Greenpoint
Lorven Pharmacy
Culture on the Cheap
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
Dung of the Day (of Indeterminate Mammalian Origin)
I found this pile of puddin’ poo at 1075 Manhattan Avenue last night. My husband and I were taking a couple of friends to the Acapulco Restaurant for dinner. They kept walking as I took the above photo, so I had to run to catch up with them. It would be a crime to let such an exquisite specimen go undocumented. In fact, I was so proud of this find that I showed it to them whilest we were dining. (Probably not the wisest thing to do given that we were in a Mexican restaurant. Oh well.)
A connubial debate followed as to whether this feces was of canine or human origin:
- My husband asserted that if said feces was located near a corner or some other means of support, it was human. It wasn’t— and therefore, it must be canine.
- I countered that people drop trou here at the drop of a hat. They have neither the time nor the wits about them to be so discriminating when it comes to selecting a venue for public defecation. What’s more, this pile of shit was located rather close to the Greenpoint Hotel.
Then again, who really knows?
Miss Heather
Dung of the Day
Today’s “Dung of the Day” hails from 1031 Manhattan Avenue. Although it is not my general practice to give turds ‘titles’, I am going to make an exception for this extraordinary fecal find. Henceforth this melange of shit, toilet paper and a solitary toy soldier (all conveniently located near the bus stop for the B61 and B43!) is “Stay the Course”.
Miss Heather
Dung of the Day: Guttman Style
Today’s (admittedly FOUL) “Dung of the Day” hails near the recently-deceased Greenpoint Terminal Market. Be sure to click on the photo if you want to behold all the diarrific details. Enjoy!
Miss Heather
Readywrap Deluxe
Or: Miss Heather’s Birthday Comes a Day Early
Shortly after completing the previous post I received a call from my good buddy Rachael. This surprised me a bit because my birthday is tomorrow, not today. She told she was walking down Diamond Street on the way to work and had found something I must have. I asked her what it was— and honestly I thought what she told me next sounded too good to be true.
It wasn’t.
The man in this photo bears an uncanny resemblance to my husband, save the solitary (but important) fact that I know of no time when my husband has been duct-taped to a chair. Maybe this transpired when I wasn’t around, who knows? Even the khakis and undershirt are right on the mark. In fact, the only thing that is amiss are the empty White Castle boxes in the background. My husband eats all manner and variety of repulsive foodstuffs but even he thinks White Castle is disgusting.
I pointed out the likeness to my husband. He didn’t seem to derive the same amount of amusement from it that I did (and still do). Maybe this photo dredges up dark memories from his past? Regardless, I am going to email this photo to his mother just to see what happens. Hell, I’ll send it to my mother as well just for shits and giggles.
After getting these photos from my friend, I asked her where she found them. She said she found them on Diamond Street in a box with a pair of walkie talkies. When I went there I did find such a box —but what cracked my ass up was the label on it. It read “Readywrap Deluxe“. Very appropriate.
At this location I also found one of the most disgusting piles of bum shit I have ever seen. To my recollection, only this mountain of effluvia would (could?) qualify as being worse. On the other hand, the bits of apple peel in today’s specimen lend a substantial measure “added-value” to it… Hmmm…
Miss Heather
P.S.: This photo (and the others she gave me) were found across the street from a film studio. I suspect hope that’s where they came from.
UPDATE: I sent an email to my mother, my father and my husband’s parents with said “gimp” photo attached. It went as follows:
Looks like Sam is into some really weird stuff. I s’pose the wife is always the last to know…
H
I got two emails back from my mother. The first one was blank. I suspect she freaked out and hit the “send” button before writing anything. The second email, however, said this:
Say what???
I just about pissed my pants laughing. Thankfully my husband thought I was laughing at the television, which was belching “The Lawrence Welk Show” into our living room at the time. My mother is an intelligent person and I love her. The only reason she would fall for this ruse is:
- The man in the photo DOES look like my husband and
- I have dated enough degenerates and freaks that anything goes.
As it happened, my husband called his parents tonight and I spoke to to his mother. I told her to check her email, as she would find something “very interesting”. She told me she wouldn’t have email access ’til Tuesday, but that she would check it ASAP.
To be continued…
Blitzen, The Polish Reindeer
Santa Claus doesn’t come to Greenpoint anymore. This task was delegated to middle management after Santa jack-knifed his sled on a pile of icy dog shit and borscht-laden vodka vomit on McGuinness Boulevard in 1998. He broke his coccyx and no amount of Viagra or Levitra could redress the injuries he sustained— much to Mrs. Claus’s dismay.
Sex in traction is not Mrs. Claus’s preferred means of action, if you now what I mean.
A heated exchanged followed (between Mr. and Mrs. Claus) and it was agreed that Santa’s solitary Polish reindeer, Blitzen*, would be responsible for servicing Greenpoint. Drunk with newfound Managerial power (and a shitload of vodka), he sub-contracted his duties out to the most plentiful (and cheap) labor force to be found in Greenpoint: RATS.
Looks like this one** didn’t make it. Too bad. The list of people who deserve dog (bum?) shit in their Christmas stockings only gets longer and longer nowadays…
Miss Heather
*His real name is “Blitzed”. Santa thought this name would not set a good example for children, therefore it was changed to “Blitzen”. “Blintz” was totally out of the question.
Disgruntled readers: send me angry missives deriding my stereotyping of Polish people to your heart’s contentment. I have a last name so Polish I might as well draw a slab of kielbasa instead of writing it out. Let me suffer in peace.
**From 261 Banker Street
Greenpoint Craptacular
Filed under: (s)Hit Parade, Bum Shit, Dog Shit, Dung of the Day, Greenpoint Magic
I had quite the busy weekend. My Saturday morning started at 8:30 a.m. assembling and collating all the material to be sent along with the angry missive to our landlord. This packet ended up being about a quarter of an inch thick. It was not an enjoyable task, but it was a necessary one, nonetheless.
After purchasing the envelope and postage for this turd, my husband and I rushed to the Bust Craftacular to meet my buddy, Judy McGuire. The Warsaw Ballroom was where we were to make a transaction for a really gorgeous clock I made. This came to pass— after I beheld the horror that is the ‘hip’ Greenpoint/Williamburg parenting cadre.
Let it be known here and now that I do not like:
1. crowds
2. noise
3. crotchlings in all-terrain strollers (if your stroller is bigger than me, it need not be)
4. the parents who see fit to bring the aforementioned crotchlings in said strollers to venues best left for adult consumption
I could have tolerated the loud music, the crowds OR the stroller set individually, but being assaulted by all three at once proved to be a hell for all five senses that even Dante could not begin to fathom.
It’s a matter of space: my personal and psychological space. When did my allotted amount of space become fair game to affluent breeders/space pirates with crotchlings? I’d really like to know. Perhaps, to bastardize Desmond Tutu, this is why:
When the developers came to Greenpoint they had the lawyers and we had the space. They said “Let us prey.” We closed our eyes. When we opened them we had eviction papers and they had the space (air rights, FAR, etc.).
But I digress…
My point is this: why won’t these parents act, well, like parents? Any parent worth his/her salt would have the horse-sense to know that the Bust Craftacular may not be a good place to take their small children. If not as a simple act of common courtesy to the other patrons, because the loud-ass music may be unsettling, if not downright damaging, to their toddlers/infants.
The same logic applies to the happy hours some bars have to pander to the ‘hip’ mommy set. Why can’t these women just stay home and ask little “Timmy” or “Caitlin” to “Mix a drink for mommy because she had a hard day” like the civilized folk? If this practice was good enough for Bette Davis, rest assured it sure as fuck is good enough for them.
Start ’em out while they’re young, I say (because the children are our future): one parent’s alcohol consumption may bear fruit in a lucrative career as a bartender for the child later. Why bother preparing “Timmy” or “Caitlin” for a white-collar career today that will be out-sourced tomorrow? The service industry is our nation’s future, and consequently, their future.
In three or four years I imagine the public schools in Greenpoint/Williamsburg will be inundated with hard-of-hearing children with an attention span of one nano-second— but they’ll mix cocktails guaranteed to knock the teacher on her ass. They’ll cut lines like a pro to boot. The previous may be nice fringe benefits given how badly teachers are paid.
Slipster parents: open up your wallets and hire a babysitter or get off your respective asses and start a babysitting pool like a grown-up. The rest of us (grown-ups) are not the least bit amused by your child’s antics, your adolescent sense of entitlement and overall inability to act your age.
The last time my husband and I ate at Taco Chulo (at 8:30 p.m.) we had the pleasure of being entertained by a todder running amok. This boy climbed atop the sofa, the coffee table and a four foot tall ledge. Had he fallen, he would have cracked his head open or broken an arm. Where was mommy? She was eating and laughing her ass off because it was “cute”.
Until this houseape came to our table (matchbox car in hand, snot flowing from nose) and babbled gibberish at us, anyway. That’s was when (with glowing mommy pride) mamasan sauntered over to our table and told us (while we were eating for chrissakes) that her vaginal dumpling wanted to know what we dressed up as for Halloween.
I told her that what I dressed up as (for Halloween) was unsuitable content for a child to hear and she left. I applaud my husband’s and my own restraint: we were pissed. After she left, my husband and I tossed around answers to this question we would have preferred to give:
1. A pedophile
2. Your REAL daddy
3. Your REAL mommy
4. Your aborted sister/brother who lives in heaven now
5. Your momma’s pimp
6. A child protective services caseworker
This is Greenpoint, not Disneyland (or Levittown, for that matter).
Williamsbreeders: if you want a child-centric/hip-wombyn environment, move to Park Slope. They’ll be happy to take you. You can argue over the gender-ramifications of a child’s hat (via craigslist) to your heart’s contentment. Otherwise, the next time you bring your child into my Greenpoint(less) world, he/she may get a crash course in ‘adult’ repartee.
I may very well show your kid this, which will undoubtedly result in him/her having bed-wetting episodes and night terrors for years.
Miss Heather
P.S.: At least my trek to the Craftacular netted me this constellation of dog shit I call the Guernsey Street Octet…
and these select morsels of bum shit just around the corner on Nassau Avenue.
Every dark cloud has a brown lining in New York Shitty.
Focus
Having a(n albeit temporary) respite from being stuck at home waiting for HPD to show up, I ran a few errands around the ‘hood yesterday. It was on my way home I found the Holy Grail of derelict dung.
As I was walking down Franklin Street I spied some discarded furniture. After investigating for potential treasure, I found this, the Enola Gay of bowel movements, on India Street.
Mind you, when I say that I found it on India Street I am being literal: the benefactor of this signature piece of bum shit “did it in the road“. I admire his chutzpah. Appropriately enough, it would take a lot of “focus” to pinch a loaf on a bottle of Vitamin Water.
The fact that he managed to thoroughly saturate the business-end of the bottle (not unlike how one salts the rim of a glass before serving margaritas) is a nice touch.
“Nutrient enhanced water beverage” INDEED!
Miss Heather
Black Friday, Brown Saturday
I found this monster shit (of probable humanoid origin) at 953 Manhattan Avenue yesterday afternoon. I placed my cell phone (which measures approximately four inches in length) next to it to provide a sense of scale.
Enjoy!
Miss Heather
A few thoughts about human defecation
Yesterday my pal Judy McGuire featured a rather choice item about a man who is despoiling the British rail system with his rectal ordnance. Apparently he has struck thirty times since August of this year. Impressive.
Granted, this person is engaging in some serious anti-social behavior, but I have to chuckle at the level of seriousness with which our friends ‘across the pond’ are approaching this problem. Not only do those of us who live in New York Shitty accept human defecation in public spaces as an occupational hazard, but we find it downright hilarious under the right circumstances. A few years ago I even wrote a little ditty about a man whose avocation was smearing shit all over the men’s bathroom at my friend’s place of employment.
I can only hope the previous acts were a new manifestion of dialectical materialism the pundits have yet to expound upon.
For the above reasons (and many more) I have decided to officially feature “Bum Shit” on this blog. Greenpoint has staggering amounts of bum poo, which brings me to today’s “Dung of the Day” from 259 Banker Street…
I do not like them on a street called Box.
I do not like them with phat rocks.
I do not like them in my house.
I do not like them with a louse.
I do not like them anywhere.
I do not like bum shit and wipes.
I do not like them, 311 operator (to whom I gripe).*
Miss Heather
*Yes, Doctor Seuss is probably rolling in his grave somewhere.
NYS Flickr Pool
