Intimation of Gentrification

When do you know that your neighborhood is dangerously close to becoming yet another hypergentrified hellhole?

The day you find a flyer offering a “Big Reward” for a stolen Dutch Modern chair, that’s when.

Miss Heather

There’s no place like home!

A few weeks ago I did something I rarely, if ever, do: drop $60.00 for a pair of shoes. The above shoes. When I saw them at the Mini minimarket I was smitten. How often does one find red FLOCKED flats, much less red flocked flats THAT SMELL LIKE FRUIT. I shit you not, they do. After wearing them my feet smell like The Copa Cabana. Not that I’m into sniffing feet (my own or anyone else’s), mind you.

Which brings me to a recent dialogue I had with one of my readers, “jukeboxgraduate”. She writes:

Ah, Miss Heather. Clearly you do not live close enough to Franklin St. to remember the hell that was the YEAR AND A HALF of its destruction, rebuild, destruction, rebuild, etc. I remember jackhammers outside my window – repeatedly – at 6am. I remember flaming man holes (no, really, actual man holes in the street – me calling 911 because everyone outside just seemed to be standing there staring at it).

To wit I emailed her back:

…I chuckled at your memories of exploding man holes and the utter hell that was Franklin Street. Remember when they had a rash of muggings there a year or two ago? I do. It was around that time my husband and I had the pleasure of walking by some young toughs smoking crack around a discarded stove… (Ah, those were the days!)

Damn, I miss those flaming man holes. Nowadays if I want to experience that kind of thing I have to consume large amounts of tofu— but somehow it just isn’t the same. Yes indeedy, to quote Archie and Edith Bunker, those were the days. The days when Franklin Street was a special place teeming with very special people. I’m going to click together my tooty fruity red ruby slippers, go back in time and tell you about one such special person…

It was a sultry summer night in Greenpoint. On a lark, my buddy Rachael and I went to the G Lounge. (This bar is long gone, Van Gogh’s Radio has since taken its place. —Ed. Note) After we arrived we noticed our friend Jez was there, so we joined her. Next to her was this tall lanky dude. The three of us struck up a conversation with him.

Or should I say two of us conversed with him? For reasons I do not recall this guy pissed Jez off and the two commenced having a shouting match. Knowing that Jez can be a bit of a hot head, Rachael and I laughed it off. We made no effort whatsoever to suppress our amusement at her scathing bon mots. This act of insouciance on our part was the final straw; she stomped out of the bar, leaving us alone with our new friend. We explained to Michael that he should not to take anything Jez said personally. She’s a very sweet— but very opinionated gal— who clearly needed to blow off some steam.

After making peace, Mike left the bar. Rachael and I, no longer having a source of entertainment, left as well. We bumped into Mike a few doors down. He was with two young Polish toughs drinking Johnny Walker Red straight out of the bottle. Demonstrating true Greenpoint hospitality, they offered us a swig. Rachael accepted, I declined.

Having broken bread, Mike started to open up. A LOT. He wanted to know if Rachael was married. Rachael answered to the affirmative. He was visibly crushed by this and we took pity on him. Enough so to acquiesce to a strange, but other harmless request: to suck one of our big toes. Yup, Mr. Mike was a foot man.

Although this is not my thing, my “inner fucker” was dying to know if this dude would actually do it. And by “it” I mean stick my dirty, unwashed toe in his mouth. Right there on the street. My more sensible side figured his mouth was probably pretty clean after swigging that high-octane hooch. I mean, think about it: I know where my foot has been, but god only knows where his mouth has been. Oh wait, I DO KNOW: feasting upon the finely fettled and festering feet of New York Shitty. *shudder*

Long story made short, he did it. The Polish dudes thought this was the funniest fucking thing they had ever seen (because it is FUCKING FUNNY). As time went on Rachael and I came to learn how truly weird Mike was. Not only was he into feet, but he liked to wear women’s pantyhose (preferably control top) and was entranced by Landmark Forum. The lattermost was what really turned me off. Those people give me the fucking creeps.

Thankfully, Greenpoint gentrification eventually forced Mike to move elsewhere. “Where to?”, you ask?

Where else: QUEENS.

Miss Heather

Anyone need a dog sitter?

I saw this advertisement yesterday at Word Books. If anyone out there needs a dog sitter for his/her not too strong friendly with people and not sick dog, today’s your lucky day. Isabel runs a 100% professional business; she will only sit at your house. So you better damned have cable and keep the refrigerator stocked.

Miss Heather

Uriah Hoare: Working Man’s Hero

For reasons I will go into another time, I have been spending a lot of time researching Greenpoint history of late. As I parsed through page upon page of old newspapers, I came to the realization that this neighborhood has not changed much over the last 150+ years. Greenpoint is a strange place; its inhabitants are even stranger. Yet, by the grace of god, not much in the way of serious criminal activity goes down here. But when something does happen, you can bet your bottom dollar…

1. It will be a doozy.
2. Alcohol consumption and/or arson will be involved.

Take the following gem of a crime blotter entry I found recently from the Brooklyn Daily Eagle:

July 15, 1860

Another Explosion of Fireworks — Suspected Arson and Arrest of the Supposed Incendiaries— Between 3 and 4 o’clock yesterday afternoon a large brick building situated in Green Street, near Union (now Manhattan Ed. Note) Avenue, Greenpoint, was blown into fragments by the explosion of a quantity of fireworks which had been placed there for storage. The building and the contents belonged to the firm of Boch & Puchta, of 50 Liberty Street, New York, and whose factory is at Greenpoint. The building is used exclusively for storing manufactured goods, and contained at the time of the explosion, at least, $4,000 worth of fireworks ready for delivery. The roof of the house was thrown upwards of forty feet into the air. Rockets, Roman candles, and squibs of different descriptions, were scattered in different directions for hundreds of yards around, and had the accident occured at night would doubtless have presented one of the most brilliant pyrotechnic displays ever witnessed. The noise of the explosion, it is said, was heard at a distance of two miles. The exploded building was detached and thrown at least two hundred yards away from any other house, consequently the damage done was confined entirely to the premises of Boch & Puchta, who estimate their loss at about $5,000 on building and stock. It is believed that the place was set on fire, and two men named Uriah Hoare and Henry Wendt were arrested on suspicion.

“Arrested on suspicion” is not a satisfactory explanation to Miss Heather. I needed closure and I wouldn’t rest goddammit until got it. I did: courtesy of the “Brooklyn Intelligence” section of New York Times published the same day…

…Hoare was discharged by Boch & Puchta yesterday morning for intoxication, the owners not considering it safe to trust such a man about their establishment. A few minutes before the explosion occured he was seen leaving the building, and it is supposed that he kindled a fire under it. The other man (Wendt) was arrested because he is an intimate associate of Hoare’s.

Not only does Mr. Wendt deserve induction into the Best Friend EVER Hall of Fame (if there is such a place), but this has got to be one of the most inspired acts of revenge against a former employer I have ever read. Someone should make a buddy movie based off this tale. I think Will Ferrell has the acting chops to depict Uriah Hoare with dignity and respect he so richly deserves.

Uriah Hoare, on the behalf of everyone who has ever wanted to rip their (ex) boss a new asshole, I salute you.

Miss Heather