Greenpoint
Lorven Pharmacy
Culture on the Cheap
Box Lunch on Bedford Avenue
Lest the promise of a hot dog and a hand job are not sufficient enticements to motivate you Manhattanites to cross the East River, today I present to you the Bedford Avenue Bagel!
I came across this delectable and delicious item at the intersection North 3rd Street and (DUH) Bedford Avenue. Initially I thought this baked good was cradled in a B-cup. Upon further inspection I deduced it wasn’t. Silly me.
Bagel, lox and fanny floss: it’s what’s for lunch.
A box lunch, that is.
Miss Heather
The Greenpoint Hotel, Part I
This is the Greenpoint Hotel. It is located at 1109 Manhattan Avenue. My buddy over at 11222 has written about it. Recently she and talked about it. Follows is one of the tales I told her.
The year was 2002. The season was spring. I was engaged in a task most people who lost their jobs (due to 9/11) did: running a load of laundry on a Tuesday morning. My neighbor Cat was with me. Bored with Telemundo, we directed our respective thousand mile stares out the window and onto Manhattan Avenue. Our bubble of ennui was quickly and summarily popped by all manner and variety of police officers— replete with meter maids driving glorified golf carts— storming the hotel next door. We looked at each other and said:
Holy shit!
I harbor a long-held fascination for this establishment. Any abject aspect of the human condition my mother attempted to protect me from as a child is pretty much a source of fascination for me (as an CONSENTING adult, mind you) nowadays, e.g;
- criminal activity
- sexual deviancy
- all around anti-social behavior
and the Greenpoint Hotel delivers. In spades. I know because I have been researching this place for some time.
This is the “northwest wing” of the Greenpoint Hotel. This plot of land (on Clay Street) once belonged to the Meserole family. It was auctioned by Jeremiah V. Meserole in 1881. Ten years later his son Darwin was brought up on murder charges for an adulterous love affair gone bad. Just like the patricians who owned it before, this parcel of land quickly descended into ill repute.
Before it was the Greenpoint Hotel it was known as the Edward’s Hotel. Before it was known as the Edward’s Hotel it was known as the International Traveler’s Hotel. I think. It doesn’t really matter because regardless of the name, this place has always been a dump. As you will learn.
Which brings me to the first of three installments of Greenpoint crime blotter goodness about this establishment. The inaugural item hails from the January 1, 1899 edition of the New York Times.
Manhattan Avenue was once known as Union Avenue— after the union of American states.
Greenpoint Avenue was once known as Lincoln Street— after Honest Abe.
The Monitor was built in Greenpoint just off of what is now known as Quay Street— hence why there is a street bearing the name “Monitor” here.
Greenpointers are good Americans. Sure, one of us tried to rob a person using chloroform, but at least he was patriotic about it. Mr. Rohr might have been the first person to commit a crime while waving the American flag, but he was/is hardly the last. Thirty five cents is child’s play compared to the shit out current regime has perpetrated. The only difference is Rohr found his way into a jail cell: his most recent criminal protégés probably won’t.
Miss Heather
Fun with Craigslist, Part I
Yesterday I found myself taking a trip down memory lane. On Monday I asked the proprietor of The Gowanus Lounge if I could guest-author his weekly “Missed Connections” feature for the next couple of weeks. He agreed to let me do so, but admonished me that some of the stuff to be found there is pretty foul. I assured him that I was already quite prepared for the utter depravity that would be laid before me because a former hobby of mine (at my last full-time job) was putting up prank ads on this very site. A number of them made it to the “Best of” page too.
Let’s take one of my finer opuses, shall we? It is entitled “Wanted: Total Shitbag“:
Good Afternoon Gents,
In four days my boyfriend (who lives halfway across the country) will be moving in with me. He is a very nice person, too, if I say so myself.
Perhaps it’s cold feet or the jitters, but somehow I feel like part of my life has slipped me by. This is where YOU come in: I need a total scum-sucking piece of s*** to remind me how good I have it. Exercise the endless resources of your imagination and your God-given talents. In the interest of getting the ball rolling I will throw out the following suggestions:
1. I am 32, so obviously I need a man who is AT LEAST in his mid-40s. I am way too long in the tooth for anything less. If you happen to be around 32 years of age and male, be sure to remind me of this. Constantly.
2. Creepy men who like petite women with red hair and/or small chests: I have both. (WOOHOO!)
3. Creepy men who DO NOT like petite women with red hair and/or small breasts. Remind me of this continuously— especially when a taller, choicer, Maxim-esque surgically-altered morsel walks by. *Bonus points* if you yourself are an overweight sack of pus.
4. Be a lazy sack of s***: I just threw out a roommate 2 months ago that never saw fit to hold down a job or pay his bills. He also smelled like ass, but nonetheless my l’il heart STILL goes pitter pat when I recall scooping up a pair is his skidmarked tighty whities off bathroom floor or paying out $300+ on electricity bills he never paid. (sniffle, sniffle…)
5. I can pretend to have a sister or roommate, if you will pretend to screw her behind my back.
Thank you for your time and consideration. I look forward to hearing from you.
Sincerely,
Miss Guided
It may not surprise some of you, but I got a lot of responses to this ad. Approximately 50 if my memory serves me correctly. Who knew there were so many shitbags in New York Shitty— much less on Craigslist?
Follows is the first installment of my favorite respondents. Those of you who harbor a low opinion of the human race please be advised that reading the following material will only provide sound justification for your misanthropy. The previous caveat having been written, let’s see us some shitbags!
A few of them got the joke and responded in kind:
I’m your man except for one small problem. If you talk the way you write I might be laughing my ass off the whole time I’m trying to convince you that your leap into committment is the most perfect move you could make right now. But you should know my laugh is one of the most obnoxious on the planet. I’m in my fifties, I’m married, and I’m cruising “women seeking men” on craigslist. That’s a decent start at shitbagdom, wouldn’t you say? I’m a screenwriter and if you think that’s a cool profession I’ll disabuse you of that notion in a few nanoseconds. I don’t wash my hands after I pee so you can be pretty certain of urine residue when we shake hands. I have endless erotic fantasies about petite women with red hair and small breasts and if you come anywhere near one of those fantasies I can promise you R. Crumb-like bulging eyes and pints of drool plus long disquisitions on how I like to masturbate thinking about petite redheads. Overweight? I’m working on it by downing endless pitchers of beer. Won’t it be helpful to have a slurring drunk talking about sports, lying about the size of his dick, leeringly going on about petite women with small tits (I won’t use the word breasts in front of you). My wife and kids are out of town for the week so I’ll be able to make you sick to your stomach with my suggestion that you and I climb in the sack and I cheat on this wonderful family. Trust me, you won’t be able to trust me for a second and you’ll realize in a flash, call it scumbag satori, that you’ve found the perfect match in Mr. Flying In From Wherever (who I can guarantee you I will dump on at every opportunity trying to prove I’m oh so much better than he is).
I could go on but you’ve got to see this one in person to get the full effect. I’m a royal nightmare to look at. And no I won’t send a pic because if you’re going to convince yourself of Mr. FIFW’s goodness due to my badness I’m at least getting you to pay for a drink or two. Others may claim they can do the job but as I said above, I’m your man. References on demand.
Max (that’s not my real name)
sweetheart. I think you touched my soul. I am in deep eyegazing, sunrise love with you and I need to take you on the date of your life. a romantic walk trough the park just to smell flowers and touch your hair. suddenly, I might stop and get on a knee to touch your bare foot to my heart.
your everlasting prince,
Donald Juaner
Even more of them got the joke— but you know what they say— HOPE SPRINGS ETERNAL:
Now that is genius. Really. curiiousity does not even begin to describe it. I can be all of the above. with some inspiration. i am 37.
Very creative posting. I’m not a shitbag, but since you’re really not looking for one, we should talk. I do like petite redheads.
Others seemed to be just plain confused:
Dear miss guided…OK…not that I want to call myself a piece of shit…but I could not help but to respond to your add. I loved it. Ihave a thing for petite red heads with smalls breasts, so there is the creepy part. I can treat you badly, if you are really looking for that. Just wondering if it was a serious add. Too long in the tooth…u? come on. would love to start a dialog get back.
I don’t get this. Is it a joke? If not, what’s the goal?
I’m not too sure what this guy was thinking, but here it is anyway…
trust me they are all full of crap just trying to get laid I bet all those sissies who responded are all part of that gay army over in Chelsea lolll must be a lot of tough gay boys in this city lollllll
One kindly soul tried to save me from myself (BAD NEWS: It’s too late!)
You really need help…..Your falling off the deep end. If you are having doubts then you need to re-think this. If he cares for you and more importantly YOU care about him then give it a try. Just don`t be too dumb, remember men have needs and if you don`t treat them right they WILL wonder… TRUST ME
Stayed tuned for tomorrow’s exciting (and final) installment where Miss Heather not only learns of an exciting career opportunity, but also receives a bona fide offer for FREE HOUSECLEANING!
I’m just getting warmed up, kids.
JUST.
GETTING.
WARMED.
UP.
Miss Heather
A few thoughts about blogging
As I indicated in the previous post, I called into the Brian Lehrer Show this morning. Since I was not allowed to complete my thoughts about blogging (which extend far beyond gazing upon Brooklyn’s fuzzy gentrifying navel) I am going to post them here.
1. I believe blogs are assuming the role that was once assumed by local (INDEPENDENT) newspapers.
2. If I had to liken the proliferation of blogs (be they neighborhood-based or otherwise) to anything it would be the invention of the printing press. Prior to its invention the Roman Catholic Church was (more or less) the sole distributor/gate keeper of knowledge. With the ability to control what people read (or more importantly what people DON’T read) comes a lot of power. And we all know what absolute power does: it corrupts absolutely.
Shortly after the printing press came into being, Martin Luther quickly saw its potential and exploited it. The end result was a little thing called the Reformation. The ability to disseminate and share information is a very powerful tool; the mainstream media (as “gate keepers”) has begun to realize this and they starting to pay attention to the “blogosphere”. Albeit very, very selectively— which of course, is what happened today*.
I suppose I should be content with getting any air time at all and giving a shout-out to The Gowanus Lounge (which was curiously absent from this forum). But I’m not. Here is a list of blogs I wanted to mention on the air today.
Queens Crap: Sure, this is not a Brooklyn blog, but— and this is a big BUT— it deserves attention. Perhaps it may seem paradoxical to some of you, but I do not envision blogging purely as a Brooklyn endeavor. I suppose being located about 15 minutes from this borough gives me a much broader view of things. My neighborhood (and its “growing pains”) have much more in common with Long Island City or Sunnyside than Park Slope or Brooklyn Heights.
To purely focus on Brooklyn is not only an insult to the hard-working and very dedicated bloggers in the other four boroughs, but it also fosters a (somewhat) false notion that Brooklyn bloggers are a smug, clannish and contented lot of well-to-do “white people”. Once again, race was drug across the floor like a red herring and once again it worked.
Confusing race with “class” is astonishingly myopic and naive. One need not be a minority to be poor— but it helps. Contrary to popular belief, poverty is not an indicator of lack of discipline or personal worth. I speak from experience. Even though I was provided a very comfortable upbringing and excellent education, when I started working my lifestyle radically shifted. Downward.
As the incomparable Dorothy Parker once said:
If you want to know what God thinks of money, just look at the people he gave it to.
Some call me a “gentrifier”. I probably am. But as a person who lives in a rent-stabilized apartment (and does not have the luxury of or ability to buy a condo) in a “hot” neighborhood, I have the presence of mind to know I am in danger of being displaced. Just like my less-affluent (and largely Hispanic) neighbors. Their concerns and mine are one and the same.
Atlantic Yards Report: Norman Oder’s dedication and hard work should not be ignored. While we may not agree on some things, I cannot over-emphasize how important his work is. He deserves to be heard.
Outside.In: They seem to be paying attention to the recent (and ongoing) proliferation of Greenpoint bloggers.
Dave Kenny and Xris Kreussling, of Dope on the Slope and Flatbush Gardener respectively: It is one thing to bemoan the lack of diversity at the Brooklyn Blogfest, it is another to actually try and do something about it. Both of these gentleman were of vital importance in the creation of monthly blogger meet-ups. I mention this because Louise Crawford of Only the Blog Knows Brooklyn seems to be garnering most of the credit. Not only is this a tremendous disservice to both of the previous gentleman, it is downright false. I could not have organized last month’s meet-up without their help.
On that note, I have to say organizing the Greenpoint meet-up was very challenging. One of the obstacles I faced was the perception that this meet-up would be a repeat of the Brooklyn Blogfest. While I can understand that some might find “Smartmom” to be good reading over that first cup of coffee in the morning, the fact of the matter is many people do not. For this reason I made a concerted effort to contact people directly and to a certain degree it worked— although not in the manner I had expected. It was much better.
Not only did a lot of number of new faces show up, but they were very talented ones at that! Many of the attendees operate food-oriented blogs. To name a few of them:
In closing, I’d like to say that I am very excited about September’s meet-up in Bedford-Stuyvesant. My only fear is that today’s episode of the Brian Lehrer Show might have scared off a number of Brooklyn (or Queens) bloggers who would otherwise have been inclined to attend.
Including myself.
This post was brought to you courtesy of one 24 oz. can of Coors. Now back to our regular programming.
Miss Heather
*This is in no way intended to be critical of BushwickBK or Bed-Stuy Blog.
Some of the People Who Live Here
…something has to change…it’s got this really weird neighborhood-y vibe to it, you should see some of the people who live there…
My buddy over at 11222 overheard some Yuppie smeghead on Nassau Avenue utter this into his cellphone recently. I am at a loss, but I find it telling that this asshole thinks the neighborhood should to change so as to meet his (undoubtedly) assholic standards. This man exemplifies a new strain of customer I am seeing at the junk shop with increased frequency: entitled upper-class twits.
Being the thoughtful employee I am, I make it a point to ensure that these folks are treated like the special people they are. My latest stint organizing the store’s pornography collection has been of great assistance in this endeavor. Yesterday we had some fast-talking jerk come in and try to chisel my co-worker on some vintage clothing. He decided the asking price of $5.00 pop for swinging 70’s duds was too expensive; he wanted them for $2.00.
I decided he needed to see a centerfold of a woman shooting a liter of Jergens lotion out of her womb. That shut him the fuck up. I am the ringmaster of this Donkey Show and if he doesn’t like it, too damned bad. Move.
I frequently fantasize about organizing death matches between this man’s ilk and some of the more colorful citizens in this neighborhood. Greenpoint would be my Thunderdome and I would preside over it like Tina Turner. I know who’d win too: the latter.
The main mistake “gentrifiers” make in this neighborhood is employing reason as a conflict resolution tool. Reason does not work with these people.
These are a few containers of mystery muck my manager found recently while unpacking boxes. They were promptly dispatched to the dumpster along with a number of other unsavory items. A reasonable person would not reach his (or her) hand into such a container; last week I had to admonish six very unreasonable people to refrain from reaching and/or climbing into this devil’s casserole to grab stuff. You could probably toss a dime into a vat of toxic waste (Newton Creek) and these people would go in after it.
They do not limit their aberrant behavior to dumpster diving, either. If not supervised like the children/animals they are, they will wander behind the counter and grab you by the arm. Of all the offending behaviors, violating my personal space is the most venal. I really, truly, DO NOT like people touching me. EVER.
Having had enough, I decided to make a sign using something I found recently while unpacking jewelry.
Sure this probably won’t work, but at least I had fun making it. If and/or when that cellphone yammering asshole comes in, this molar may very well get companion.
Miss Heather
P.S.: I’d like to give a quick shout-out to a brand-spanking new blog hailing from Windsor Terrace called Icky in Brooklyn. This chap me sent me the nicest email yesterday to which I have yet to send a reply. Will do, provided Verizon does not knock out my Internet and telephone service (again). In four weeks I have experienced as many outages.
Miss Heather’s Apartment Share Inferno
Filed under: 11206, 11222, Crazy People, East Williamsburg, East Williamsburg Brooklyn, Greenpoint, Greenpoint Brooklyn, Greenpoint Magic, Greenwich Village, Williamsburg, Williamsburg Brooklyn
New York Shitty is a metropolis of pissers and moaners. Crappy jobs/job interviews, crappy dates, crappy landlords: someone has written a lengthy (and usually pithy) missive (or two) about them all. Yet no one has written about a subject that encapsulates all the previous and more: apartment shares and the people who offer them. Until today.
I care not for landlords, first dates or job interviews— but at least I know what all the previous involve: me getting fucked. Be it metaphorically, physically or both. The same cannot be said about apartment share interviews, as I learned several years ago.
The purpose of this post is to showcase the three worst (and/or weirdest) apartment share interviews I have ever had. I have even taken the liberty of creating a handy checklist to track the depths of depravity I endured. Nothing says “you’ve arrived” (in HELL) like PowerPoint, after all.
CASE STUDY #1: THE DUNGEON
Vital Statistics
Location: Meserole Street and Graham Avenue
Rent: $450 a month
The Catch: It’s a SRO
Truth be told, I was not very jazzed about the location of this share. Sure, it is a beautiful building, but I am a Greenpoint gal through and through. However, when one is dirt-ass broke, she cannot afford to be choosy, so I checked it out.
When I arrived at the front door I was greeted by a young woman. I think she was from Belgium, though it was hard to tell. She was a very pleasant and elegantly dressed lady— which made up for the decidedly NON-elegant setting.
As she led me through the front door (of her section) of the SRO, a man donning a dragon mask and reeking of marijuana popped out of another door and started giggling inanely. “Okay”, I thought “So he likes to party a little on a Sunday afternoon. Who doesn’t? No problem.”
The room she showed me was very spacious. I’ve seen many apartments smaller than this space, which probably measured around 400 square feet. I even liked the shade of lilac the walls were painted. Very pretty. I even told her so and she thanked me. She had picked out the paint herself.
Then I saw something I have never seen in any apartment/share space before: leather restraints, paddles and heavy chains anchored to the wall by mollies. Given that this was a three month sublease, the presence of these implements was non-negotiable. I could honestly not care less what this woman did (professionally?), but I don’t think I could have handled waking up every morning to the sight of Medieval torture devices. I was offered this sublet, but turned it down.
All things considered this experience was pretty mild (as I later would learn). What’s more, she was really likable and clearly not out to rip me off so I give this share a rating of…
CASE STUDY #2: MESEROLE STREET SUICIDE SHARE
Vital Statistics
Location: Meserole and Leonard Street
Rent: $500 a month
The Catch: Too many to summarize
The only reason I agreed to an interview at this share was because I confused “Meserole Street” with “Meserole Avenue”. After my interview at this hellhole I have never confused the two thoroughfares since.
I knocked on the door, a smallish red-haired man answered and ushered me in. It was dark. It was dirty. It was the bachelor pad date rape central replete with a disemboweled motorcycle in the living area. Although something about the “head roomie” was unsettling to me, I liked the other guy and heard them out. He was nice.
Then the shoes dropped, one after the other.
- Once the “Head Roomie” stood by the bathroom area (which was better lit) I recognized him; this shithead had I.M.ed me on Nerve a month ago. And being a freak (him more so than, me), I dissed him. Whoops.
- After making the previous discovery he showed me the room. It was okay, I guess. Then he pulled out a photo album and pointed to a picture of 20-something brunette chap.
See this guy?
I answered: yes.
He used to live in that space. Really nice guy, always laughing. We didn’t realize he had problems.
Me: Really, what kind of problems?
After not hearing from him a couple of days we went into his room and discovered that he had shot himself in the head hanged himself.
Me: I’m sorry to hear that.
What the hell do you say to something like that? How can one NOT notice a DEAD BODY for TWO WHOLE DAYS??? These are both very good questions. I kept them to myself.
I feel that people need to know about this, you know.
He said.
Let’s see: this was either the most diabolical form of revenge ever exacted (Where’s Candid Camera?) or this guy is being honest. Given the lack of overall intelligence he demonstrated on Nerve, I’m leaning towards the latter. I bet he is still trolling the Internets for leg too. My advice: no woman in her right mind is going to put out in a place that reeks of motor oil.
When I took the above the photo a meathead busy recycling beer bottles shouted:
Take a picture of the building across the street, it’s much nicer!
And, inasmuch as I hate to say it, I agree. At least no one has blown his (or her) brains out here hanged him (or herself) there.
Yet.
With so many different factors at play, I am going to stick with simple suicide on this one and give this share a…
At last! We are down to our last contender from the Universe’s very own Garden Spot: Greenpoint, Brooklyn U.S.A.!
CASE STUDY #3: STONER SPECIAL
Vital Statistics
Location: Nassau Avenue and Monitor Street
Rent: $600 a month
The Catch: It’s total fucking rip-off… and more!
I slog my ass over to this place. It stinks. Literally. Only a block away from Kingsland Avenue, the corner where this building is situated sports a perfume I like to call Petro le Um #5. Being the eager little domicile hunter I was (because I have a strong distaste about being homeless) I go in.
It is a loft. I do not like lofts. Inasmuch as the real estate industry likes to throw around the buzz phrase “artist loft” my experience has been that “artists” generally do not inhabit such spaces. I write this as an artist. 252 Norman Avenue was no exception.
I look around and note the “stoner special” layout of the living area: three really big, threadbare sofas encircling a very expensive widescreen television set. I am shown the room that is for rent: it is (maybe) eight by ten feet. It has no windows whatsoever. They are asking $600 a month for this piece of shit. In 2001.
I am then subjected to a gauntlet of questions by the residents of this place. I smile and answer them politely. Then I go home.
A weeks goes by and I get a phone call. It is one of the fellows from this apartment.
Me: So did I get the share?
Dude: No, but I thought you were cute and wondered if you’d like to go out on a date.
WTF!?!
When I told my buddy Larry about this recently, he opined:
You should have gone out with the guy and moved in with him. That way you will have a place to live and not have to pay rent.
Funny man, that Larry.
That said, there is something so utterly WRONG about using apartment share interviews to pick up chicks. It takes real chutzpah to call someone, tell her she did NOT get the share and then ask her on a date. Truth be told, it gave me the fucking creeps. So I give this jerk a…
In case you are wondering, I ended up putting all my shit in storage and sofa surfing until I found a place of my own. I can honestly say that one month of sofa-surfing wasn’t that bad when faced with my alternatives.
Miss Heather
101 (minus a few score) Uses for a Dead Rat
Last weekend I endeavored to purchase a Metrocard from one of the machines located at the Driggs Avenue entrance of the Bedford Avenue stop of the L train. I pushed the requisite buttons, tendered my ten bucks and a new card popped out. Then I got a message stating there was an “error” and that I needed to take my person, my card and my receipt to the token booth attendant. I waited.
And waited.
No receipt.
Getting edgy because I thought I had been gyped out of ten bucks, I went to the token booth in a huff. They tested it and everything was okay.
Now jump forward to a comment I got today. Thenextstopwillbe writes:
…exited the L at the Driggs end one day to discover that someone had stuffed a dead rat in the change chute of the Metrocard machine. It fit in there sideways perfectly.
Perhaps this is what I did wrong? Instead of anticipating a piece of paper, I should have waited for the dead rat to be dispensed. Silly me.
This dead rat concept has legs. Four of them to be exact. If New York City wants to become greener, why not start with its copious use of paper? Take parking tickets for example. I find these discarded on the street constantly. Presumably by scofflaws. Jane Q. Doubleparker might blow off a piece of paper, but I seriously doubt she’ll be very nonchalant after finding a dead rat under her windshield wiper.
The same goes jury duty summonses, Stop Work Orders, arrest warrants, birth certificates, death certificates, marriage licenses or unemployment insurance questionnaires. Save a tree and utilize one of New York’s greatest and least utilized natural resources: rattus norvegicus. Deceased.
In fact, why not bring this revolutionary movement to the private sector as well? Someone in Greenpoint already has; a few days ago I found a dead rat doormat at 294 1/2 McGuinness Boulevard. I think it was a dead rat, anyway. It could have also been Marv Albert’s toupee* after a rough night in Long Island City. Or both. Who knows?
I wonder where the bones went?
Miss Heather
*No women or rats were bit, forcibly sodomized or coerced into threesomes during the writing of this post.
Fun With Public Urination Part I: The Nassau Avenue Stop of the G
Have you ever found yourself having a day when you find yourself muttering “I’m not seeing this. Please tell me I am not seeing this!” REPEATEDLY? Well, today was one such day for Miss Heather.
Before I continue I am going to be brutally forthright and state that I do not harbor a very high opinion of the human race. Although I have rarely met an individual who is completely unlikeable, there’s something that happens when otherwise nice and reasonable persons coalesce into a group. In a nutshell, they turn into fucking animals.
I have long accepted the fact that most people (myself included) don’t have the stuff to be a Stephen Hawking, Eleanor Roosevelt or Mahatma Gandhi. That special something, whatever it is, is simply beyond the grasp of the rest us. So be it.
However, this doesn’t mean one should do a complete 180 and (for example) hold your toddler son’s dingus as he pisses on platform of the Smith and 9th Street bound G train at Nassau Avenue. I saw just this today. Or more accurately, I heard it.
It was about 12:30 in the afternoon and I had a long day ahead of me. As I waited for the G train to arrive I was lost in thought regarding the day’s busy itinerary. I was abruptly jarred out of my private wonderland by the sound of running water.
I look to my right. Nothing. Then I looked to my left and saw a woman kneeling over her two year old son less than five feet away from me. Liquid was hitting the pavement and languidly drizzling onto the tracks. It was piss. After another good hard stare I deduced that she was holding his “wee wee” for him as he urinated onto the platform. Lovely.
Revolted and yet titillated, I could not draw my attention away from this spectacle. Like a deer in headlights, I was mesmerized. The sight of this child passing what had to be at least a liter of water had rendered me helpless.
After what seemed like an eternity, the little boy’s bladder was voided and mommy zipped up his pants. “I have to document this” I thought to myself. So I whipped out my camera and enthusiastically shot some close-ups of this newly christened piece of platform.
Much to the horror of the mother; she grabbed her child and booked it to the other end of the platform. The entire time she glared back at me as if to say “Get away from me, you SICK FUCK!”
Now I understand that this is New York City and this kind of thing happens on a daily or hourly basis. If I was unwilling to live with this operational hazard I would not be here. But— and this is a big BUT— if you help your two year old take a piss on a subway platform in front of 20-30 people you shouldn’t be the least bit surprised if someone wants to photograph it. As I said before: this is New York City, after all.
If you don’t want photos of your kid’s piss splashed all over the Internets, take him to a bathroom where he can tinkle in private.
Simple as that.
Miss Heather
Goodie Bags: How and Why I Make Them
It was originally my intent to focus on the incredibly stupid and fucked-up shit some of the customers at the junk shop say this week, but I have since changed my mind. This is partially due to the fact that I could not understand a damned thing most of them were saying to me yesterday; our core clientèle du jour Friday the 13th consisted of what my co-worker and I call “bobble-heads”. “Bobble-heads” are people who enthusiastically nod to anything and everything you say. I am certain these individuals are fluent in one language or another, but English it is not among them.
As a matter of fact, I got the idea for today’s post after being praised for my stellar work performance by my boss. He said:
You have yet to make a mistake.
To wit I replied:
Oh I make mistakes alright, but I either cover them up or set up someone else to take the rap for them.
“You are a true product of corporate America.” he replied. He is right: I am. It has been my experience that there is no better place to find a spiteful, incompetent and/or worthless human being than your local cubicle farm. The people who populate these god-forsaken labyrinths make a three-toed sloth seem like howler monkey on crack by comparison. These languid creatures have elevated abject laziness and intransigence to an art form. Over the years I have endeavored to learn their black art.
A fruit of the above course study is my implementation of the “goodie bag”. Better known by some as “grab bags”, these are sacks filled with jewelry or craft supplies which I price at a deep discount. The reason I have elected to add the goodie bag to my arsenal of time/sanity-saving bag of tricks is threefold:
1. There are three types of jewelry I handle: cheap ugly crap, cute vintage jewelry and “nice stuff”.
- The crap goes in the dollar bin where older Polish women detangle and pick through it for fifteen or twenty minutes on end. My logic: keeping these women engaged in the pursuit of some plastic piece of bling keeps them out of my hair. That one dollar string of beads saved me one or two hours of mind-numbing work.
- The “nice stuff” goes in the showcase. My logic: to do otherwise is to facilitate theft. Thieves constitute a sizable portion of the junk shop’s patronage.
- The cute vintage jewelry goes into goodie bags. My logic: after several months I got tired of repeatedly pulling these items out of the showcase, only to have people haggle and waste my valuable time. The goodie bag solves this problem; the jewelry is grouped, bagged and clearly priced, thus eliminating the need to dialogue with these soul-sucking shrews.
2. Sorting all the above jewelry is a very time-consuming task which requires a lot of concentration. Maintaining the required attention to detail becomes impossible when you are being hassled every five minutes by some miscreant raising a fuss over a lot of jewelry that costs a whopping five bucks.
3. The time I save preventing all the previous scenarios can be spent doing other things, like checking my email or working.
The evolution of the goodie bag was not without its setbacks, as you will see. But after a couple months of experimentation I have the process down to an exact science. Here it is.
PREPARATION
The first step to goodie bag production is to gather all your tools and place them on the counter.
Next, you select the items to be bagged. Today’s sack stuffers will be vintage clip-on earrings and some craft supplies.
GROUPING
When selecting earrings to place in a bag, group them in lots of 5-7 by color and style. Speaking as a woman myself, I am very grateful when items are grouped in such a manner. That way one does not have to slog through designs and colors one does not like in order to get to “the good stuff”. Follows is an example of a poorly prepared and properly prepared goodie bag.
The bag on the right is consistent in color and overall “feel”, the bag on the left is not. Such a random assortment of earrings is an invitation for someone to to rip it open and/or haggle with you because she “only likes a couple of pieces in the bag”. I shit you not, there are a number of people who see fit to use the previous bargaining tactic on me. I suppose it would work if I actually cared. I don’t.
As you fill the baggies, place them in a bowl behind the counter. Make sure this bowl is out of eye shot or people will try to grab them.
When the bowl is full (like in the above photo) you are ready for the next step: pricing.
PRICING
Since the items in question have been sitting on the shelf awhile, I am going to price them crazy cheap: $1.00-$5.00 a bag. Upon being labeled, the bags go into a bin. Once again, keep them out of sight or you will be beating back overly enthusiastic bargain hunters with a stick.
Once the bags are priced you are ready for the next step: tamper/theft prevention.
TAMPER/THEFT PREVENTION, PART I
Each bag is folded and stapled no less than three times. This is done to discourage someone’s sticky little fingers from getting into them.
TAMPER/THEFT PREVENTION, PART II
After each bag is stapled, out comes the packing tape. Tear off a three foot long piece and wrap it around each bag.
As I was preparing the above bag my boss commented:
You are the most focused worker I have ever had. You take on a task and do not not stop until it is completed.
I admonished my boss not to mistake malice for due diligence and reminded him about the time I discovered someone had opened once of these bags and placed a razor blade in it. Then I said:
I’d like to see that bitch try to get into this bag.
He laughed.
Once you have wrapped each bag, place them in the proper container for sale. Make sure there is a prominently placed sign advising customers that these bags are “priced as marked” and are not to be tampered with.
Congratulations! You have completed today’s goodie bag tutorial!
Total time elapsed: three hours.
Hours of aggravation prevented: incalculable.
Miss Heather
Ask Not For Whom the Porn Man Comes
He comes for me.
As I mentioned in this post, I had the pleasure of assisting the porn man with his never-ending quest for spankerific entertainment again last weekend. I suppose Friday’s offerings were yesterday’s news and he need more, uh, grist for the mill. This time he even brought a female companion with him. It was all I could do to keep from laughing.
First he drifted to the housewares; he picks up a box of drinking glasses. After bantering with my boss and handing another gentleman his business card, he goes back to the clothing. A pair of pants and a tunic are selected. All the while he is yammering away with his female friend. Then, after laying the groundwork, he went in for the kill:
Hey, you guys had a box full of DVDs yesterday. There was one that had a broken case— do you still have it? I’d like to buy it.
My co-worker and I look at each other. We pull the box of porn out from behind the counter.
“This one?” my co-worker asked.
“Yes”, he replied.
It was entitled Buff Bitches. I deduced that this was some kind of bodybuilder fetish flick because it had an image of a rather muscular woman on it. A rather muscular woman having very, very dirty things done to her, I should add. Peachy.
Shortly after this coveted prize found its way into his possession, his female friend wandered back to the counter to see what he was doing. She smiled, said “goodbye” and left. After all, how can a girl compete with that?
When this gentleman finally left my co-worker and I burst out laughing. My manager wanted to know what the deal was, so we told him. The solitary sentence that left his mouth was:
Yeah, the porn freaks are always cheap.
The piece de resistance, however, was when I saw this dude’s business card. After repeatedly asking myself:
- What kind of person would buy this stuff and be so damned cheap about it?
- What kind of person would buy this stuff with a female acquaintance with him?
I got my answer.
The same kind of person whose business card has a picture of him modeling au naturel with a musical instrument, that’s who! “Is this man for real?” you ask. Of course he is. REAL NAKED. You can’t make this shit up folks…
Speaking of shit and people with zero social skills, I have a very special “Dung of the Day” for your edification today. This item hails from 960 Manhattan Avenue, which happens to be the location of a rather large healthcare facility. I found it directly outside the front door.
Warning: Mothers who leave their used cigarettes and their baby’s shit-filled diapers on the sidewalk are hazardous to my health.
Miss Heather
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