots. This act of insouciance on our part was the final straw; she stomped out of the bar, leaving us alone with our new friend. We explained to Michael that he should not to take anything Jez said personally. She’s a very sweet— but very opinionated gal— who clearly needed to blow off some steam.
After making peace, Mike left the bar. Rachael and I, no longer having a source of entertainment, left as well. We bumped into Mike a few doors down. He was with two young Polish toughs drinking Johnny Walker Red straight out of the bottle. Demonstrating true Greenpoint hospitality, they offered us a swig. Rachael accepted, I declined.
Having broken bread, Mike started to open up. A LOT. He wanted to know if Rachael was married. Rachael answered to the affirmative. He was visibly crushed by this and we took pity on him. Enough so to acquiesce to a strange, but other harmless request: to suck one of our big toes. Yup, Mr. Mike was a foot man.
Although this is not my thing, my “inner fucker” was dying to know if this dude would actually do it. And by “it” I mean stick my dirty, unwashed toe in his mouth. Right there on the street. My more sensible side figured his mouth was probably pretty clean after swigging that high-octane hooch. I mean, think about it: I know where my foot has been, but god only knows where his mouth has been. Oh wait, I DO KNOW: feasting upon the finely fettled and festering feet of New York Shitty. *shudder*
Long story made short, he did it. The Polish dudes thought this was the funniest fucking thing they had ever seen (because it is FUCKING FUNNY). As time went on Rachael and I came to learn how truly weird Mike was. Not only was he into feet, but he liked to wear women’s pantyhose (preferably control top) and was entranced by Landmark Forum. The lattermost was what really turned me off. Those people give me the fucking creeps.
Thankfully, Greenpoint gentrification eventually forced Mike to move elsewhere. “Where to?”, you ask?
Where else: QUEENS.
Miss Heather
Anyone need a dog sitter?
I saw this advertisement yesterday at Word Books. If anyone out there needs a dog sitter for his/her not too strong friendly with people and not sick dog, today’s your lucky day. Isabel runs a 100% professional business; she will only sit at your house. So you better damned have cable and keep the refrigerator stocked.
Miss Heather
A little piece of Green Street scenery…
for all you hip urban professionals out there who cannot afford Manhattan digs. Be advised that the developer’s rendering of 110 Green Street does not do justice to the scenic views your $400,000+ will buy. So in the interest of making an informed decision, I want to share a little slice of Green Street point life I spied yesterday afternoon with you.
I shit you not, this dude was asleep (passed out?) as the pile driver (seen behind the tree in the above photo) continued its aural assault on everyone who has the misfortune of living within earshot of it. Which (from what I can tell) is pretty much anywhere within a 3-4 block radius, myself included. All you homebuyers better take note, as this dude is clearly very serious about getting first whack at this great real estate opportunity.
And oh yeah, be sure to practice safe sex while you wait! 111 Green Street is already feeling the magic, how about you?
Miss Heather
P.S.: For those of you who may wonder why I have a ‘thing’ for 110 Green, read on. Just over a week ago I told my upstairs neighbor, who I will call Yessenia a (fan-fucking-tabulous) Puerto Rican woman who has resided in my building much longer than myself, about Magic’s— uh— magic. Her question was “So how are the people here going to afford it?”
To wit I said:
They can’t. This 130 unit condominium building is (per the developer) directed towards affluent young families who cannot afford to buy in Manhattan.
Which brings me to this. I knocked around this site (albeit lackadaisically) and no mention of 110 Green was to be found. I think revitalizing ‘inner cities’ and ‘under-served communities’ is a good cause. The fly in my proverbial ointment is though Greenpoint may be ‘under-served’ it is NOT ‘inner-city’— or to use the common moniker nowadays: ‘blighted’.
The crimes committed against my (otherwise very vibrant) community are countless and I doubt the culprits (READ: Exxon-Mobil, our elected officials, et. al.) will ever be held accountable. A 130 unit ‘luxury’ condominium building on Green Street is not going to change this. Much less encourage ‘diversity’. “Yessenia” put it perfectly when she told me the following Puerto Rican proverb:
The last one at the table is the first one to eat.
Earvin “Magic” Johnson’s financing ‘urban renewal’ in Greenpoint is facilitating (to bastardize Clarence Thomas) minority removal.
Bon appetit, Magic!
Out of state, Out of mind
Filed under: Area 51
Unlike my buddy Bob, I actually enjoy reading the comments posted on Curbed. This is probably because I make it a point to troll the depths of human stupidity, arrogance and avarice whenever the time affords itself. By far my favorite type of comment to be found there is of the (ubiquitous) “if you don’t like it, go back to hell where you came from” variety.
There is something grimly ironic about living in the city of immigrants and being told if you are not from Brooklyn you are not entitled to any say regarding events happening there. It makes me wish I could teleport these assholes to 1855 when ONE THIRD of the ENTIRE FUCKING BOROUGH was Irish born. I’d love to see how one of my Celtic homeboys would respond to such a crass and nativist statement, although two words do immediately come to mind: WHOOP ASS (or BEAT DOWN— take your pick).
My usual response to being told to go home is this: I AM HOME. Greenpoint is my home. Has been for some time. Although inconceivable to many, I cannot honestly imagine living anywhere else. I love it here and am genuinely worried about the events that are (sadly) reshaping this ‘hood for generations to come. Being awakened every morning by a pile driver doesn’t help much either.
That said, I was recently in the position of considering what it would be like to live somewhere else. This is because some real estate snake oil salesman (please excuse the previous redundancy) SOMEHOW got my husband’s contact information and had the temerity to mail us an offer (he thought) we couldn’t refuse…
Dear Friend,
Ocala’s unique environment is one of the major reasons why people come here to visit, and then live. According to Ocala tourism officials, those of us who live in Ocala have a number of special benefits. All the things that make our wonderful state so attractive to millions of visitors from all over the world are right here in our own backyard.
That statement is no more true about Ocala/Marion county than almost any other place in the state. Our own backyard includes Silver Springs-Nature’s Theme Park. The Ocala National Forest, the rolling green fields of horse farms, historic districts and city streets canopied by 100 year old trees, outstanding golf courses, friendly communities, crystal clear rivers and fresh water springs. Also, the sub-tropical climate makes Marion County a vacation land year round. Little wonder that residents spend as much times as possible outdoors.
Much of the region’s natural beauty remains unspoiled, and the residents enjoy a quality of life that has little equal. Here the pace of life is moderated by the tranquility of the setting. With nearly perfect weather year-round, the outdoors offers an endless panorama of natural beauty, historic landmarks, and both natural and man-made recreational activities.
The Ocala/Marion County area won national distinction when Ocala was named an “All American City” by the National Civic League, and the area was named fifth most desirable place to live by Money Magazine. Ocala offers virtually every shopping convenience with major malls and national known stores and restaurants. Yet the city is comfortable sized and easy to get around in, having maintained much of its historic charm.
In conclusion, in Ocala/Marion County there is no state taxes. This is where you can get affordable housing starting at $138,500 with little or no money out of your pocket if you qualify. Whether you are interested making Ocala/Marion County your home or a place to invest, please do not hesitate to call me now. Cell: 555-1212 or call (name excised), (name excised) or (name excised) @ 555-1313.
Please share this information-Its a great place for business.
Respectfully,
(name excised)
The first thought that crossed my mind upon reading the above ‘teaser’ was “Where the hell is Ocala, Florida?” After a little ‘Googling’, the second one was “Why the hell would I want to move there?!?” I am guessing the logic here (if there us any) is that if my husband and I pay so much money in rent to live in nasty old Greenpoint, we would be absolutely delighted to have very our own piece of the American (D)ream in Florida.
If this was the assumption, it was a faulty one; I hate Florida. The reasons are WAY too numerous to go into on this post, but the 2004 2000 Presidential Election is one of them. What’s more, I FUCKING DESPISE tract homes. The same goes for shoddy grammar. But let’s get back to my new dream home…
There’s something mildly disquieting about naming a line of tract homes after a water filtration system. Perhaps they seek to preserve my precious bodily fluids (so they can extract them later in lieu of a ginormous balloon payment)? Then again, maybe I am being too harsh? So let’s learn a little bit more about the paradise that is Ocala, Florida.
Per this site Ocala sports:
- …tornado activity is slightly above Florida state average. It is 60% greater than the overall U.S. average. (No wonder they have so many ‘outdoor activities’ down there. —Ed. Note.)
- 297 registered sex offenders (against an overall population of ~46,000). That’s kind of scary, but don’t worry…
- when my turn comes I can take solace in the fact that my attacker will probably be a married white male:
- 69% of the population is white
- 48% of the population is married
- Whew! I feel A LOT better— how about you? It gives me peace of mind to know that my odds are 1:167 for bumping into a registered sex offender when I go to the Super Walmart to buy my Ho-Hos, Pall Malls and econo-packs of YooHoo. As long as I don’t have expose my lily white soul to ‘dem godless homos (which constitute a whopping .5% of the population), I’m satisfied. (And I’m certain the only reason these sodomites are left is because
theyGOD ran out of kindling.) - My career prospects (as a female) include:
- Preschool, kindergarten, elementary and middle school teachers (6%)
- Secretaries and administrative assistants (6%)
- Other office and administrative support workers including supervisors (5%)
- Registered nurses (4%)
- Cashiers (4%)
- Other sales and related workers including supervisors (4%)
Wow, this is an awful lot of of material for my wee widdle (underpaid wiper of other peoples’ bottoms) brain to process! Maybe a checklist would help…
…and Greenpoint wins by a NOSE!
Miss Heather
Brooklyn Blogfest
Filed under: Area 51
I came across the above item yesterday via The Gowanus Lounge. My curiosity aroused, I read more about this event on their web site and, after some careful consideration, decided to check this thing out. “Miss Heather… going to Park Slope?!?“, you exclaim? Well, the following dialogue between my husband and I should lend a little insight as to what the deciding factor was for this momentous decision.
Me: Dude, the sponsor of this event is a tequila maker. They’re serving margaritas at this shindig.
Husband: So when is it?
Me: I don’t know. I just RSVP-ed for it.
So there have you. Miss Heather may dislike the ‘Slope, but I also believe Greenpoint needs to represent. And being the fine-ass Dog Shit Queen I am, it is my responsibility to do the representing the best way I know how by:
- swilling free booze and
- acting like a drunken asshole the entire ride home (on the G train) afterwards.
Miss Heather
Interesting Email
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
I take pride in the fact that when my readers find a pile of dog shit, they think of me. What’s more, the following email leads me to believe that public nuisances in general are becoming my calling card. Read on and you’ll see what I mean. Karolyn writes:
Hey. I’ve been lurking your site for awhile and woke up thinking about you this morning. (! —Ed. Note) Don’t be scared, it was largely due to the construction thumping that’s shaking my building a block away. I call the department of buildings nearly every day to register a complaint.
Also, my indoor cat’s developed kidney stones twice in the past 6 months and I’m wondering if you’ve had any problems with your pets. Until October, she was in perfect health and now I’m mopping up bloody drops of urine in our bathtub. The vet said it could be atmospheric (This is really disturbing, thoughts anyone? — Ed. Note) and I’m more than willing to believe it has something to do with all of this stuff going on in the neighborhood.
Happy thumping.
Karolyn
I’m going to be a bit presumptuous here and assume that Karolyn woke up (again) today with Miss Heather on her mind. At 7:20 a.m. to be exact, as that is when they decided to fire up the pile driver this morning. I feel like Charleton Heston’s character in the movie Ben Hur as I write this tome. You know, the scene where he (Ben Hur) is in steerage rowing the boat while some shirtless dude beats a drum.
What’s that I hear? Ohhhh, it is the sound of Magic telling me to speed it up. Gotta run now! Ramming speed, everybody!
Miss Heather
Rage Against the Machine
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
Today was the first day of my husband’s vacation. The sun was out, there was a nice breeze and the temperature was nice and comfy. When the weather is this nice I usually open all the windows so as to air out a winter’s worth of accumulated stink from the apartment. Usually. You see, this was not really an option today because Magic Johnson’s crew saw fit to fire up ye olde pile driver at SEVEN FUCKING FORTY in the morning and commenced to merrily pound away until 3:00 p.m. in the afternoon.
Having hit my saturation point (much earlier), at 1:30 I crawled out onto the fire escape and gave Magic’s posse the one finger salute. This was (by my own admission) a pretty futile and immature gesture. However, it was a significant improvement from telling my husband that I wished we had a rifle because I could have gotten off a clear shot and take out the foreman.
Good times.
Anyhoo, I have selected a special tidbit of Greenpoint history to share with you this week. It doesn’t have anything to do with Magic Johnson, but it does involve an act of defiance in the face of a certain, crushing defeat. Without further ado, I give you this police blotter item from the August 15, 1862 edition of the Brooklyn Daily Eagle entitled “Alleged Secessionists Arrested”:
Officer Read of the 47th precinct this morning arrested a ship carpenter named Thomas Bolan, employed at the Continental ship yard at Greenpoint in the construction of the new “Monitor”, on a charge of treason. It is alleged that the accused has been in the habit of expressing himelf rather too freely to his companions in the yard in favor of the secession cause. Among other things, it is charged that he recently said that “he hoped that Jeff Davis would succeed in annihilating the Northern Army because he (Jeff Davis) was an honest man while Lincoln was nothing but a traitor.” He was sent before Provost Marshall for examination.
Although I do not agree with Mr. Bolan’s politics, I have to admire his chutzpah. Talk about balls. Homeboy probably needed a wheelbarrow to haul those bad boys around!
Miss Heather
Crotchling Caper: Take Back the Night
Filed under: Area 51
Or (to be semantically correct): mothers who bear fruit from being fucked.
My husband and I found this delightfully misanthropic bit ‘o’ vandalism Saturday night on the Brooklyn bound platform of the G at Metropolitan Avenue. After working overtime two days in a row I was beyond being tired; I was fucking exhausted. But mere fatigue was not about to keep me from attending my (insanely talented and very sweet) buddy Mark’s opening at Gitana Rosa this particular evening and having dinner with a(nother) friend afterward. Unfortunately my dining experience was blighted by:
- my husband throwing a tantrum because his cocktail was not up to his satisfaction and (ironically enough)…
- my having the misfortune of sitting next to a(nother) screaming baby.
To the parents’ credit, they did take the child outside to quiet him (in hindsight, perhaps I should have done the same thing with mine?). But I cannot help wondering why a baby should be at Black Betty at 8:30-9:30 ON A SATURDAY NIGHT in the first place. Seriously.
Unlike most people I actually enjoy my job. A lot. But it can be a very physically and mentally demanding one on occasion. This was the case yesterday and I did not appreciate spending my (long anticipated and much needed) ‘down time’ listening to some crotchling scream like banshee. I shit you not, at one point that little bastard’s bellowing made my ears ring.
Bearing the previous in mind, I would like to propose a revised “Take Back the Night” campaign. One whose purpose is not to deter sexual offenders (though this is very laudable and necessary thing), but rather, to retake the evening on behalf of the big kids, e.g.; you must be this tall to ride this ride, snot-monger! And if all you ‘hip’ parents out there don’t like it, too fucking bad! You should have thought about that before you decided to unleash your little busted rubbers on the rest of us (who would just as well not have them).
The way I see it, being a disruptive noisy fuck on a Saturday night is the one (and perhaps only) solace we adults have. This is not just our prerogative, it is OUR RIGHT— and I am not about to let some simpering little shit partake of it prematurely. Little Cooper or Kaitlin will have to wait until they are 21— and their (grand)parents buy them their own goddamn condos— before their entitled caterwauls can/will reach my (hopefully deaf) ears. If I’m not deaf by then I’ll just drink myself into a stupor so as to render the sob stories about some McCarren Park Princess’s mommy forcing her to buy a new couch (to match her one million dollar condo) incomprehensible.
In the meantime I have made it a point to channel my assholic behavior at venues that encourage (or don’t discourage) the presence of screaming little houseapes. This isn’t a threat; it’s a promise. After carefully cultivating 30-odd years of bottled-up rage, I have near endless supply of sordid grist for my mill. Just ask one of my fellow diners at Cafe Mexicano II about the time I feigned crying and wailed:
I lost my virginity to this song!
…when the management (unwisely) chose to play “Rosanna” by Toto one Friday night*. You could hear a pin drop after I dropped that turd— but what really creeped them out was my husband laughing his ass off immediately afterwards. Go figure.
Miss Heather
*This is not true, by the way. Although my personal life is my own business, I will point out that if this had happened I would have been in elementary school at the time— and that kind of shit doesn’t fly where I grew up: Texas. We always left that kind of sick shit to our neighbors to the east (READ: the ‘deep south’).
Happy Birthday, Gowanus Lounge!
The above image is how I started my morning today. After two days of getting little-to-no sleep (because my cat Bodhi is being a SHIT), I woke up today refreshed, energized and— dare I say it— MOTIVATED. The lattermost is a good thing given I have to go work in an hour.
Anyhoo, I got a cup of coffee, trudged into the living room and, not knowing what to write, sauntered over to The Gowanus Lounge to see what’s shaking. This is where I learned that the Gowanus Canal may be lethal to whales, but the Coney Island Whitefish population is thriving.
Unlike most people who would say Ewwww and scroll down to the next story, I laughed my ass off and thought to myself:
Now THAT’S journalism!
If this is a taste of what the second year of GL holds, I can hardly wait to see what comes next. My buddy Bob is entering some (not so) virgin territory that I (The Dog Shit Queen of Greenpoint) enjoy savoring over my morning coffee. I always considered him to be the Pontiff of Pollution, but I may have to rethink this title and start calling him the Coney Island Whitefish King instead.
The way I see it, the presence of discarded rubbers is a good thing because it indicates that the local population might actually be practicing safe sex. Mazel tov! Regrettably, the same cannot be said of my homeboys (and girls) up here in Greenpoint.
The aquatic life in Gowanus may be all but gone, but on Diamond Street the crabs are faring quite well, thank you very much!
Miss Heather
P.S.: Maybe the reason behind the recent Coney Island Whitefish migration (to Gowanus) is that Thor Equities evicted them? Sure, I could have made a joke about rubbers and “gag orders”, but that would have been too damned easy.
(Condom photo credit: The Brooklyn Paper)
110 Green Street Litigation Update
Filed under: Area 51
Per Larry Schwab, the court hearing mentioned in this post has been postponed to May 18th.
This doesn’t mean, however, that those of us who are (already) sick of this project can’t make our discontentment known in the meantime. As it happens, Magic Johnson will be speaking at Medgar Evans College tonight. The invite reads:
Join me in Brooklyn, together we can make a difference.
Certainly I am not the only person who finds the above statement darkly amusing (and very tempting). I think someone should go down there and give him a big ol’ Greenpoint welcome! And why not stay for the free food and drinks afterwards? Freeloading (and shit throwing) is our god-given way of life, after all.
Miss Heather
NYS Flickr Pool
