Greenpoint
Lorven Pharmacy
Culture on the Cheap
Shitfest 2006
The area I covered today is highlighted below. I omitted Eagle Street (between Manhattan Avenue and Franklin Street) because it has cleaned up. A lot.
What started as a mission to gather data for a supplemental entry for one Crap Map ended up generating (more than) enough material for another one. I discovered FORTY ONE distinct and identifiable piles of dog shit. This is a conservative figure. I nixed the turds that were too degraded to photograph or were more likely to be of feline origin.
Here is a pie chart that gives a statistical breakdown as to where I found all this dog shit.
Without further ado, I present today’s Crap Map.
Aggregate Crap Map
I am proud to present a crap map featuring all the dog shit I have documented in Greenpoint from 7/12/06 through 8/7/06.
Enjoy!
I’m in a fightin’ fuckin’ mood
Filed under: (s)Hit Parade, Area 51, Crap Map, Dog Shit, Dung of the Day, Greenpoint Magic
I didn’t wake up in a bad mood this morning, but I sure as hell am in one nasty as fuck mood now. The first day of decent-ish weather to be had in about a week— ruined. Courtesy of the MTA jackhammering up the street…
this dude doing god-only-knows what…
while these asshats watched.
Foolishly, I opened up the windows of my apartment to get some fresh air (HA!)— and shortly thereafter was assaulted by a noise that sounded like 1,000 chalkboards being scratched by Freddy Krueger amplified through Satan’s very own asshole (with Pete Townsend controlling the volume).
The melee that followed was not unlike something from Mutual of Omaha’s Animal Kingdom: a herd three very freaked-out cats bolted out of the living room en masse to get away from the noise. One of them saw fit to molest one of our female cats in order to make his displeasure (via displacement) known. I close the window and then spend five minutes placating everyone. Except myself.
After experimenting with different music* (to conceal the noise), I finally gave up and went for a walk. This walk netted me (ample) content for my very first Greenpoint crap map and a second-hand encounter with the very kind of person I do not need to be exposed to when I am in a mood: a clueless hipster chick wasting a cashier’s time (and as a consequence, my own, as I had to wait behind her in line).
Clueless Hipster Chick (to clerk): Can I park my bike in here?
Clerk: Uh. Sure.
CHC: Do you have, like small clothes for a dollar? (Behind her is a rack of children’s clothing in plain view.)
Clerk: (?)
CHC: Like doll clothes, you know, cheap?
Clerk: Maybe, try that bin over there.
This was the bin I happened to be going through. As a result, now I had a smelly-ass chick hovering behind me, looking over my shoulder. I went to the back of the store. Eventually I got bored and brought my selections to the register only to discover… she’s still there!
CHC: How much for this?
Clerk: (Utters a price)
CHC: What about this?
Clerk: (Utters another price)
CHC: Can I like, get a discount, if I buy a lot of stuff?
Clerk: (Utters an answer)
CHC: What about this wig?
(Aside: buying, much less wearing, an old wig is gross. Then again, it was probably cleaner than her hair. It was oily and matted. Nasty.)
Clerk: $10.00 for everything.
CHC: Do you take credit cards?
Me (thinking to myself): So help me god I am going to throttle this woman!
After several minutes of negotiation and inanity, the bitch pulls out a wad of bills and pays in cash. I get my turn.
Me: one picture frame (priced at $4.00) and one set of buttons (priced at $1.00)
Clerk: $2.00
CHC: (Throws one nasty look my direction.)
I have worked in public service.
I have worked in sales.
I have also worked in hospitality.
My resume is a patch-work quilt with one common theme: interfacing with the public. There is nothing that a public servant/salesperson/PR hack hates more than some idiot wasting his/her time by drifting into a stream-of-consciousness line (?) of questioning. ESPECIALLY if the transparent (if illucid) motivation underlying it is chiseling away at the price of something.
CHC (and her brethren) are blissfully unaware of the fact that “X” number of people (many being idiots, just like herself) are in line behind her. In my experience, this is the type of person also operates under the (erroneous) assumption that the clerk enjoys conversing with him/her— or finds him/her interesting. We don’t. We are paid to expedite business and be nice— and when the day is over, we stick pins in our ‘troublesome customer’ dolls with extreme prejudice.
Hopefully this squeaky wheel learned that she will not get the grease by being an annoying twit: she’ll get the shaft instead. The quiet, patient, non-haggling customer (with daggers in her eyes) is the one who gets the discounts. While neither asking for nor expecting them, I might add.
Eventually I came home. Upon arrival, I beheld the latest incarnation of our apartment buzzer ‘system’…
I’m speechless. Fucking speechless. When I see shit like this (and in my building/’hood I see it with disquieting regularity) I ask myself: at what point does the exertion required (X) to cover up/avoid doing a task (Y) prove to be more effort than actually hiring a professional to fix the problem (Z)?
When (in New York City apartment physics) does X-Y (prove to be) >/= Z? If Stephen Hawking is still asking/fielding questions on Yahoo, I’m gonna ask him.
Otherwise, if this cutesy arrangement proves to facilitate theft (of anything I happen to have delivered to my apartment), I will invoke a force neither Mr. Hawking nor god himself would dare reckon with: the United States Postal Service.
*ELO, Public Enemy, Pearl Jam**, Guns-n-Roses (which worked)
**To their credit, “Go” (from the album Vs.) came very, very close.
Greenpoint Cinderella
Not too long ago I was a real estate agent. The neighborhoods/areas I specialized in were Chelsea, the East Village/LES, and North Brooklyn. Despite this, I would occasionally get the odd client interested in the Upper East Side. If pressed to give one common denominator to be found among all these folk, I would say it is this: I grew to despise damn near every single one of them.
More often than not, these apartment-seekers were single women, mid-30’s at the very oldest, holding low-to-middle level admin jobs with commensurate pay (READ: chump change). Lest you harbor any notion that I look down upon women (or anyone else for that matter) who work(s) in administration, I do not. I have held numerous administrative positions myself; I understand how hard (and thankless) the work is and how difficult it is to make ends meet with a $35,000/year salary (if that) at your disposal. Do I ever…
For this reason it is quite remarkable that the intransigence, haughtiness, and overall inability to face facts (e.g., apartments on the Upper East Side can be had on your budget, but they are going to be east of 2nd Avenue) these women had was enough to completely alienate me. Much less, sufficient to foster abject hatred from me.
To the best of my understanding, these woman all wanted to live in a safe neighborhood and their concept of a “safe neighborhood” was the Upper East Side. Faulty logic, but comprehensible— even to me. That said, there are numerous “safe” neighborhoods to be found in New York City (some are even in Manhattan), but when I tossed out these possibilities, my ‘clients’ recoiled in a histrionic disgust rarely found outside B-grade horror movies.
It didn’t take too (terribly) long for me to “catch on” to what these women were really looking for (consciously or unconsciously): prestige. It didn’t matter if the apartment was a total shithole, they wanted to hob-nob with the elite. The thought clearly had never crossed their collective minds that the elite may not want to hob-nob with them, but I digress…
Yesterday I had the pleasure of vulgarizing the Upper East Side with my presence. I rarely go past the East River, much less north of 40th Street, if I can help it. But when I do it is always for a damn compelling reason. The reason du jour yesterday was a job interview. The chamber of horrors I beheld strolling the streets of mid-60’s east-side Manhattan made me recoil and ask myself: why in would anyone want to live here? I saw:
- A heavily pregnant woman clad in yoga pants and a tank top chattering away on her cellphone while smoking a cigarette.
- (Too many) women (old enough to be my mother at least) with faces pulled tighter than Donald Rumsfeld’s asshole. You could bounce a quarter off of ’em for chrissakes!
- Filipino nannies pushing humvee-sized strollers teeming with frankenkids.
- The remains of Dr. Bartha’s abode…
DAMNNNNN! Call me plebian, but I don’t want to live in a neighborhood where people blow-up shit. Even if I am only steps away Hermes or Chanel. I bet the local neighborhood association loves Mr. Bartha. Sarcasm aside, I am sure realtors do: he pulled a Guttman (albeit due to mental illness, not greed) and came damn close to doubling the value of property by doing so. Kudos to Bartha— but I would prefer to keep an arm’s length or more (the East River and straight-jacket) away from him. - Dog shit. Plenty of it. Guess what? Upper East Side designer doggie doo stinks as bad (if not worse than) dog shit to be found in the outer boroughs or *gasp* New Jersey.
Boy was I happy to get my K-Fedtastic-ass* self back to the G-Point. Big Time. I got on the E train at 51st Street with a renewed sense of purpose: get me the fuck out out of here. When I arrived at Court Square, my fairy (angel dust) Godmother was there to secure my passage to the home of Queens (Kings County, DUH).
My fairy Godmother was exquisite. Beyond description (and too dangerous to hazard photographing)— but I will try, nonetheless…
She was about 5’6″, 130 pounds, and of African-American descent. She was clad in a dress (black) that was about 2 inches too long to qualify as lingerie, footless fishnet hose (black), and 4 inch pumps (black). Her person was impeccably groomed and ‘high on life’ or something else. Who knows?
What I do know is that she did a dance while giggling inanely (people walked around her) and the G train appeared. (Undoubtedly conjured from seven sewer rats, regurgitated vodka, and four empty tins of pickled herring in mustard.) And when it did, my Godmother saw fit to “hail” the mighty G train like a cab— as if to say “take my downtrodden sister” home. And it did. I love her.
*One who prospers at the benefit of an another, be it actual or perceived.
A Crap Map is Born!
Unless you have been living under a rock (perhaps one volleyed from 34 E. 62nd Street), I’m sure you’ve heard about this guy. I am sure I will regret what I am about to write, but I’m going to write it anyway…
I do not condone blowing up buildings; I really feel for those who lost their homes or were injured due to Mr. Bartha’s hijinks. That said, the tale does say something about tenacity and follow-through: here’s a man who said he was going to destroy his house (so as not to fork over it in a divorce settlement) and he actually did it. In Texas there is a saying: Don’t cut checks with your mouth that you ass can’t cash. He cut and cashed his own “check”. That takes balls. Texas-sized balls.
I’ll forgive the suicide angle. Nobody’s perfect (he’s a doctor, not a demolition expert after all). Besides, Mr. Bartha might want to live after doubling the value of his property. I for one hope some of that money goes towards getting the psychiatrist he so clearly needs.
On that note (tenacity and follow-through), I am proud to offer you the following “Test” Crap Map: Dog Shit on Kent Street. It isn’t a Google Map, but it will do until I (or more likely, my husband the “IT” professional) fix a few very vexatious problems. Admittedly this is long overdue, but upgrades on this blog get done the same way anything in my apartment gets repaired: slow, sloppy, and not up to code.
More to follow…
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