Greenpoint
Lorven Pharmacy
Culture on the Cheap
Need a mattress? COME TO GREENPOINT!
Whenever I start running low on new subject matter to expound upon I go for a walk. I have spent much of the last two days pounding the Greenpoint pavement. And, as always, I did not come home disappointed. Perplexed or downright disturbed? Yes. But disappointed? Not in the least.
This is why I live in Greenpoint. It has long been my understanding that, as a lowly renter* with low class, the “A-list” Brooklyn neighborhoods are well beyond my reach. As I told my buddy Larry yesterday (after dealing with the “Pornophile”, AGAIN):
Not all of us have the stuff to land a porn queen, some of us have to settle for the fluffer.
“The Garden Spot of the Universe” always puts out. They can keep can keep their Park “Angelina Jolie” Slopes and Boerum “Lindsay Lohan” Hills. I like my neighborhoods like my women: delectably wrecked and HARD. Greenpoint is the Amy Winehouse of Brooklyn ‘nabes. This is why I love her so.
July 7, 2007
I was walking along Greenpoint Avenue when I happened upon one of the many languishing development sites my recently designated chic neighborhood has to offer: 189 Greenpoint Avenue.
I go in for a closer look.
“Wow, that’s kind of gross.” I thought to myself. “I wonder if Jessica Simpson’s marital bed looked like this?” After chuckling at my own sordid imaginings I took the above photograph. Not thinking any more about it, I went home.
Today: July 8, 2007
As I am walking down Green Street I find another abandoned mattress.
After taking a few photographs of the above mattress, box spring and shopping cart still life, a gentleman sunbathing next door (whilst reading a book entitled Great Artists) commented:
You’re the sixth person to photograph that mattress.
I told this chap he can expect one of those photographs to find its way onto the hallowed walls of MOMA or the Whitney and proceeded down the street where…
I found this despoiled mattress just as a man was about to load it into his minivan. I asked him if I could photograph it before he took it. Not only did he oblige, but he propped it up for me so as to get a better angle.
On the one hand, I find this gentleman’s eagerness to take a not-so-gently used mattress home somewhat disturbing. On the other, it was uplifting to see Serta Sleeper Samsara in action.
If Instant Karma doesn’t get him, the bedbugs most certainly will.
Miss Heather
*I agree with a number of points Mr. Oder makes in this post. The New York Times article he critiques is bad. I’m not saying this because I am sore that I wasn’t mentioned in it either; when I read something as hagiographic and insipid as this turd is it makes me thank the heavens above my name is in no way attached to it.
The Brooklyn ‘blogosphere’, just like real life, has A-listers and fluffers. I know which one I am. Before I end this post (because my hand is tired and I need a glass of water— I wonder if that is how Gregory Beyer felt after writing Cracker Barrel Vial 2.0?) I will leave you with today’s Dung of the Day, which I like to call Greenpoint Casserole: Miss Heather Style.
Recipe
Take one dead bird and one large pile of dog shit. Let them roast in the hot July sun until they smell like refried death. Garnish with a cigarette butt and it’s ready to eat.
If this succulent dish makes you hungry, grab your knife and fork, run down to 1043 Manhattan Avenue and get your some!
Bon Apetit!
How to Purchase Previously Owned Porn: A Primer
I always dread the first Friday of the month. “First Fridays”, as my buddy Rachael calls them, are very busy days at the junk shop. She says it’s because this is the day people get their public assistance checks. Maybe this is true, maybe it isn’t. If it is, I can tell you what the taxpayers’ money was outlaid on in my little corner of Greenpoint today: PORN.
BAD PORN.
Before I continue:
- It is not the purpose of this post to malign people who receive public assistance. A person may lack money, but that does not mean he (or she) lacks integrity, intelligence or worth. More often than not all the previous qualities render a person poor. I speak from experience.
- It is not the purpose of this post to malign people who spend their public assistance on porn. Everyone deserves a diversion from the misery of their daily life. Especially those in the throes of poverty. Let them eat c*m— or better yet— watch someone else eat it for them. That sticky substance is catharsis for many a down-trodden person. “What’s that strange taste in my mouth?” you ask. It’s freedom. Spit or swallow. The decision is yours to make. The good ol’ U.S. of A. is a democracy after all.
- Rather, it is the purpose of this post to establish proper etiquette for buying porn, as it became very manifest today that such ground rules need to be set. Here they are.
Rule #1: Do not buy your porn from a thrift store.
Rule #2: If you find yourself in the position of having to purchase porn from a thrift store, don’t be an asshole.
The rest of this post will explore Rule #2.
Porno Pointer A
Any attempt to be sly about perusing porn is a waste of effort.
Today I finally commandeered more space to put out craft supplies and bargain bags of earrings. Immediately to my left was a chap foraging through a sizable container of DVDs. Though a recent addition to the store, we all knew what it contained:
- Four or five DVDs of “mainstream” movies
- A lot of porn, most of which involved inserting large objects up a woman’s rectum
As I was organizing this man hunched over this cache of affordable and no-strings-attached female companionship like a miser. He thought I would think that cinematic flicks such as The Fugitive (which was in said container) were the target of his dogged search. He was wrong. His attempt at subterfuge was pathetic.
This man was a picky poonhound. After much consideration Black-eyed Pees did not make the cut. I immediately brought this to my coworker’s attention. We laughed our asses off. Which brings me to the next titulation tip…
Porno Pointer B
Those of you who are thinking:
Gee, I bet these folks see people come in and buy this stuff all the time. If I want to buy Super-sized Black Booty Butt Plungers #87, they won’t think anything of it. This is normal, right?
WRONG.
Speaking as someone who has gone through boxes purchased at storage facility auctions, I have had plenty of moments when I find myself saying, “Ewwwww, GROSS.” You get used to finding the odd butt plug, cock ring or stacks of Juggs magazines. And worse.
You do NOT, however, get used to seeing a woman with a mop handle shoved up her nether-regions. Consider yourself warned because…
Porno Pointer C
We will talk about you behind your back. Your sexual eccentricities are our entertainment. Learn to live with this fact or:
- acquire some social skills and get a girlfriend
- buy porn made by companies who do not treat women like garbage
- get therapy
- all of the above
Porno Pointer D
Perversion has a price. Asking $5.00 for a gently used copy of Let’s Get Our Orgy On or Big Black Women with Little White Chicks is not at all unreasonable. What IS unreasonable is trying to haggle the price down because “other video stores sell these types of movies for $2.00.”
The previous sentence speaks volumes about your life(style). It is not a very flattering portrait.
Porno Pointer DD
Further attempts to justify a lower price will not work. What’s more, approaching the solitary female employee of the store with the hope of exploiting her lack of adult entertainment expertise might backfire. Which brings me to…
Porno Pointer E
Do not insult Miss Heather
What we’ve got here is… failure to communicate. Some men you just can’t reach. So you get what we had here
last weektoday, which is the way he wants it… well, he gets it.
Miss H: Yes, I am aware these movies are of inferior quality. Jenna Jameson, they are not.
Pornophile: These movies are nothing more than footage culled from other movies.
Miss H: Yes, I know what “loops” are. I recently read Jenna Jameson’s biography, you should read it.
Pornophile: Did you learn anything from it?
Miss H: I was merely stating that it was interesting book. You should read it. You might learn something. (And being a cocksucker isn’t one of them, this dude has clearly mastered that art already . — Ed. Note)
*Chirp, chirp*
After taking ten seconds to deduce that he had been insulted by a broad, this dude transgressed…
Porno Pointer F
Appealing to another store employee in order to secure a low(er) price for porn is a futile endeavor. In the above case study this sad attempt at duplicity backfired. Big time. The price went up: $16.00.
And this chap tendered it. He even had the temerity to ask for a bag to conceal his salacious purchases. Had I been alone I would have told him we had none. Asshole.
After this episode I ventured out to forage lunch-time vittles. I was hungry. I was pissed. I needed to vent. So, as I was walking along McGuinness Boulevard with my newly acquired foodstuffs, I called my husband.
Miss H: …Remember that Hare Krishna looking dude we saw on the G train last weekend? The guy with the pants you liked?
Husband: Yes.
Miss H: That motherfucker tried to stiff me! He tried to tell me what loops were versus full length features. Like I don’t know the difference.
Husband: That was dumb.
Miss H: Yes it was. Who the fuck does this dude think he is? I’m not fucking stupid, you know. Give me a fucking break!
It was at this moment I noticed there was a woman walking behind me. A pregnant woman. A pregnant and very horrified woman. She looked like she had seen a ghost.
Let’s review:
- I was walking down McGuinness Boulevard shouting into a cell phone.
- I was walking down McGuinness Boulevard shouting into a cell phone while clad in a pair of hip-hugging stretch pants (rolled up to the knee), a yellow tank top with a black bra underneath (need to do laundry) and large sunglasses. My hair is currently blond. VERY BLOND. Long story— let’s just say that I recently had an epiphany: if Britney Spears can (still) dress like Britney Spears, so can I.
- I was shouting about someone trying to “stiff me”.
- Now subtract the previous telephonic exchange from my (previous and lengthy) context.
I am not so egotistical to think I am of professional porn caliber. I am not. Never was. Greenpoint has more, uh, LAX standards for such a sinecure. I know this because I have found “home grown” porn strewn on my block. You could probably stuff a sow in a negligee and get takers. Yes, it’s that’s bad.
When I got back to work, lunch in hand, my coworker was busy helping another customer. This man was— get this— BUYING PORN.
Lather.
Rinse.
Repeat.
NEXT WEEK: Customers say the darnedest things. AKA; Don’t try to understand ’em, just rope, throw and brand ’em.
Miss Heather
McCarren Park’s New Leash Law
I came across the above annotated sign at McCarren Park recently. Why do I not find this surprising? Perhaps the fact this dog run is the stomping grounds of the notorious Williamsburg gentile fondler has something to do with it?
Yeah, that’s it.
Miss Heather
Riddle of the Sphincter
Question: If you live in Williamsburg and have your bike seized by the NYPD, what do you do?
Answer: Throw together an illucid art project making light of your plight and put it on Bedford Avenue.
See the above object? When I was an art teacher I would see at least one example of the above “Naked Barbie Doll Genre” per semester. Usually more.
Which is why I found students such the New Jersey Andrew Dice Clay Clone a breath of fresh air. Sure, all he did was paint insanely large breasted women and refer to his fellow students as “busted rubbers”* but at least he was entertaining.
Miss Heather
*Although I couldn’t say so at the time, I agreed with him.
From Cocaine to Rogaine
As I indicated in the previous post, yesterday I attended the Brooklyn Blogger Meet-up in Flatbush. Afterwards, I decided to take a trip down memory lane and check out where I lived before I moved to Greenpoint. I have not laid eyes on this apartment, much less set foot in this neighborhood, since I left over seven years ago.
This is the house: 211 East 9th Street. The realtor told me the neighborhood my (former) new apartment was located in is “Kensington”. I suppose it is, though I never gave the matter much thought. I still don’t.
One day as I was walking home from the grocery store I discovered two Polaroids in front of a Co-op on East 2nd or 3rd Street. The above photograph (and its companion) were adhered to a piece of cardboard. This in turn was mounted in a cheap metal frame with a light fixture on it. It was kind of frame that usually showcases a three-dimensional rendering of Jesus or The Last Supper. You get the idea.
At the center of this ‘composition’ was a circular ring of moisture. I could tell from the odor it was lubrication. That’s when I figured out that “Blueballs” (as I like to call him) had been mounted to this very piece of cardboard at one time. Someone had seen to mount this frame. (And I am not talking about placing it over one’s couch either).
Naturally I showed my new find to all my friends. The usual response was “Did you do this?” This pissed me off. I may very well be a degenerate but I am a very meticulous craftswoman. There is no way in hell I would make something that looks like that: I would at least put the condom on the RIGHT WAY for fuck’s sake!
Thankfully I was vindicated several months later when I made another discovery so utterly fucked-up and foul that even my own friends had to admit I had no hand in it. What’s more I didn’t have to leave home to find it. One of the (numerous) problems that plagued my apartment was electrical outages. This was due to the ancient circuit breaker located in the basement. After what seemed like an endless wait for the landlord to come by and replace the fuse, I decided to act. I went downstairs.
Flashlight in hand, I slowly made my way down the stairs. Directly in front of me was the kitchen area; clearly this basement had been a studio apartment. I found the breaker box but needed more light, so I opened the front door. When I turned around I beheld the bachelor pad from hell.
The living area was roughly one hundred square feet. It was appointed with a pastel velour love seat and a coffee table. That’s it. Sort of. On top of the coffee table was a large ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. This was flanked by a pair of 40 ounce malt liquor bottles. On the floor there were more bottles, cigarette butts and four empty boxes of Rogaine. The piece de resistance was a solitary condom wrapper on the couch. The brand was Trojan and I got the hell out of dodge.
Several weeks later my buddy Mark came by to visit. Being the most ballsy of my friends, I took him downstairs. I showed him the living area and then we checked out an adjacent room I had previously missed.
It was probably four feet wide by eight feet long. Other than floor-to-ceiling maple paneling it was empty save a cot and a two foot tall stack of printed matter that appeared to be written in Arabic. It could very well have been Farsi, my memory fails me at this point.
The only words that came out of Mark’s mouth were:
It looks like they shot child porn in here.
As time waxed on, my apartment— and the neighborhood in general— wore on my nerves. My bedroom abutted a courtyard that belonged to a home for mentally ill adults. My nights were often rendered sleepless by its residents’ ranting, raving and chain-smoking. A local thug took a shine to me. I became aware of the previous one afternoon when he showed up at my front door with a basket of essential oils and offered to give me a massage. I declined.
Shortly thereafter I gave notice. The final few months I lived there were terrible. By this time I had grown to thoroughly despise this neighborhood and everyone in it. Even staying home was rendered hellish by the din of contractors gutting the rape shack cum Hair Club for Men under my very own feet.
One afternoon a contractor who was working in the basement knocked on my door and asked me to come downstairs. They found something while removing some appliances, he said. It was a condom.
And yes, it had been used.
Miss Heather
A Reader Question
Yesterday I was posited a provocative question by one of my readers. Greg writes:
I was at the Key Food in Greenpoint on Saturday buying some supplies for a BBQ, when I encountered some perplexing behavior. The gentleman in front of me in the express checkout line (who appeared to be at least 70 years old) was purchasing 8 half-gallons of 1% milk. And nothing else. Upon checking out, he asked the cashier to put all of the cartons in one bag–clearly a physical impossibility. Perhaps you could explain what the hell he was going to do with all of that milk??
Thanks
As it happens a good friend of mine, we’ll call her “Sarah”, used to work at this very Key Food. She quit two months ago because she couldn’t take it anymore. This morning I called Sarah, relayed Greg’s question and asked her to give her two cents. Here it is:
- Eight one-half gallon containers versus four one gallon containers: If this gentleman was on public assistance, it might explain why he was buying eight one-half gallon cartons of milk versus four one gallon containers of milk. Apparently WIC (or whatever they call it here) will permit you to buy a truckload of Cheerios if you so desire, but you are required to purchase it (for example) 12 oz. increments. Therefore, if this gentleman wanted four gallons of milk (for what, who knows) and happened to be on public assistance, he was probably forced to purchase eight one-half gallon containers to get it.
- Metric System versus English Standard System: Assuming for a moment that this chap was Polish, it is very likely that he has no understanding of the English Standard System of measurements. This is because Poland uses the Metric System. Given the previous, it is possible that it simply did not cross this man’s mind to buy four larger containers rather than eight smaller ones. Even a number of Sarah’s coworkers (younger, recent Polish immigrants all) had problems parsing our system of measurements. This is why she created a chart to help them.
- Poor spatial reasoning (volume versus weight): The fact of the matter is some people are just rock-ass stupid. Sarah saw this on a daily basis working the deli counter. For reasons known only to them, her clientele liked their meat sliced very thinly. Of course, this was not made known to Sarah until after she had cut a pound of meat they deemed too coarse for consumption. Now let me tell you something: my buddy is a very patient woman. Did she grouse or cop an attitude? No. She would place the cut meat back in the refrigerator and slice another pound of meat in thinner slices.What did she get in return? Angry customers claiming that she was trying to sell them more than one pound of meat. Let’s think about this. What happens when you take something (in this case, one pound of deli meat) and slice it very thinly and then compare it to a comparable amount (of meat) sliced more coursely? It looks like more meat, that’s what! But is it actually more than one pound of meat? No, it isn’t. Most of what you are looking at is air. Is this comprehensible to your average Key Food deli patron? Apparently not. I mention the previous anecdote for one simple reason: the kind of person who cannot comprehend the difference between volume and weight is probably not going to understand that two (or in this case EIGHT) objects cannot occupy the same place at the same time. This dude seems to think otherwise, but I doubt his argument is relevant to a check-out line at a Key Food in Greenpoint. On the other hand, maybe it is; perhaps there is a worm hole (or “vacuum”) in the “8 Items or Less” line only the milk man knows about? Finally…
- Why so much milk? Maybe he simply likes milk? A LOT. Or— maybe he bathes in it. The latter is (was) a pretty common beauty ritual. Perhaps this chap isn’t crazy at all; he simply craves clean pores?
I hope this has been helpful, Greg. Thanks for asking!
Miss Heather
This is Greenpoint, not Burger King
(Or, You’ll get it Miss Heather’s way and like it.)
Last December Sammy, a neighborhood fixture and all-around nice guy died. He was only in his fifties, and at first the was talk was that he committed suicide. This was later disproven: Sammy had a heart attack. A number of you may have made his acquaintance at the Salvation Army as he worked there for a number of years.
In this capacity he had to deal with some of the biggest SHITHEADS god has seen fit to create. I’m not talking about coworkers either; I’m talking about customers. He treated his clientele with the care and respect they so richly deserved: none whatsoever. When, for example, two women were fighting over a ceramic figurine, he grabbed it and threw it to the ground, smashing it into smithereens. Problem solved. The customers were what killed Sammy, not his less-than-spectacular personal habits, of this I am convinced.
I wrote the previous (woefully) belated obituary because this week of I have had the misfortune of interfacing with some seriously annoying— if not batshit crazy— people. Many of whom were ‘customers’. Follows is a selection of the worst offenders for your Shaudenfreud-fueled entertainment. Enjoy!
Crazy Old Broad
Location: Meserole Avenue
Crime: Being a crazy old broad on Meserole Avenue, which was where I also happened to be at the time.
As a general rule I avoid making eye contact with the old ladies that grace my neighborhood. A very short time after I moved here I learned that acknowledging their presence— much less SMILING at them— is effectively an invitation for them to waste the next 15-20 minutes of my precious existence. That said, accidents do happen. As I was looking both ways before I crossed the street I made visual contact. And just like the psychological vulture vampire she was this lady rushed right on over. Blathering indecipherable gibberish the entire time. It was Polish.
Woman: (entreating me in Polish)
Me: WHAT?
I have learned that saying “WHAT” in a very loud tone anytime someone jabbers at me in Polish to be the quickest and most effective way to convey that I do not speak Polish. Until now.
Woman: You do not speak Polish?
Me: No, I don’t.
Woman: But you spoke to me in Polish a week ago!
This broad then commenced trying to argue with me about my alleged command of Polish and my unwillingness to share it with her. I walked away muttering “What the fuck is HER problem?”. It should be noted that have never laid eyes on this woman in my life.
Eddie
Location: The Salvation Army on Manhattan Avenue
Crime: Being a fucking creep
Eddie is a fixture in my corner of the ‘hood. A number of you who live in north Greenpoint have seen him: a tiny little Polish man, always smiling, who wears thick plastic-rimmed glasses. I know Eddie’s name is not because I am friends with him; he is a former coworker on one of my best friends, Rachael. Former. Coworker. Eddie was fired for stealing merchandise and grabbing my friend’s tits. Little Eddie is a big fucking pervert.
I recently remembered that I almost forgot that The Mermaid Day Parade is coming up soon. In the interests of showing solidarity with my fellow oppressed Brooklynites, I have decided to attend. Being the Dog Shit Queen of Greenpoint, I realized that such an affair of state requires proper attire:
- A shit gown
- A shit crown
- A shit orb
- A shit scepter
- Shit shoes
- Shit accessories, etc.
After unsuccessfully searching a number of stores in the area for proper(ly hideous) Greenpoint apparel, I went to the Salvation Army. I noticed Eddie as soon as I entered the store. I tried to ignore him, but it was pretty difficult given he decided to peruse their selection of skirts and dresses. I found a particularly choice dress and pulled it from the rack so I could give it a thorough inspection.
- Will it fit? Yes!
- Is it really fucking ugly? Yes!
- Does it look like something a woman who has had a nervous breakdown would wear? Absolutely!
- Hmm… there appears to a blood stain on the front of it. SOLD!
As I was mulling over the previous pros Eddie decided I needed some help and started pulling dresses he thought I would like in. I told him in no uncertain terms to FUCK OFF. He did.
“But what about troublesome customers,” you ask? The previous two peeps are just a warm-up. I left the best worst for last. Here they are: the newest inductees into Miss Heather’s Crappy Customer Hall of Shame.
Before I continue, let me tell you a little bit about what I do. My primary responsibility is to sort and price jewelry. This is an enjoyable, but physically demanding task. The owner of the store gets most of his wares at storage facility auctions and estate sales, so when I get jewelry it is in boxes measuring 2’x3’x1′. That’s a whole lotta jewelry, folks. My standard mode of operation when given a new box of jewelry to sort is this:
- First I pull each of the individual bags out of the box and look them over in order to get an idea of what I have.
- Next, I pull anything that appears to be of real value, e.g.; gold, silver, antique, etc.
- Thirdly, I separate/disentangle the nice stuff from the hideous crap.
- The good stuff goes in the showcases, the shit goes in the $1.00 bin.
- Any vintage necklaces that are broken are placed in goodie bags for the local crafters to purchase and cannibalize.
Not a bad system, if I may say so myself. It is methodical and exploits every possible opportunity to make money by giving my clients what they want at a reasonable price. I work at a thrift store, after all and the purpose of such an establishment is to sell dry goods at low prices.
Despite my incredibly reasonable prices and bulk discounts there are people who doth protest too much. They say my prices are too high, I say they’re assholes. To use the word “chiseler” or “haggler” would infer that these people possess a level of intelligence they do not have. These wannabe thieves are some of the stupidest sons-of-bitches I have met.
Which brings me to the gruesome twosome I dealt with yesterday…
PREFACE: A week ago I found a small cultured pearl choker in a box I was sorting. While not exactly Princess Grace (or Lady Di) material, they were quite lovely. The clasp was sterling silver and had a number of high quality Austrian crystals inlaid in it. While such an item is not my cup of tea, I knew that I had something nice-ish on my hands that someone would really like. I priced it at $10.00, put it in the showcase and called my coworker over.
Me: See this, Chad?
Chad: Yes.
Me: This is a pretty nice little pearl choker.
Chad: Is it real?
Me: Yes, but the pearls are not of outrageously fine quality. It is, however, a nicely crafted piece of vintage jewelry and I have priced it at $10.00.
Chad: So the price is non-negotiable?
Me: Exactly— and believe you me, some ASSHOLE will come in here and try to chisel down the price. Don’t let them.
In hindsight, I should have said the previous. I had cashed a check with my mouth that my ass I was not prepared to cash. Kismet saw fit to plague me with two assholes for the price of one.
Customer(s): Parental Units visiting their son who lives in Williamsburg (!)
Origin: South Africa
Source of dispute: the price for a pearl necklace
Crime(s): Being cheap, devious, clueless, making the (erroneous) assumption that I am rock-ass stupid (like they are) and insulting my home: New York Shitty.
Cheap: When this couple came in I immediately got suspicious. They wore giant smiles and were being very polite. No one here (in Greenpoint) behaves in such a manner (or if they do it is probably because they are fucking INSANE); these people were up to no good whatsoever.
The wife proceeded to have me pull a number of very cheap items from the case: a $1.00 bracelet here, a $2.00 necklace there, you get the idea. It has been my experience that most people who do this sort of thing seek to confuse me into losing track as to what I have brought out. That way they can pocket a piece or two without my noticing. It doesn’t work. I may not remember what year it is sometimes, but I know damned well when a piece jewelry is MIA.
After five minutes of fuss and much tut-tutting this bitch went in for the kill: she asked to look at the aforementioned pearl necklace. Whispering silently under my breath, I showed it to her.
Upon noticing the outrageous price of TEN WHOLE FUCKING DOLLARS the first words that exited her piehole were:
Why is this so expensive?
I took a deep breath and replied:
Because the necklace you have in your hand is comprised of cultured pearls and has a very nice sterling silver clasp. It is an exceptionally well crafted piece of vintage jewelry.
Devious/Underestimating Miss Heather’s Grey Matter: Her first attempt at haggling quashed, she decided to take a more subtle approach and talk me up a little. She told me that she and her husband were from South Africa and they were visiting their son who lives in Williamsburg. She said the necklace was going to be a gift for her daughter back in South Africa, etc. She was really laying it on really thick thinking I would care. (I didn’t: this broad can afford the airfare from South Africa to New York Shitty, a $10 necklace should not be an issue to her.) The whole time she was rolling the beads between her fingers and giving meaningful looks to her husband.
I think I forgot to tell you something, dear readers: the reason I was hired to handle jewelry. I possess what they call a “good eye” when it comes to sorting the shit from the Shinola. I was not born with this ability; it was acquired after attending jewelry trade shows for over 15 years. This woman didn’t know it at the time, but I knew what she was doing. She was verifying that these were cultured pearls. Unlike cheap plastic baubles, cultured pearls will warm to the touch. This is because the centers are made of glass.
She asked me is I could be more flexible with the price and I said no. She then proceeded to complain that it was an awfully small strand and it may not fit her daughter. At this point I tuned them out and started detangling necklaces. If there is anything positive to be said about having 110 Green’s pile driver slog away for weeks on end it would be this: I have acquired the ability to concentrate under the most cacophonous of circumstances. This broad wasn’t shit compared to being awakened at 6:40 or 7:00 a.m. in the morning, day after FUCKING DAY, by window-rattling pounding. Nietzsche was right:
What does not destroy me, makes me stronger.
Or at least give me the wherewithal to put this bitch in her place, sort of.
Clueless: After (finally) figuring out that I was not about to budge on the price, my new friend decided to see if my coworker Chad would give her one more to her liking. She did this when my back was turned. All because I had ceased to acknowledge her presence doesn’t mean I wasn’t listening: I was.
I jerked around and looked them squarely in the eye.
RIGHT IN FRONT OF THEM, less that TWO FEET AWAY I said:
Chad, I cannot fucking take these people anymore, you deal with them.
Then I walked off and went back to sorting jewelry.
Did this faze them? NO!!!
It was like Dawn of the-fucking-Dead and I was under siege by two SIMPERING cheap-ass zombies. I could have doused them with gasoline and lit a match; they were going to get that fucking bracelet for UNDER TEN DOLLARS if it killed them. And I wanted to oblige them regarding the latter.
Thankfully, Chad defused the situation. After TWENTY MINUTES they relented and paid the asking price (and then only because he tossed in a book for free).
Did their onslaught of ass end? No way, Jose!
You see, they had just gotten done visiting their son in Williamsburg and were checking out the local points of interest. They wanted to know how far Long Island City was from our store. Chad said it was probably about 20 minutes walking distance from the store. I (foolishly) suggested (in the hopes that they would GO AWAY) that they take the G to Court Square and proceed west. To wit my nemesis said:
No way, it’s too dangerous.
*A-hem* Let’s think about this:
- These people hail from South Africa.
- South Africa (though not on par with D.R. Congo, Sudan or a number of other troubled African states) is not a very nice place:
- Unless my memory fails me, the odds of being raped there for a woman are near 50/50.
- The AIDS epidemic was left to flourish because this country’s leader (until recently) didn’t believe a relationship between HIV and AIDS existed and blocked the import of retroviral medication.
- As with any other place that has a deep division between rich and poor, violence is not uncommon there. In fact, it’s commonplace: that’s why the more affluent folk live in fortified compounds.
And these people have the temerity to say the G train is dangerous!?! UGH. Lest any of you harbor thoughts about calling me racist, let me tell you this:
- These people were not black.
- I am of the opinion that most of (South) Africa’s problems stem from the actions of white people.
So there have you. NEEEEXT!
Customer(s): Two brothers
Origin: Poland/Greenpoint
Source of dispute: none that I can think of
Crime(s): Coming in after the previous couple left, patronizing me, leering at me
Picture the Festrunk Brothers. Now imagine the Festrunk Brothers as a pair of Septuagenarians. POLISH Septuagenarians. One of whom has Alzheimer’s Disease. Uh-HUH.
Contrary to what you are probably thinking, the brother with Alzheimer’s was not the issue. Even if he was, I wouldn’t pick on him. That’s mean. Miss Heather’s heart is as big as the turds she assiduously photographs. And I have beheld some mighty big ‘uns.
This dynamic dual epitomized the crisis one faces when (he or) she has to balance compassion against his (her, MINE) NO BULLSHIT rule. While:
- I really feel for the one brother who has chosen to take care of his afflicted sibling. My grandmother had to do the same thing with her older sister. It’s hard.
- I think it is wonderful that this gent takes his brother on walks and tries to keep him active instead of just dumping him into some “home”.
- I am really touched by by how much this man cares for his brother.
- I do not mind the odd things this individual says/does. He can’t control his actions.
- I do mind being patronized by a horny old geezer that is capable of self-control.
O.G. (looking at me): Welllllllll, I see we have a lady working here now.
Me (to Chad): There’s a lady in here!?! Where the hell is she because I didn’t see her come in.
O.G.: I am talking about you.
Me: I ceased being a lady a long time ago. I’m married now and don’t give a SHIT.
(laughter)
Point made.
Last, but hardly least.
Customer: Old woman
Origin: HELL
Source of dispute: Unintelligible
Crime(s): Insanity, being really fucking loud
Sometimes you can look at a person and just know something is really, really wrong with them. Such was the case with this woman. I had bent over to pick a box up and lo, there she was smiling at me. Uh-oh.
This woman was probably in her eighties. Unlike a number of the cute little old ladies that visit the store on occasion, this woman did not have a command of make-up (two circles of pink rouge with bright pink or red lipstick). She looked like a cross between a Babushka and Baby Jane. She behaved entirely like the latter.
After hassling me to look at several necklaces she started asking me about other items shewas looking for. Or at least I think that was what she was doing; I couldn’t understand much of what she was saying. She spoke a form of Polish-inflected English I had yet to learn. I do not speak “Batshitfuckingcrazy”.
She asked if we had pajamas. Chad explained to her:
- We had clothing.
- Pajamas are a form of clothing.
- Clothing is located in the back of the store.
- She should look for pajamas in the back of the store.
This got her out of our hair and I proceeded to help another customer. Ten minutes later, she starts shouting. Chad ignores her. She continues yelling. Chad slowly walks back to see what her problem was. This is when she started SCREAMING. She sounded just like a toddler. An eight-something year old toddler that was on fire.
Was she hurt? No.
Was she having a heart attack? No.
She wanted to know the price of a men’s button-down shirt. Uh-HUH.
Chad quoted her $1.00 for this item. After some thought (this is a serious investment, folks) she purchased it and left.
I turned the customer I was helping and said:
And some say Greenpoint is the next hip hood. It won’t be as long as there are people like that living here.
Customer (sarcastically): But Time Out New York said…
(fiendish laughter)
Miss Heather
Would you rent a studio from this man?
Anyone out there looking for some affordable studio space, listen up! I found something today that might be of interest to you.
$650 for 400 square feet of space and eastern exposure? Not bad! But you know, the name “fluxusreadymade” sounds familiar to me. I think I came across it a few months ago…
Oh, that’s where I found it— in my very own inbox! Silly me.
I find it pretty amusing that the very person who sent me this nastygram may very well be a landlord. Of course, this newfound and very fascinating piece of information would have gone unnoticed had Bert bothered to take his own advice, e.g.; don’t shit where you eat.
Can you imagine what it must be like to be this guy’s tenant— or worse yet, his ROOMMATE? Whatever you do, for god’s sake don’t drink the man’s milk! He’ll probably go postal.
Yikes.
Miss Heather
Believed to be insane
I am certain a number of you have read that laughably bad series of articles about Greenpoint in Time Out New York. I have done so repeatedly because the neighborhood they wrote about sure as fuck isn’t Greenpoint. And I should know, I fucking live here. The following quote from their real estate feature almost gave me an aneurysm.
Rentals run between $800 and $1,000 for a studio, and $900 and $1,200 for a one-bedroom. You just need to know where to look: Check real-estate listings in the Greenpoint Gazette and Greenpoint Star, and tenants wanted signs in the windows of Polish-run businesses, or try local broker Eve Levine (347-XXX-XXXX).
What the fuck were the editors smoking when they decided to publish this? I wonder if Eve gave it to them, because it must be some seriously good shit. Not like the schwag my neighbors usually smoke. That’s all they can afford after paying exorbitantly high rent each and every month.
It has also been my observation that most of the apartments advertised in the Greenpoint Gazette and the Greenpoint Star are listed by brokers. Many of the “for rent” signs I see here are written in Polish —which makes sense given they are usually placed in the windows of Polish businesses. Why does it not surprise me that Eve “Homebuying for Hipsters” Levine, an agent herself, didn’t see fit to mention any of the previous? It would be bad for business, that’s why. After a horde of gullible miscreats tries (and fails) to locate these unbelievably inexpensive apartments they will give Eve a call. And she will be more than happy to help them, for a fee.
Seriously, the days of getting a $800/month rent for studio apartment in Greenpoint are long gone. When I moved here over seven years ago my first (studio) apartment cost me $850 a month. Although it was very spacious, it was hardly a palace: I had part of my kitchen ceiling collapse, had intermittent hot water and once went 10 days without electricity.
I had a crackhead as a neighbor. The hallways of my building reeked of crack and the stench of stale shit. This crackalicious chap also happened to be the Superintendent’s brother, which really sucked. In a nutshell, I lived in a total and utter shithole. I can only imagine what $800 a month will get you now. Maybe a coop at Josh Guttman’s Chicken Ranch, a room at the ever popular Greenpoint Hotel or a Port-O-Let immediately come to mind.
Ms. Levine’s assertion that $900-$1,200 was the going rent for one bedroom struck me as being even more dubious. I have lived in the same one bedroom RENT STABILIZED apartment for over five years. When I moved in my rent was $1,200 a month. Not anymore!
I don’t know where you got your information from, TONY. Were the whoppers you published the result of graft or were they wrested out your ASS?* Either way, it’s a load of shit. Which brings me to today’s offering of Greenpoint historic hooliganism. This one dates from the November 23, 1899 edition of the Brooklyn Daily Eagle and is entitled “Believed To Be Insane”. Enjoy!
Young Man Found Wading in Whale Creek in Greenpoint
“I am a reporter and I have been assigned on a story by a Manhattan newspaper to Greenpoint” said Archie Harvey, a wild-eyed looking young man to Magistrate Lemon in the Manhattan Avenue police court today when he was arraigned on a charge of vagrancy. The Magistrate looked at the reporters and then at the magistrate a second time.
“I repeat that I am a reporter assigned by the New York Herald to write a story in Greenpoint,” the prisoner said. “I get $25,000 a day and give my mother $1,000 a minute.”
Magistrate Lemon committed Harvey for examination into his sanity. The young man gave his address as 148 East Forty-fourth Street, Manhattan. He was arrested on a charge of vagrancy last evening while he was wading in Whale Creek at the foot of Eagle Street, Greenpoint. He wore neither hat, coat nor shoes and appeared to be in search of something.
I’m not surprised the judge didn’t believe Mr. Harvey’s story. Everyone knows that there is no way in hell an actual print reporter (from Manhattan, no less) would set foot in our humble ‘hood. They let the local real estate brokers and developers ghostwrite/edit their articles for them. Everyone around here knows that, even the Dog Shit Queen of Greenpoint.
Miss Heather
*And to think that I actually looked forward to their “Cheap Eats” issue. Whores. No worries, I am currently in talks with NFT about doing a little writing for them. If this comes to pass people will hear the REAL DEAL about what’s shaking in Greenpoint. From someone who actually lives here and provides a measure of “local resistance” to Magic Johnson’s early morning wake-up calls and apparent disregard public safety, no less.
Posting Comments: A Primer
It has come to my attention that people seeking to comment on this site (some naughty, some nice) are confused about how the process works. Here it is:
- I require registration.
- I approve each and every comment before it gets posted. I am selective in my censorship and only weed out spam comments.
- Since my work/social/fecal schedule can be hectic, occasionally time will elapse before I get around to sorting the shit from the Shinola, so to speak. Please be patient.
The previous having been said, here are a few more thoughts I have on this topic…
The increased traffic my blog has received of late has netted a commensurate increase in the number of comments I have to moderate. On the one hand I am very happy that New York Shitty appears to be providing a forum for my fellow Greenpointers to shoot the shit and discuss local affairs. The previous has been sorely lacking in this ‘nabe for far too long On the other, I’ve had a number of wiseasses attempt to insult me.
Here’s an example posted by “Deathgod99” (it makes me wonder what Deathgod 1-98 are like. Maybe he is in his Mayan phase?— Ed. Note.) regarding this post:
How are you sure you don’t shit like a dog? Canny coincidence
Because I shit in a toilet (unless I have food poisoning— in which case anything goes), use toilet paper and have enough book learnin’ to know that “canny coincidence” is semantically incorrect. Which brings me to a few tips for those who wish to diss the Queen of Piss:
- I worked in corporate America for over ten years.
- During this tenure of working a “real” job I endured abuse and degradation the likes of which you are incapable of doling out.
- If you are going to post a comment of contrarian nature, please do not use ten dollar words unless you know how to use them because…
- I will make light of it.
- I take tremendous pride being the Dog Shit Queen of Greenpoint. I hold court over the piles of shit (canine, human and otherwise) in a neighborhood that no ones seems to give a shit about: Greenpoint. Speculators building obscenely huge condominium buildings in the hopes of making a fast buck that take the pissant fines doled out by the (woefully under-staffed and decidely corrupt) Department of Buildings as a business expense notwithstanding.
I may very well shit like a dog, but at least I don’t lick it up. The word on the street is that someone on Diamond Street has a palate for poo.
Miss Heather
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