Greenpoint
Lorven Pharmacy
Culture on the Cheap
This Is Glorious (Even By New York Standards)
Today I have the honor of presenting a contribution from outside.in‘s very own editor, Hillary Byrum. She writes:
As the editor of outside.in, I spend a lot of time surfing the Brooklyn portion of the site and I’m always psyched when I’m bounced to NewYorkShitty – it’s great. Anyway, I snapped a crappy (pun intended) photo of this “situation” earlier today around Berry & S.2nd and I thought of your blog. I’m not sure why this mess is where we are drawing the line between tolerable and intolerable street-piss/poop, but I’m tickled that someone was inspired to build a weird little sandwich board.
Thanks again Hillary for this stunning example of dog shit signage!
Miss Heather
Bright Lights, Big Shitty
This morning I found my person in elevated state of fabulousness. Unlike many of the impeccably-wrecked 20-somethings I call neighbors, my mid-30’s person knew this was a day to promenade my bad self in (where else) WILLIAMSBURG. Unlike men, who are considered to be ‘distinguished’ as they get older, women are not. I grasp the odd MILF straws when I find them, and today was one such day.
I called my buddy Rachael on her cell. She was at McCarren Park. We rendezvoused and proceeded to poo poo the Bedford Avenue cat walk with our fine-ass Greenpoint selves. We were in the belly of the beast and we prevailed! On Berry Street the bowels of the beast gave us an offering in return.
A mini bottle of Vodka. Poop was presenting. But the Bic pen cap was what triggered the fit of rage I had today*.
Back in 2001 (when I had a “real” job and no self esteem whatsoever) I did weight training at the Greenpoint YMCA. After a particularly heavy workout (and drinking copious amounts of water) I needed to go to the bathroom. BAD. I went to the women’s locker room— which some cretin saw fit to equip with two stalls.
I wait. And wait.
Inasmuch I believe being a lesbian would solve many of my (mal)adjustment problems, the sad fact is I am not one. Not for wont of trying. But, as Scarlett O’Hara Said:
Tomorrow is another day!
What I saw in that bathroom stall was a set-back in this endeavor. FOREVER. After hopping around like a circus chimp with crabs for several minutes, I peeked at female who was reluctant to vacate my much-needed stall.
It was a 40-something Polish soccer mom snorting cocaine from a plastic Bic pen cap.
Just like the one in the above photo.
We are all addicts, each and every one of us. But for the love of god please:
- exercise your additions with panache, e.g.; if you’re going to take up a high-dollar habit, get the proper accoutrements and
- do not interfere with my essential bodily functions!
Miss Heather
*That and finding some shitty-ass piece of jewelry I priced at the junk shop for $3.00 at a “ritzy” vintage shop on Grand Street marked-up to $45.00. Bad fashion has a price. Perhaps Williamsburg has an idiot tax? I can only hope so.
More McGuinness Merde
The first thought that crossed my mind when I saw these piles of puddin’ was “Gee, whoever passed this bowel movement wasn’t feeling well.”
The next thought that crossed my mind was “HOW THE HELL DID YOU GET OUT OF MY REFRIGERATOR!?! GO HOME!!!“.
Miss Heather
P.S.: You know, the apocalypse would never get enough traction to start in Greenpoint. No one would even notice.
P.S.#2: Anyone remember when someone found a rocket launcher on the Greenpoint side of the Pulaski Bridge several years ago? That was the talk of the town for weeks, yet I cannot find a single story about it online. Hmm…
Aum Shit
Yesterday I had a revelation: Green Street isn’t as shit-bombed as it used to be. In fact, my little corner of Greenpoint has cleaned up significantly. Terrified that the primary premise of my humble blog was rendered obsolete, I made a hasty trip to the liquor store. That’s when I found this and realized that everything was going to be okay.
If you step in a pile of dog shit (at 1055 Manhattan Avenue) and no one sees it, does it still make a stink?
Miss Heather
Peter Picks a Poo
While scarcely a celebrity, I have noticed that my avocation catches up with me at the most unexpected times. Take yesterday, for example. As I was leaving my friend’s apartment her dog walker, Peter, arrived and the three of us struck up a conversation. At one point New York Shitty was brought up.
Me: That’s my blog.
Peter: It is!?!
Me: The Dog Shit Queen of Greenpoint. Yup that’s me.
Peter: I just looked at New York Shitty this week!!! Someone told me about it!!!
Fascinated, Peter walked alongside me as I trekked to the Metropolitan station of the G train. He fielded many questions about dog log blogging to yours turly and I did my best to answer them. Although it had never crossed my mind before, I suppose I would enjoy a certain popularity among professional poop picker-uppers. Truth be told, his rapt interest made me feel like Elvis— which was nice given how utterly depressing and frustrating this week has been for yours truly. I was in dire need of a pick-me-up and Peter provided it.
Before we parted ways he excitedly pointed out some excrement for my perusal. It was located on west side of Manhattan Avenue just south of Grand Street.
“You should post this!” he said “The dog who did that one is really healthy.”
I replied, “It sort of looks like a lobster. Very interesting. I think you’re right!”
Upon closer inspection we discovered that it had a companion!
Thanks pointing out this turdy twosome to me and brightening up my day, Peter. I really needed it!
Miss Heather
Greenpoint Cannoli
While I was at work this weekend I got an important email from my buddy over at 11222. She writes:
Shit on a rolled up carpet. Franklin between Greenpoint and Kent. Quite the assemblage. Had to let you know.
I promptly excused myself and hauled my ass over there. She wasn’t kidding; it WAS quite the assemblage. I like to call it the “Greenpoint cannoli”.
Leave the gun. Take the cannoli.
Be sure to save room for dessert!
Miss Heather
Cannoli Credit: Seattlest
Code Brown: 51 Street and Lex
I have always made it a point to avoid the 51st and Lexington hub of the MTA. There are a number of reasons I eschew this station, but the two main ones are:
- Its thoroughfares are clogged worse than sideshow fat lady’s arteries.
- It smells bad. Really bad.
The latter always confused me; I could never pin-point the source of the stench. Sure, everything looked clean (inasmuch as that is possible in subway station anyway), but my nose always told me something was amiss. This was the first lesson I learned about living in New York City: always trust what this highly underrated organ is telling you. Stink don’t lie.
Today I got a submission from Jen (of the wonderful blog, lastnightsdinner) from the 51st Street and Lexington subway station which, ironically enough, features last night’s dinner for someone… or something.
She writes:
I took a different route home from work yesterday than normal. As I walked to the back of the 6 train platform at the 51st/Lex station, I noticed a couple of guys in business casual wear wiping their feet. I looked at the platform in front of them and noticed a trail of flattened shit that lead all the way to the elevator. I’m hoping that the poop was the result of a service dog who couldn’t quite make it outside and whose owner was unable to clean it up, but to be honest, this being New York Shitty, I doubt that was the case.
Anyway, I couldn’t not take photos for you. Enjoy!
All good dinners go to heaven…
Here’s looking at you kid!
Miss Heather
The Honeymooners
One week after having yet another remnant of my childhood completely and utterly destroyed I have not been able to get that lemur off my mind. “I wonder how they are making out?” I thought to myself this morning. So I threw on some shoes and headed to Franklin Street to find out.
This looks encouraging. In fact, I think I detect a smile on that lemur’s face. No wonder; the good thing about getting ravished by E.T. is he can use that magic finger of his to do a little sexual healing on your ruptured colon or prolapsed rectum. He may bust you out, but he can also make your naughty bits all shiny and new again. Or, as Madonna would say,
Like a virgin.
From the look of things I’d say E.T. is pretty content too. Maybe he is basking in the afterglow of his one week ‘honeymoon’? My husband thinks he’s doing a little post-coital cuddling, but I have my doubts.
The gesture E.T. is making with his left arm reminds me of something a salesman pitching time shares on late night television would do. The eye contact is also disquieting. It is almost as if E.T. is trying to say You’re next! or
If you lived here you’d be fucked by now!
Miss Heather
P.S.: Speaking of things E.T., I found this most remarkable turd on McGuinness Boulevard this week.
Shit Crawler
Yesterday I finally had time to scratch a long-neglected itch: checking out some Grade-A monster dog shit. To this end I hopped on the G train and got off at the Broadway stop. It took me very little time to find what I was looking for.
Those of you who, for whatever reason, are searching for scat, go to the intersection of Hewes and South 5th Street. You will not be disappointed. This minuscule block not only looks like shit, it smells like it too. It REEKS, in fact.
Naturally, I spent a great deal of time inspecting every nook and cranny. A Hasidic gentleman in a minivan watched in his rear-view mirror with rapt interest as I perused each and every piece of poo. What this chap didn’t know was I had a little project in the works that required a piece of shit. A very specific kind of crap, if you will.
Eventually I found it and went to work. He didn’t stick around to see the final product, which is a shame really because it came out quite nice.
They travel in single file to hide their numbers.*
Miss Heather
*Yes, I know that this quote is in reference to Sand People, but this is my blog and I can do what I damned well please.
Need a mattress? COME TO GREENPOINT!
Whenever I start running low on new subject matter to expound upon I go for a walk. I have spent much of the last two days pounding the Greenpoint pavement. And, as always, I did not come home disappointed. Perplexed or downright disturbed? Yes. But disappointed? Not in the least.
This is why I live in Greenpoint. It has long been my understanding that, as a lowly renter* with low class, the “A-list” Brooklyn neighborhoods are well beyond my reach. As I told my buddy Larry yesterday (after dealing with the “Pornophile”, AGAIN):
Not all of us have the stuff to land a porn queen, some of us have to settle for the fluffer.
“The Garden Spot of the Universe” always puts out. They can keep can keep their Park “Angelina Jolie” Slopes and Boerum “Lindsay Lohan” Hills. I like my neighborhoods like my women: delectably wrecked and HARD. Greenpoint is the Amy Winehouse of Brooklyn ‘nabes. This is why I love her so.
July 7, 2007
I was walking along Greenpoint Avenue when I happened upon one of the many languishing development sites my recently designated chic neighborhood has to offer: 189 Greenpoint Avenue.
I go in for a closer look.
“Wow, that’s kind of gross.” I thought to myself. “I wonder if Jessica Simpson’s marital bed looked like this?” After chuckling at my own sordid imaginings I took the above photograph. Not thinking any more about it, I went home.
Today: July 8, 2007
As I am walking down Green Street I find another abandoned mattress.
After taking a few photographs of the above mattress, box spring and shopping cart still life, a gentleman sunbathing next door (whilst reading a book entitled Great Artists) commented:
You’re the sixth person to photograph that mattress.
I told this chap he can expect one of those photographs to find its way onto the hallowed walls of MOMA or the Whitney and proceeded down the street where…
I found this despoiled mattress just as a man was about to load it into his minivan. I asked him if I could photograph it before he took it. Not only did he oblige, but he propped it up for me so as to get a better angle.
On the one hand, I find this gentleman’s eagerness to take a not-so-gently used mattress home somewhat disturbing. On the other, it was uplifting to see Serta Sleeper Samsara in action.
If Instant Karma doesn’t get him, the bedbugs most certainly will.
Miss Heather
*I agree with a number of points Mr. Oder makes in this post. The New York Times article he critiques is bad. I’m not saying this because I am sore that I wasn’t mentioned in it either; when I read something as hagiographic and insipid as this turd is it makes me thank the heavens above my name is in no way attached to it.
The Brooklyn ‘blogosphere’, just like real life, has A-listers and fluffers. I know which one I am. Before I end this post (because my hand is tired and I need a glass of water— I wonder if that is how Gregory Beyer felt after writing Cracker Barrel Vial 2.0?) I will leave you with today’s Dung of the Day, which I like to call Greenpoint Casserole: Miss Heather Style.
Recipe
Take one dead bird and one large pile of dog shit. Let them roast in the hot July sun until they smell like refried death. Garnish with a cigarette butt and it’s ready to eat.
If this succulent dish makes you hungry, grab your knife and fork, run down to 1043 Manhattan Avenue and get your some!
Bon Apetit!
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