Greenpoint
Lorven Pharmacy
Culture on the Cheap
New York Shitty Videos Du Jour: Live From The B62
Filed under: 11222, Asshole, Crazy People, Greenpoint, Greenpoint Brooklyn, Greenpoint Magic
To preface: Today yours truly decided a walk across the Williamsburg Bridge (this is one of my favorite leisure time activities) was in order. Since I was running late I decided to take the B62 bus to the Southside in order to make up for lost time. It didn’t exactly work out that way. In my guesstimation my travel time (from Greenpoint Avenue) was one hour. How did this happen, you ask? Read on and find out!
Let me explain to you, dear readers, what you have just watched. Our intrepid bus driver, frustrated that a motorist elected to parallel park in front of his vehicle in a manner which precluded him from performing his duty (READ: driving)— and upon discovering honking his horn was useless— prevailed upon a police officer for help. First, I’ll tender the good news: our finest prevailed! And now the bad news…
Clearly displeased with the outcome of this exchange our motorist (being insane, an asshole or some combination thereof) decided running to the next bus stop and resuming (t)his altercation was in order. If you listen very carefully at the end he says (and I quote):
You want to kill me? You want to kill me? Let’s do it!
The next time you, gentle readers, get angry at a member of our Transit Authority for being gruff or downright rude I want to think about what you have just watched. I for one commend this bus driver’s restraint. I for one cannot fathom what it would be like to deal with this shit every day.
I suspect I speak for a number of my fellow mass transit patrons this afternoon when I write I had the utmost desire to take this fellow up on his offer. In closing, I would like to humbly suggest— moving forward— that if/when this chap wants a fight he should stick his head up his ass and fight for air. The rest of us have lives.
P.S.: If anyone from the M.T.A. is reading this give this bus driver a raise. Yesterday. He is an absolute prince— and I told him so!
New York Shitty Day Ender: 373 Graham Avenue, Revisited
If any of you, gentle readers, have ever wondered (as I often have) what— if any— rules, etiquette if you will, are in effect at our fair city’s detention centers— but never wanted to find out firsthand: I have excellent news!
If any of you, gentle readers, have wondered (as I often have) what rules, etiquette if you will, are in place in our fair city’s detention centers but do not want find out firsthand I have excellent news! Graham Avenue’s good friend “Joe” has seen fit to share literature from one of his excursions through our legal system. Without further ado, here are a few selections. Enjoy!
As always, you can peruse all the previous in larger format by clicking here.
In closing, I would like to share what predicated my visit to 373 Graham Avenue (AKA: “Spooky Hollow”). A fellow we’ll call “C” writes on May 28, 2012 in an email entitled “End of an Era”:
Spooky Hollow has collapsed into itself like a dying star. Sorry for the poor photo, but Joe seems to be telling the world that the building has been “sold”…
Or, maybe “sold the building” is a euphemism for “locked up in Rikers”?
Only time will tell, I suppose.* However, the bigger question on my mind is exactly WHO is maintaining the bat-shit crazy menagerie of crap in front of his non-property in the meantime. Anyone?
Image Credits: New York City Department of Corrections screencap comes courtesy of 373 Scam Ave.
*Although it should be noted another missive on the front door 373 Graham Avenue indicates all matters be taken up with N.C. Pepe Real Estate. Anyone care to make the call?
From The New York Shitty Inbox: Scat Attack At McGolrick Park?
Filed under: 11222, Crazy People, Criminal Activity, Culture War, Dog Shit, Dung of the Day, Greenpoint, Greenpoint Brooklyn, Greenpoint Magic
A person we’ll call “S” writes:
Miss Heather,
About a month or so ago, my girlfriend & I were walking our puppy on Driggs Avenue after visiting the McGolrick Dog Run. It’s pretty normal to see other people walking their dogs and to allow them to sniff each other and so forth. On this occasion however, a young woman with her small poodle was walking by and even though our dog was a safe distance and on a leash, this woman quickly stood between her and her dog and said very forcibly, “Stay away from my dog!” I laughed a little because I was kind of shocked by her random behavior and she immediately started yelling at us about how wrong it was for us not to rescue a shelter dog. We were just kind of startled and walked away, basically wondering WTF? A few days later, I was walking our dog and this girl and her dog were coming in the other direction and she just started yelling at me to “keep my fucking ugly ass dog away from her dog”. I never allowed my dog to come within touching distance of her dog and so I kind of giggled out of frustration and a bit of amusement that this stranger wants to pick a fight with me every time we pass. I’m pretty sure that she lives on the same block as me. So a week passes and I see her again and she makes these very awkward angry, silent mouth gestures at me and I couldn’t help saying, “Lady, you’re a nut”.
And then this morning, at 7am in McGolrick Park we are once again passing each other with our dogs and even though my dog is at least three feet away from her dog, she’s starts yelling to “Get your fucking dog away from my dog…” and the same rant about not rescuing a shelter dog. I told her to “Fuck off” and she picked up her dogs diarrhea with aplastic bag and tried to throw it at my dog. He got hit with the bag, but fortunately not with the shit. There were other dog owners nearby that seemed pretty dumbfounded by the whole interaction and demanded that she clean up the shit that was now all over the park’s walk way. She also said that she has filed a complaint with 311 every time that my dog has gotten too close to her dog and these complaints will add up to my dog getting put down. I’m not laughing anymore. This woman is making my blood boil. I continued on our walk and after about 15 minutes, she walks towards me and says, “Have a great day!” I respond with, “If you ever throw shit at me or my dog again, I will not just stand by and let it happen”. She says, “Oh, that’s great, you’re threatening me” and so she calls 911. I already had a headache this morning and I wasn’t about to stand around and let her feel any more satisfied with her wackjob behavior so I quickly took my dog home and went to work.
Here I am at work wondering what kind of false accusations this woman is making to the police. Should I file a police report for her throwing dog shit at me? Should I ignore it all? This is certainly one of the strangest things to happen to me in NYC over the past 10+ years. I’m asking you for advice because you know the neighborhood well and I just don’t know how to proceed.
Thoughts/advice, gentle readers? Quite frankly I’m speechless.
Photo credits (once again): murdoc
Spotted At Bedford Avenue & North 7 Street: LaRouchebags
Filed under: 11211, Crazy People, Culture War, That's Really Racist, Williamsburg, Williamsburg Brooklyn
This morning I awakened in a state not unlike the previous four before: tired. However, there was one crucial difference this time around; I was also very, SERIOUSLY, cold. Neither a whiff nor a sputter of heat was to be had. Not that the “girls” (as I call them) seemed to mind; they were quite perky. Yes, gentle readers, winter has arrived at Chez Shitty. With a two titty salute! But I digress.
The rest of me got up, made a pot of coffee, threw on some thermal underwear and mulled over what I was going to do today. Given the choice between being miserably cold indoors and miserably cold outdoors, I decided the latter was the more palatable option. So I took a walk.
Before I proceed with my story I would like to point out that unlike a number of people, when I feel like being left alone I leave my apartment. Sometimes I need a break from the rigors of my inbox. It is on our city’s not-so-mean streets that I find much-needed solitude— with one notable exception: Bedford Avenue.
Perhaps it is due to the fact I am “old”, bereft any noticeable tattoos, piercings and/or a hangover that I fit the “profile” of someone who gives a shit (READ: a registered voter). This is the only reason I can muster as to why I attract any and all canvassers with a clipboard/hucksters with cause— however laudable or insane— along this strip.
What transpired this morning is no exception. But this time I was ready.
Ever had one of those moments when something inside of you snaps and you break into peals of prepubescent-esque giggling? Well, that is what happened when I stumbled upon the above juxtaposition of a Pabst Blue Ribbon delivery truck…
and a table staffed by two 20-somethings spreading the good news about Lyndon LaRouche.
LAROUCHEPSTERS!
I thought to myself. And doubled over into another (albeit self-induced) fit of demented cackling.
Call it sleep deprivation (it probably is), but I found their poster calling for the impeachment of Barack NERObama (sporting devil horns, no less) and the above item (I’m not happy with our current Commander in Chief— but a Hitler mustache— REALLY?) utterly hilarious. My amusement did not go unnoticed by the chaps staffing said table either:
Me (laughing): Aw man!
Do you know the similarities between Barack Obama and Dick Cheney?
The LaRouchepster asked. To wit I replied with a smile:
No, I just didn’t know LaRouche was out of jail.*
(silence)
When I called the Mister to tell him about my merry-making, I mistakenly called these folks Libertarians. He corrected me as follows:
They’re LaRouchians. That’s even worse.
THE END
*Actually I do know this. However, admitting as much would have spoiled all the fun! This post is dedicated to Pa Heather.
New York Shitty Video du Jour: Live From Manhattan Avenue
Filed under: 11222, Crazy People, Greenpoint, Greenpoint Brooklyn, Greenpoint Magic
If you look carefully when this gent gets up you will notice he has had an, um, accident. This gives a whole new meaning to “doing it in the road”. Just another Monday afternoon in the Garden Spot, folks…
UPDATE, 7:40 p.m.: I have just gotten the 411 on what led up to this event from a pair of eyewitnesses on the scene. Apparently this chap was in a physical altercation with anther individual. He was struck and managed to spill his beverage. Upon hitting (sitting on) the street he shouted:
You spilled my liquor!
Crosstown Local Videos du Jour: Polemic
Filed under: 11211, 11222, Crazy People, Crosstown Local, Greenpoint, Greenpoint Brooklyn, Greenpoint Magic, That's Really Racist, Williamsburg, Williamsburg Brooklyn, Wow
Last night yours truly and a pal attended a forum discussion hosted by the very talented Nathan Kensinger about street photography. Aside from the fact Union Docs was stifling, painfully hot it was an enjoyable evening. One which concluded on a provocative note via some “in flight” entertainment on the way home via the Crosstown Local courtesy of this guy.
As you will notice this chap has a pretty wide berth on the platform. This is because (and I suspect my fellow mass transit patrons will agree with me when I write this) he was— how should we say— a bit touched? His speech (inasmuch as I can ascertain) started with making light of Pearl Harbor:
five thousand miles away in 1941…
and eventually morphed into a random series of screeds about what is wrong with our country. Among other things. He continued his polemic on the train itself. Follows is one of the choicer excerpts for your Monday morning edification. Initially he directs his rancor to Hasidim but eventually (re)directs his attention back to the Japanese. Much to the discomfort of one subway-goer.
It should be noted that immediately prior to this screed our subterranean William F. Buckley spied yours truly filming him. To this he said:
Bitch, you’re taking pictures of a garbage can!
I was initially taken aback by this but quickly thought the better of it. Let’s employ a little logic here: which is worse being a bitch (a female dog) or a garbage can (a receptacle for waste products— and one in New York City at that)? This is a no brainer. In any case he resumed his soap boxing upon exiting the G train at India Street. “Polacks” and “Russkies” became his target as we headed north on Manhattan Avenue. That’s when it hit me: this gent and I are neighbors. I’m one lucky gal!
Miss Heather
Audience Participation Time: Cut & Pasty
One of the things I have been endeavoring to do over the last two months is dedicate more time to my own art work. Unfortunately after I get done writing New York Shitty I find myself bereft of any energy to do so. Last weekend this changed. Thanks to my site being down I had the time. Lots of time. What’s more, I had the inspiration. My “eureka moment” came in the way they often do: a discussion at a bar.
The topic of said discussion was the lack of privacy one has in New York City apartments. One need never know when he (or she) will glance out a tenement window to see a neighbor au naturel. I myself have had this experience. Its consequences exacerbated an already tense situation.
I never learned the woman’s name. This is a shame as I know quite a lot about her. This is because she had a habit of sitting in her apartment window chain smoking and talking on her cell phone for hours on end seemingly oblivious to the fact my husband and I could hear every word she was saying. These lengthy monologues would waft into our bedroom along with traces of the crappy weed she would occasionally indulge in. I can’t really bring myself to disdain this woman for predilection for the latter. After all, she was a city employee and probably on a tight budget. But I digress.
As time waxed on, the Mister and my amusement over Cathy’s activities morphed from amusement to annoyance. After she started throwing parties for her equally noisy friends the latter, in turn, transmogrified into extreme hatred. I suspect she sensed this and a cold waresque cloud of mutual contempt formed over our respective households. Chez Shitty was South Korea, our mutually shared “back yard” was Checkpoint Charlie and Chez Cathy was Democratic People’s Republic of Dumbass. Coexistence was for the most part peaceful. Nonetheless one could palpably sense all that was needed to send the situation to hell in a hand basket was a provocation. One day it finally happened: I looked out my bedroom window.
My husband was reading in bed. He wanted to speak to about something. I do recall what. That has been clouded by the fog of war and what happened next: after talking to him I looked up. To see Cathy buck naked. Before I could avert my gaze we locked glances. I could see the rage fill her face. It was done. She promptly shot me the finger and yanked the drapes shut. I suppose I can understand her reason for upset. Then again, her assumption I wanted to look at her rather pendulous breasts was a wee bit presumptuous. Mammary glands hold no amazement for me— and even if they did I needn’t go far to find a pair. Why go out for hamburgers when you can stay home and have steak? But back to my story.
Conversely, one need always be on the lookout for his or her own privacy. These things happens to the best of us. The phone rings as you are about to step into the shower. You dash to answer it and two thirds into your discussion you look up to see an old lady hanging her laundry staring at your hairy ass in abject horror. What to do, you ask? Well at long last I have the answer. Courtesy of lady named Rebecca while having drinks at a place called the Brooklyn Ale House:
I think I am going to get my nipples tattooed so they look pixelated.
That’s when divine inspiration struck. I don’t how the following found its way out of my mouth, but I am very happy it did:
That sounds kind of painful. Why not just make pasties of your own pixelated nipples instead? It’d be a lot cheaper.
The die had been cast. I simply had to find the time and wherewithal to implement my nefarious plan. Then lo, New York Shitty crashed! I considered this to be a sign and got cracking. I did not make the Mister aware of my project. Such endeavors are best done in artistic seclusion.
Long story made short, the cat eventually bolted out of the bag when he shifted his attention from the Lehrer News Hour to my computer monitor.
Those are your breasts.
He noted.
Yes, they are.
I replied.
Do you need me to take more pictures of them?
He inquired with disquieting alacrity.
No, I have the situation well under control.
I assured him.
Are you sure?
He persisted.
Quite sure, thank you.
He went back to watching the news and I went back to work. As the creative process unfolded I had a second epiphany:
Why hide my pixelated lights under a bushel? Why not make it so as anyone can wear them? Why not let “the girls” go global? And so I did. After a few fits and starts Boobification 2.0: Project Cut & Pasty was finally born!
By clicking on the above image you can make your very own Cut & Pasties! What you do with them is your own business.
If there is a lesson to be learned here it is this: do not let, under any circumstances, let New York Shitty go offline. All this does is give me WAY too much time on my hands. I get bored. And as you can see when I get bored interesting things tend to happen.
Miss Heather
A Tale From The Junk Shop
Filed under: Advanced Life Forms, Area 51, Crazy People, Criminal Activity, Culture War
I am not going to lie: New York Shitty’s latest outage really pissed me off. This has happened with enough frequency that even my patience (and believe it or not I am endowed with quite a lot of this virtue— albeit probably at the expense of a few others) was exhausted. To cite one such example of the patience I am indeed capable of I present for your entertainment a junk shop story.
PREAMBLE
As I have stated before, when I am left in charge interesting things happen. Today I was a magnet for anyone coming in under the influence of mind-altering substances. Or if these individuals were not under the influence, they should probably get whatever is afflicting them looked into. But I am not paid to be psychiatrist. I am a junk woman. In this capacity I have one goal and one goal only: make the sale or induce them to leave, preferably as peacefully as possible. I have many tools in my arsenal for just this purpose. The axe (which you see at left) is not one of them. Yet.
My “professional career” has largely centered around dealing with the general public. The first and hardest lesson I learned is a significant number of homo sapiens are quite insane. I rarely shout or raise my voice. I hate shouting. I employ this tactic sparingly, but for those of you who are wondering (and I know a number of you are) I usually employ my “outdoor voice” for purchasers of pornography.* I do not object to “adult material”. I have grown to accept that as long as there is a market for such things (men) it will exist. Rather, a great many purchasers of these materials are cheap. Very cheap. And loud. VERY LOUD. As I said before, I hate shouting— but I have learned that bellowing out every item the prospective purchaser is raising hell over for everyone’s edification along with the asking price cuts down on time spent haggling significantly. But I digress.
Porn enthusiasts with tight wallets constitute a very small part of the troublesome clientele I encounter. For the rest my “public servant” persona has proven to be by far the most effective. This can best be described as a cross between Nurse Ratched, suicide hotline operator and Hal 9000.
CASE IN POINT: Man walks into store.
Do you work here?
He asks. BIG RED FLAG. This man has bought merchandise and held entire conversations with yours truly on a number of occasions. One was about how he blacked-out under the influence of hallucinogenics, went bat shit in a store one day, came back a week later not remembering what happened and couldn’t understand why the help was scared shitless of him. Yup.
Me (reluctantly): Yes.
Man: I want a price for a table.
Me (with extreme trepidation): Okay.
I look at said table. There is another table on top of it; it has a price tag of $10.00. The table under it is inexplicably the only item without a price tag. I spy a price tag on the ground nearby. I know for a fact all these items were priced yesterday. One item without a tag + one tag discarded on the ground. Face down. Do the math.
Me: That’s strange. This is the only piece of furniture without a price tag...
Man: Isn’t that (pointing to the table on top) the price?
I want you, dear readers, to take a moment to think about this.
Me: I’m going to ask the manager.
Man: I have talked to him about this already. The price keeps going up and down.
It is a common scam at the junk shop for prospective clients, when unsatisfied with the price one employee has given him (or her), to try to solicit a quote from another employee on the sly. They do so under the presumption we do not communicate with each other. We do. Hence why this ruse rarely works. What I find fascinating here is:
- This person is telling me he has already received a quote from someone else.
- He is not happy with the asking price…
- and makes it pretty clear this is why he is asking me for a quote.
- In essence he has foiled his own scheme. If indeed he had one.
I take a moment to mull over the previous points and replied.
If you have spoken to the manager about this table I am not getting involved.
Long story made short: he and the manager agreed upon $20.00 for this table. He took it home.
DENOUEMENT
Later a co-worker of mine walked in with the errant price tag. It read:
A steal for $30.00!
She asked:
I wonder what this was for?
Me:
Maybe someone didn’t interpret it as a price tag but as an instruction manual.
The End.
Miss Heather
*As it would happen today another junkman, a regular and overall nice guy, came to the store. He (we’ll call him “M”) and Larry da Junkman were recounting tales of a fellow junkman (who we will call “N”). He had recently died. M told a tale about N which inspired me so much I asked him to repeat it. Here it is. Albeit in highly simplified form.
N once decided to rent a bunch of pornographic VHS tapes. Then he proceeded to:
- excise all the pornography out of them and return them to the video store.
- Inasmuch as I understand, N then proceeded to take all the “naughty bits”, splice them together and compile his own video.
I found this strangely brilliant. I told M just this. He was perplexed:
He was crazy. I could understand if he was an artist or something.
I have often fantasized about taking some of the more vile pornographic videos home, splicing all the pornographic material out of them, returning them to the junk shop and waiting for (the inevitable) hilarity to ensue…
In comes a man exclaiming that his VHS tape “Butts Behind Bars”, purchased for $2.00 has no butts. Only a g-string of a plot. I will look at him with wide-eyed amazement and ask him, being the customer service-oriented person that I am:
- what was lacking from said movie
- in explicit detail, e.g.; how many anal double penetrations were you promised? How many did you actually see?
I will document the previous complaint in the same manner I did as a former civil servant: in copious— or this case coital— detail. And laugh my ass off after he leaves.
What can one expect for $2.00 in New York City anymore? A “Recession Special” cup of joe on Bedford Avenue will set you back $2.00. Riding the subway costs $2.25 per ride the last I checked. I quit checking. I invest my money in comfortable shoes, not metrocards. $2.00 for an excised porno strikes me as being very reasonable— if MTA-esque— bargain: you tender money with the expectation of gratification and receive nothing in return. Just information.
New York Shitty Day Starter: Festive Fur
Filed under: 11222, Crazy Cat Lady, Crazy People, Greenpoint, Greenpoint Brooklyn, Greenpoint Magic
When this lovely lass (who happens to be named Pancake) came into the junk shop last weekend I simply had to take a picture off her festive holiday get-up. What’s more, these is something really neat about naming a dog— or any animal for that matter— after this foodstuff. It’s almost as cool as naming a cat “Babka”— and I know a few felines named just this!
Miss Heather
NYS Flickr Pool
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