Greenpoint
Lorven Pharmacy
Culture on the Cheap
Interesting Development at 97 Green Street
Although I am very happy to see that someone else hereabouts is fed up with the Green Street Crapfest I do feel compelled to point out that if a person is too fucking lazy to bend over and pick up his (or HER) dog doo, I seriously doubt he (or she) will bother negotiating around a couple of bikes and cinder blocks to get a sack to put said shit in. Even if it is free.
Just a thought.
Miss Heather
Diarrhea Daze: a few thoughts about intelligent design
Spring cleaning at Chateau de Ghetto is not unlike an Easter egg hunt: there is much ‘treasure’ to be had provided one searches diligently enough. I found the above item in our hallway as I was vacuuming the hallway this afternoon. I recognized the handwriting immediately; it is my own.
While the phrase “I’ve Got Diarrhea” pretty much speaks for itself, I’m not too sure what the alpha-numeric annotations pertain to. Perhaps it is some sort of shit cypher, who knows? I sure as fuck don’t remember. The one thing I can assert without a shadow of a doubt is that my finding this item was more than a little bit ironic. I have had diarrhea the last 2-3 days. I have also been busy puking my brains out in the wee hours of the morning.
I am pretty impervious to the common cold, influenza or any other malady that usually afflicts one’s person during the winter season. Regrettably, the same cannot be said about stomach sickness in the early spring. Take my word for it; what I had (and still have) has made the previous clear in the starkest and most repulsive terms.
Staying up all night vomiting and shitting (as I have) predisposes a person to rethink the human condition. This is especially true when the contents of his/her body are flying out of every orifice imaginable at the speed of sound. Gastronomical meltdowns are the mighty crucible that make even the most callous of mankind to look, well, inward. Bearing the previous in mind, I would like to offer some constructive criticism to whoever is responsible for designing the human body.
TO: Mr. G
FROM: Miss Heather
RE: Proposed Improvements to the Design of the Human Body
- The epiglottis is a laudable concept: it routes food to the stomach and air to the lungs. Why did you see fit not to outfit the hindquarters of humanity with a similar device, e.g.; a router that prevents flatus from intermixing with feces? Had you seen fit to do so, the ubiquitous ‘wet fart’— and the abject humiliation and ceaseless laundering that goes with it— would cease to exist. If you do not address this problem I am certain there will be a Nobel Prize and/or world domination for the person who does.
- My epiglottis serves it function during the intake of air and food, but the same cannot be said about acts of expulsion. As a result of this defect, I spent five minutes blowing my nose to get all the FOOD out of it. Ever seen collard greens and lentils come out of your nose? I didn’t think so. Trust me, it’s a sight you will never forget.
- Both ends at once: while the diaphragm is essential to one’s expulsion of vomitus and bowel movements, it has been my observation that when one is ill (as I have been lately) it tends to facilitate doing both of the previous at the same time. Until bathrooms are retro-fitted to address this problem, I would humbly recommend that the rectum and mouth be placed in close enough proximity so as to enable simultaneous discharge into the same receptacle. Human adaptation to this anatomical change will, in all probability, be seamless. If it’s damned near to impossible for me to tell the difference between the utterances people make from the top hole and the bottom one, I do not think anyone else will be the wiser. This will be our little secret.
Your immediate attention to this matter is greatly appreciated.
Sincerely,
Miss Heather
P.S.: If your design is (presumably) intelligent, could you please explain this person* to me? No one, I repeat, NO ONE calls this ‘hood “Green Point”.
If all the previous isn’t enough to make you feel a wee bit queasy, dear readers, today’s “Dung of the Day” will.
Anyone looking for some dog shit and an old douchebag? If so, go to Dupont Street west of Franklin (across from the playground) and knock yourself out.
Miss Heather
*I am a person of action. I would much rather be the broad who is talked about (for chasing dog shit sans compensation in Greenpoint), than to be paid to sit on my ass, sip coffee and pontificate about someone else’s accomplishments— which came to pass over ten years ago. That said, I am completely amenable flogging any miscreant who calls my ‘nabe “Green Point” for a modest fee.
Dung of the Day: 201 Montrose Avenue
The pervasive theme this week (for me, anyway) is taxonomy. When not parsing through(and snickering at) petty quibbling over what constitutes ‘East Williamsburg’ versus what is Bushwick (don’t EVEN get me started on that whole ‘West Bushwick’ thing), I have been engaged in a friendly debate with Kevin Walsh (of Forgotten-NY) as to whether 128 Beadel Street is in ‘East Williamsburg’ or Greenpoint. As some of you may remember, this is where the coolest house EVER happens to be located. I do not think I need to state what my position on this topic is; it’s pretty obvious. (*cough* GREENPOINT *cough*)
All of this controversy has given one hell of a headache— which I will remedy with a can (or two) of Busweiser after I present today’s “Dung of the Day” hailing from 201 Montrose Avenue. Call it ‘East Williamsburg’, call it Bushwick— it makes no difference: both are full of shit. Literally, that is.
What is remarkable about this turd is its placement atop of a 1 1/2 to 2 foot tall snowdrift. The canine (or homo sapiens) who discharged this big ‘un must be pretty tall— and clearly cannot shit and chew gum at the same time.
Miss Heather
P.S.: I had to tease you Kevin, it was simply too tempting. No offense intended. 🙂
Clinton Hill Represents
Filed under: Dog Shit
The one thing that constantly amazes me about the dog shit problem in New York Shitty is that many people will complain about it, but few, very few, will actually step up to the plate. Shit or get off the pot— or more accurately, PUT UP OR SHUT UP!
I have parsed through enough chat rooms (where Brooklynites piss and moan ad nauseum about unattended dog poo in their respective ‘hoods) to become a bona fide shit cynic. Perhaps even a dog shit snob. “How bad can it possibly be in comparison to, say, Dupont Street, McGuinness Boulevard or THIS?” I ask myself. With good reason: Magic Johnson may very well pimp fund much of my block to build luxury condos, but I doubt he has enough ‘magic’ to motivate canines and humanoids not defecate here. And they do. A LOT.
My inner ‘Doubting Thomas’ was confirmed by the numerous comments I encountered from Prospect Heighters that had a distinctly vigilante tone, e.g.; take the offender’s picture and post it online, etc. Dime store Dirty Harrys (of dog shit). I have no doubt that these idle threats were issued from the comfort of air-conditioned (and dog shit free) cubicles contained within the numerous corporate dungeons that populate our fine city. The last time I went to Prospect Heights I got the distinct impression that it had become Park Slope Lite: a Park Slope for people too light on cash to live in Park Slope.* But I digress…
I, the Dog Shit Queen of Greenpoint, prefer to condemn the behavior, not the person— and get a few chuckles along the way. Which brings me to…
last week when Robin Lester of the Clinton Hill Blog responded to my solicitation for shit. She wrote:
Haven’t forgotten about sending the pics! I took a good crop this morning, so I should be able to send them tonight w/ info.
And she delivered:
All (were) taken on the west side of Waverly Avenue between Lafayette and Willoughby (2 blocks only), Clinton Hill, Brooklyn.
For those of you who are unfamiliar with the area in question, here it is:
And here is what she sent me…
One shit.
Two shits.
Three shits…
Four!
Five turds, six turds, seven turds and…
Much…
Much…
More!
Miss Heather
*This criticism is NOT directed at the earning power of Prospect Heights residents. I could care less about that (and I am undoubtedly much more poor than they are anyway). I hate the attitude— and the stroller moms. This ‘nabe is INCREDIBLY cool in its own right— why sully it by affecting Park Slope manners?
P.S.: Robin, give a shout out to Rosie Perez for me if/when you see her. She is fabulous. And, oh yeah, thanks for the shit!
Greenpoint is well hung (and/or delusional)
The male ego has always been a source of fascination to me. As time has gone by I have come to the realization that earning 70 cents on the dollar is a very small price to pay for not bearing the burden of life-long severe social retardation many of my XY chromo brothers seem to be afflicted with. For example…
Several years ago I came across a personals ad for some gent who lives(d?) in Greenpoint. After listing his interests, hangouts (the Pencil Factory) and describing his appearance, he closed with his biggest, uh, enticement for the ladies:
Only women who know how to handle large equipment (10″ +) need reply.
Whoa dude, put that thing away! Greenpoint is a pretty small place. For the next several months I found myself wondering if the guy sitting next to me at the Pencil Factory— or waiting behind me at the grocery store checkout had an anaconda in his pants. This is no way to go through life.
Which brings me to today’s “Dung of the Day” from India Street…
Greenpoint, where the turds are hung like just their men: too big (and TOO close) for comfort.
Miss Heather
Manhattan Avenue Yummy Taco
Much has been said, but little has been written about this dining establishment. So, in the interest of the general public, I will endeavor to do so here and now.
Speaking as someone who has spent most of her life in the southwest, I have certain expectations when it comes to Mexican food. I am not a snob; some days Taco Bell is every bit as tasty as Taco Chulo to my taste buds. But finding baby corn in my nachos freaks me out. That’s what I found when my husband brought me nachos from Yummy Taco— and much, much more…
A long time ago I was feeling under the weather. My husband, in his infinite kindness, offered to pick me up something to eat on the way home from work. I requested nachos. When I opened the styrofoam take-out container from Yummy Taco, here’s what I found:
- 4 or 5 corn chips
- a pile of beans
- salsa whose flavor closely resembled Pace picante sauce
- mushrooms
- baby corn
- broccoli
- cheese
- GREEN pico de gallo
I have patronized a number of Chinese-owned/operated Mexican restaurants. While none would remotely qualify as blue-chip fare, this was the first (and hopefully LAST) time I have ever seen green pico, mushrooms and baby corn employed in Mexican cuisine. My husband recently made a joke about the DOH’s recent crackdown on restaurants:
Yummy Taco better watch out, the Health Inspector is coming!
To wit I quipped,
Yummy Taco has nothing to worry about. That green pico of theirs probably keeps the rats at bay. Even rodents wouldn’t eat that shit; it’d probably kill them.
Which brings me to today’s “Dung of the Day” from 118 Freeman Street…
and a photo of Yummy Taco’s storefront.
Looks like someone else (a food critic from the New York Times?) shares my opinion of their fare. Yummy indeed!
Miss Heather
Dung of the Day: Satanic Saturday
I found this evidence of ritualistic canine crapping at 934 Manhattan Avenue. I wonder what the battery is for. Ideas, anyone?
Miss Heather
Turdcicle at 219 Franklin Street
Being a total klutz, I came very close to dropping my drink ON this snowcapped shit. I’m really happy this did not happen because:
- this is a pretty jaunty turd
and - I was damned thirsty at the time
Miss Heather
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
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