Greenpoint
Lorven Pharmacy
Culture on the Cheap
At last, the shoe is on the other foot…
…and I wanna ram it up someone’s ass!
I initially had no intention of writing today. I had a number of errands to run and preparations to make for an upcoming house guest. I have been very busy. I am now very tired. But not too tired to read this article from the New York Observer and offer up a thought or two…
I distinctly remember an unpleasant incident that happened to me seven years ago. I was chatting with a co-worker and the subject of neighborhoods came up. He asked me where I lived, so I told him: “Greenpoint”. His reply was “Man, you live out in the middle of nowhere!”
After learning that this person lived off of the Morgan Avenue stop of the L (and saw fit call it “Williamsburg”) I realized that I had an asshole on my hands. A phony asshole. Not being the kind of person to waste her breath on an idiot, the subject was never brought up again. It was just as well; I was vindicated on 9/11 when this dude (and two other co-workers) made a pit-stop at my apartment on Clay Street, AKA ‘the middle of nowhere’, before dragging his ass home to ‘Williamsburg’. Or whatever the fuck that neighborhood is— I honestly don’t care.
Before I continue I want to make one thing very clear: the purpose of this post is not to ‘B-Burg bash. Hypocrisy, one up-manship and conformity are the subjects of this rant. And the person mentioned in the above paragraph was guilty of all three. He was also a flaming dick, but I digress…
I am neither an old-timer nor a newbie here. When I moved to Greenpoint in 2000 it was because my first two neighborhoods of choice were prohibitively expensive. Greenpoint, choice #3, not only provided fast access to Manhattan, but it is safe and has all the basics an apartment dweller needs: grocery stores, laundromats, etc. My moving here was based on very practical considerations.
I did (and still do) not want to live in or near a dangerous neighborhood to earn street cred with people I could care less about. ‘Coolness’ was NOT a deciding factor. I am not now— nor will I ever be “cool”. I have accepted this.
After living in Greenpoint my first year I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. I feel at home here, and consequently, I have been able to laugh off the years of snide remarks and mean-spirited ignorance that living here seems to invite. If someone in ‘Williamsburg’, ‘East Williamsburg’, ‘West Bushwick’, etc., doesn’t like my ‘nabe, FINE. Don’t move here. I don’t want you as my neighbor anyway.
The previous having been said, dear readers, you can imagine the look on my face when I read about ‘Jessica’:
…who refused to give her last name but admitted that she moved to the neighborhood (Williamsburg), off the Bedford Avenue stop, from Virginia two years ago.
“I can’t tell people I’m from Williamsburg,†she told The Observer. “It gets people so uptight; all ‘Oooooo, you’re from Williamsburg, and where’s your Brooklyn Industries bag and your trust fund and your newsboy cap, hmmm?’ So I just lie and say I’m from Greenpoint.â€
I think ‘Jessica’ needs to learn something I (finally) grasped back in 2000: this city is filled with assholes who are not worth the time trying to ‘convert’. It really saddens me that this woman feels the need to buckle under peer pressure. I mean, fuck, if you can’t be yourself who are you? Really?
If given the money would I live in her ‘hood? No. But I do like to pop down there on occasion? You betcha! Do I make fun of Williamsburg? Yes, a lot. I also make fun of Greenpoint, Long Island City, the Upper East Side, Park Slope, Prospect Heights or any other ‘nabe that tickles my funny bone (or piques my ire) on any particular day.
Several months ago my mouth got me into a pickle with a resident of Long Island City. This woman emphatically disagreed with my (admittedly) vitriolic take on her ‘nabe. Did she go around saying that she lived in ‘Greenpoint North’ or ‘Astoria South’ after reading what I wrote? Nope. She ripped me a new asshole on her blog instead.
Believe it or not (after we had some serious ‘dialoguing’) I gained a serious measure of respect for this woman’s willingness to stand up. Perhaps this is the person who should have a nice, long talk with ‘Jessica’? Or maybe I will start calling my ‘nabe ‘Long Island City South’ instead…?
Miss Heather
Photo Credit: Rebecca1122. Those ain’t turds, kiddos. They be some kielbasa! Welcome to Greenpoint, BAYBEE!
Winning friends and influencing people…
As I was parsing though my incoming links today I came across this gem. WOW. I think I should hook her up with this guy. Who knows, after going “Christian Slatter” on my ass maybe romance will blossom? Contrary to what my husband says, I’ve always fancied myself as quite the incurable romantic.
Sheesh.
In all seriousness, I find differing points of view fascinating. If this gal likes living in LIC, more power to her. I am actually happy to see someone standing up for her ‘nabe; I only wish she would have refrained from the personal insults. Those were not necessary and only serve to undermine her credibility.
Given all the cynicism and apathy I see every fucking day, I find Miss Striped Shirt’s, uh, enthusiasm refreshing. The next time I go to Long Island Shitty I’m wearing fucking body armor.
Miss Heather
P.S.: Long Island City still sucks. 😉
Miss Heather’s First Piece of Hate Mail!
Filed under: Crazy People
“Bert Schuck” (if that his/her real name) writes:
Fuck you!
Fuck you!
Fuck you!
You just don’t fucking get it. Even shit PR just helps push all the rents in Greenpoint higher.
Ever here the phrase “don’t shit where you eat”? Don’t PR Greenpoint and then complain about the rents going up.
What art school did you go to anyway?
A blog about dog shit is the best idea you could come up with?Go back to whatever lame ass suburb you were spawned in.
Trendy bitch.
Do I detect a little envy? This dude needs to learn to lighten the fuck up— and not be so reliant on Microsoft’s spell checking function. I have one word for this guy: dictionary. Look it up…
Hugs,
Miss Heather
P.S.: Thanks “Bert”. You have the honor of being featured on this, my 200th, post. Mazel Tov!
McGuinness Boulevard
Filed under: 2007 Crap Map, Bum Shit, Crazy People, Dog Shit, Dung of the Day, Greenpoint Magic
Lest the subject matter of this blog does not make it clear already; I have unusual tastes when it comes to entertaining myself. After busting my ass last week, I finally got some ‘down’ time Sunday. Some people spend their leisure time by taking vacations to such exotic locales as Tahiti, Martha’s Vineyard or even Florida. I for one am perfectly content with strolling McGuinness Boulevard. Your eyes are not deceiving you: you just read McGuinness Boulevard.
The way I see it, McGuinness Boulevard epitomizes what is so wrong, and yet, so right about Greenpoint. Like a whore past its prime, this throughfare is highly-trafficked, noisy, and more often than not, filthy. But (under the right circumstances) it does have its charm.
Have you ever witnessed a 40-something couple who— man and woman alike— bore a strange resemblance to Barry Manilow making out in front of a Hess Station?
I have.
Do you like to watch an old man work his dentures like a wad of cud, pop out his top plate and suck it back in— hands free— while dining at Taco Bell?
I do.
The gentrifiers of this ‘hood can keep their waterfront parks, humvee-sized strollers and triple mocha lattes. The Dog Shit Queen of Greenpoint wants entertainment— and Mickey G’s is where it’s at! What’s more, the very namesake of this fine boulevard, the honorable Peter. J. McGuinness, was pretty damned entertaining in his own right. As I learned recently.
When queried about nominating himself as the Assistant Commissioner of Public Works during Seabury investigation, his answer was as follows:
Well, as the leader of the Greenpernt People’s Regular Organization of the Fifteenth District I couldn’t pick a more better person to suggest for for this job than myself. I drove nine gypsy bands out of Greenpernt, as well as three hundred Chinese coolies, and all the cats and dogs that used to run down the streets. I got Greenpernt three playgrounds, the subway, the one-and-a-half million bridge on Greenpoint Avenue, and two million dollars’ worth of paving… I done good. I thank you.*
Not to sound like I condone racism (I don’t), but thanks to Mr. McGuinness’s hard work I have yet to see any gypsy bands or large numbers of ‘coolies’ roaming the streets in my seven years of living here. However, it does beg one to question whether he knew anything about the large number of Polish people reputed to live here. I suppose Pete took that one to the grave.
As for the two million dollars worth of paving, I am certain the seemingly endless cycle of destruction/construction on Franklin Street would make Mr. McGuinness proud. That public works project (if one can call it that) reeks of graft. Or, at the very best, extreme incompetence. Oh well.
Aside from the odd stray cat, there isn’t much in the way of feral animals running the streets now. Not on four legs anyway, but I digress…
Pete may have been the beacon of progress for this fine ‘nabe, but there is one form of blight he obviously missed: dog shit. And that’s exactly what I found during my leisurely stroll along his boulevard. Lots of (sh)it.
A comprehensive photo record of my findings can be viewed on my Crap Map, but here are some hightlights.
Dung of the Day: DEP
This may very well be the best “Dung of the Day” I have ever found. This ironic pile of poop was located at 381 McGuinness, which is also where one of the finest buildings in Greenpoint happens to be located.
Or perhaps a better term for this architectural masterpiece is “bunker”. Note the metal slit in the doorway. I wonder if you have to give the secret password to get in? If so, I wish I knew what it is. Not too long ago when I was apartment-less and jobless I seriously mulled over listing 381 McGuinness as my address on my resume. Wisely, I elected against it.
For now, anyway. Who knows what tomorrow will bring?
Poopy al fresco
I found this ad hoc bathroom on Ash Street under the Pulaski Bridge. Not only was it thoughtfully appointed with a magazine, but it had an exciting array of hygiene products necessary for the urbane bum-about-town. I envision the person who patronizes this lavatory to be the Hugh Hefner (or Alistair Cooke) of bums. After awakening in a pool of his own vomit, ‘Hugh’ adjusts his fez, puts on his loafers and proceeds to bathroom to ‘freshen up’ for the ladies.
Condoville
No post about Mickey G’s would be complete without mentioning the prodigious quantity of condos being built along it. As the Gowanus Lounge indicates in this post, the median price for an apartment in Greenpoint has increased by 65% over the last year. Ouch!
Then again, does anyone (save the developer or a real estate agent) honestly believe that the following turd is going to command top dollar? Really?
I call the above exercise in wishful thinking, Fort Apache, The ‘Point. I cannot for the life of me imagine who would want to purchase one of these condos. For starters, the building is ugly as shit. Secondly, the point of having a balcony (as I understand it) is to enjoy a scenic view. Here is some of the scenery that will come with that top corner unit’s (undoubtedly inflated) price tag.
NICE. All you taxi cab and dumpster fetishists out there will have to wait: this building isn’t ready for habitation. Sorry.
But easily the most provocative discovery made during my adventures along McGuinness Boulevard cum Condoland was here.
I call this monolith the “Blockbuster Condo” because it is located behind the shuttered Blockbuster Video on McGuinness Boulevard. In many ways this building resembles the strip mall in front of it: both are over-sized, boxy and very grey eyesores. In addition, (just like the Blockbuster in front of it) this condo has some added-value the real estate brokers probably won’t tell you about…
A scenic view of Bum Shit Central!
I cannot tell a lie: if I had the money, I might pay the asking price for this blue chip view. I cannot think of a better way to start my morning than to sip coffee while gazing out my window to sight of homeless people shitting and masturbating. Constantly.
Miss Heather
P.S.: Check out this nifty mug I designed last weekend!
*From Once Upon a Time in New York by Herbert Mitgang
Meanpoint*
As it happens, my upstairs neighbor started a blog recently. I am very happy to see this, as he is one cool guy.
When I looked at his blog this morning, I came across a short film of a drunk Polish Nazi (yes, I just wrote “Polish Nazi”) he made recently.
This man is most decidedly NOT cool.
I can’t believe anyone (outside of perhaps, Iran) would say such things. Someone should take a brickbat to the side of this asshole’s head. Preferably one of the concentration camp survivors who reside here. (I do not see them often, but they do exist; the numbers tattooed on their arms say it all.)
Unless my high school history classes were wrong, I do not recall the Nazis as being particularly kind to Polish people either. Fucking idiot.
*UGH*
Miss Heather
*A term coined by my ‘nabe. Liked it so much I just HAD to use it.
Don’t Put Strawberry Jelly on my Bagel
(…if I have jam in my pants)
After tossing and turning all night, I attempted to operate on four hours sleep (and two cups of coffee) today. My morning consisted of doing two loads of laundry and scouting the far north end of Manhattan Avenue for dog shit. Between the two previous tasks I ordered a toasted bagel from New Tulcingo.
I said I wanted a bagel with just a little cream cheese. And I got just that— with a fat glob of gelatinous sweet red slime to boot! I discovered this at the intersection of Freeman Street and Manhattan Avenue and got enraged. Instead of doing the rational thing (returning it and asking for another one) I flung the jelly off and cursed with total abandon.
For reasons unknown, a cabbie on Freeman Street found my spasmic fits of profanity interesting. Maybe he thought I was trying to hail him, as incomprehensible as that may seem; I was shouting, shaking a bagel and flinging jelly for chrissakes!
He pulled over on Manhattan Avenue and stared at me.
Me (shaking the offending bagel): Do you have a fucking problem!?!
Nothing. He kept staring.
The cabbie finally got the message when I started flinging jelly at his car.
In the clarity that is 20/20 hindsight, I suspect my menstrual anti-jelly demonstration is penny ante shit compared to what this man sees in Williamsburg, Chelsea or the East Village on any given day night. Except I wasn’t a kinked-up/coked-up nympho looking for a ride home: I was one very PISSED-OFF Greenpoint Gal trying to get that jelly THE FUCK off her BAGEL!
Please accept my sincerest apologies, cabbie. I meant no harm: you just happened to offer your services to the wrong person, at the wrong place and at the WORST possible time. You guys (and gals) have it hard enough as is. I am sorry if my mixed signals confused you.
When I got home I noticed my little friend surprised me (yet) again. I’l be serving up red jam toast for the next 3-4 days. Yummy. My husband will be delighted.
Miss Heather
Green Street Shouter
Last weekend my husband and I took a day trip to Long Island. Not only was our destination eerily bereft of dog shit (or any kind of shit, for that matter), but it did not have the bountiful array of exotic (and noxious) aromas and sounds I have grown to savor. In other words: it was nice. A little too nice.
This sentiment was later confirmed when I read the local newspaper. It is my belief that:
- Most people need to be kept occupied at all times, otherwise they will find the least constructive means possible to busy themselves and
- having no greater problems to tackle, most people will become pathologically fixated some bit of minutiae which (for some god-forsaken reason) they feel compelled to share with others via the local media.
The end product (to an outsider like me) is downright hilarious by virtue of its sincerity, hyperbole and syntactical fuzziness. Case in point:
I have found things much more disturbing than “a strange dog” outside my back door. In fact, most creatures that scare the piss out of me have two legs, not four. Perhaps it is New York City’s failing school system, but I was under the impression that dogs can’t read. Therefore, a sign admonishing them to stay off school property is useless.
The “Crime Blotter” section offered up this choice morsel.
Render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar’s, and unto God the things that are God’s.
But if you want the son of God gracing your front yard it will cost you $100. Master Card and Visa accepted. No checks.
And as with any society you get malcontents: brave and inbalanced souls who persist against overwhelming odds in ripping the man (and his bullshit sense of propriety) a new asshole. My kind of people, like this fine gentleman.
I think Mr. Greenwald needs to find his way to Greenpoint. We have numerous yellers here (Spanish-speaking, Polish-speaking and English-speaking) he can exchange yelling tips with or talk shouting shop. Perhaps he can apprentice to become a bi-(or tri-)lingual yeller? This would expand his aural abuse potential tremendously. Who knows, he might even find a nice yelling woman to settle down with, have a few l’il yellers and they’ll shout away into (at?) the sunset together. (And husband says I am not the romantic type. PAW!)
As it happens, my very own block (Green Street) has a yeller-in-residence. He makes his presence known about once a month. What this man is so worked-up about is anyone’s guess; his oratory sounds like something belched out by the “Walrus Man” in the movie “Star Wars”. Completely unintelligible, but laden with heart-felt emotion.
Last week “Walrus Man” demonstrated his newfound command of pronouns. At 11:00 p.m…
Fuck you! (loud crash) Fuck this!
and 12:15 a.m.
Fuck it! (loud banging) Fuck you!
I craned my head out the window, but couldn’t see him. The next morning, however, I found this next door to our building. This man is such a BAD ASS that even his imaginary friends draw blood.
Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, Long Island!
Miss Heather
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