Greenpoint
Lorven Pharmacy
Culture on the Cheap
The Ring of Nibeldungen
Forged in the bowels of a miniature poodle named Turdrich, the mighty Ring of Nibeldungen is available for the taking at 158 Meserole Avenue.
Now all we need is for Bunghilde to step up to the plate and throw this item into Newton Creek; thus liberating Greenpoint from the tyranny of Odor and the ring of shit that binds us all. In the meantime, Siegfeces seems to be holding his own over on West Street.
Miss Heather
A novel approach to poop prevention
After living in Greenpoint for seven plus years I have become a connoisseur of crap. There’s as much of (sh)it to be found here as there are people who loathe it. The latter usually make their anti-shit sentiments known in the starkest imaginable terms. Threats of violence against those who choose not to ‘scoop the poop’ are commonplace here.
This is why today’s example of dog shit signage (from Meeker Avenue just off Kingsland) is remarkable: it makes no direct physical threats whatsoever. My man on Meeker took a much more subtle and cunning approach.
I have heard of hallowed ground. Stevie Wonder sang about reaching Higher Ground. But intoxicated ground?!? That’s only to be had in Greenpoint, kids!
We Greenpointers are a very robust and jocular lot. We envision the glass to be half-full versus half-empty. Since that very nasty (and very unremediated) oil spill ain’t going anywhere anytime soon, why not use it to deter another form of pollution?
Miss Heather
Dirty deeds dung dirt cheap
I found this turdy tableau on McGuinness Boulevard across the street from the new British Petroleum station today (after being cat-called by this asshole). Was this the product of a romance gone wrong or was the dog who discharged this pile of poo merely a misogynist? The world may never know.
Miss Heather
Cotes du Dookie
I found this, the Alistair Cooke of Crap, across the street from the Northside Piers yesterday. Being a bit of a oenophile, I was impressed with the selection of wine. It has been my experience that Clarets go nicely with just about everything— even crap.
Greenpointers usually wash their dog shit down with beer. Remy Martin seems to be a popular choice here as well. I suppose blue chip digs demand blue chip shit. Only the finest for our well-heeled neighbors to the south.
Miss Heather
Don’t tread on me
After enduring over four hours of thumping pile driver beats, I decided to go for a walk. But right before I headed out the door I noticed that I had received an email. It was from one of my ‘nabes. A woman who is constantly tormented by Magic Johnson’s big-ass tool. She wrote:
Today’s pounding vibrated a glass jar off my counter. Maybe I should throw the shards on their site in a show of solidarity for my neighbors.
Wishing you sedatives,
Karolyn
Is there no end to 110 Green’s depravity? One day they are spraying 121 Huron Street with shattered glass, the next they torment a defenseless container into committing suicide. The monsters.
Well Magic’s crew may not give a flip about the safety or mental well being of their neighbors, but someone at 151 Green Street does. This person was kind enough to lay a nice bright safety cone next to a not-so-nice pile of dog shit.
Whoever did this, wherever you are— you will be mentioned in my prayers tonight.
Miss Heather
P.S.: Looks like that sign 110 Green put up recently isn’t working too well. When I walked by there this evening all their DOB permits were gone. Whoever is responsible for this latest act of hooliganism saw fit to leave the “Keep Smiling” sign behind as a crowning flourish of “Fuck You”. Ah Greenpoint! How I love thee…
Dung of the Day: Part Doo
Without argument, the finest “Dung of the Day” I have featured lately is this one. I have a healthy respect for the kind of person who sees fit to commit such an act. I wouldn’t want “that kind of person” in my home— or want to shake his (or her) hand— but I respect him. If for no other reason because I do not want to be on his shit list.
Well, the other day I walked back by this poster. Not only were traces of fecal matter still there for the savoring, but someone had since added an annotiation I found amusing.
Miss Heather
A Greenpoint stroller mom speaks out…
about dog shit.
Just like any other time I go to McCarren Park, I do my best to avoid the stroller set. This isn’t because I hate children (I don’t), rather, I harbor a deep fear of their caretakers. Be they biologically related to the minors in their charge or not, one wrong word on my part could precipitate a beat-down by an angry horde of post-partum depression/fertility drug riven mothers. Or worse yet, a flock of Filipino nannies would proceed to kick my ass.
The latter have become very manifest at McCarren Park of late, enough so that I have to remind myself that I am in Greenpoint, not the Upper East Side. Thankfully the drunken roustabout roundtable still holds court at the northeastern section of the park. They serve as a constant reminder that I am, indeed, in Greenpoint. Unlike most people I find their presence comforting.
Last Thururdsday I had the pleasure of interfacing with a Greenpoint stroller mom. Her daughter made the introduction by pointing at me and shouting:
Mommy, she has red hair!
It is true. I have red hair. But it isn’t the red hair one usually sees on Ireland tourism brochures. Or the Lucille Ball-esque tints the local Polish population here is all too fond of donning. I have Day-Glo Crayola Crayon red hair. Thus, I did not take offense at what this cherubic child said. In fact, I found it amusing.
Me (to the little girl): You have blond hair!
Girl: (giggles)
Me (to the mother): You have red hair too!
Mother (to her daughter): Yes, but mommy has to go in for a touch-up soon!
Inasmuch as I bitch about stroller moms, this one didn’t bother me. She harbored a lack of pretense (and Humvee-sized stroller) that I found endearing. The fact that her child was young enough to merit having a stroller in the first place was a big plus.
In my 7+ years of living in Greenpoint I have seen a lot of shit. I have seen teenagers pushing each other down the street in strollers. I have seen women fling their tits out to feed their kids in the weirdest and most abject of places. I have encountered children over two years of age who have yet to be toilet-trained.
While I find all the previous somewhat irksome, what really pisses me off are parents who push their 4,5+ year old children around in strollers. If mommy’s errands are too much for little Kaitlin or Lincoln to bear, hire a fucking babysitter. The children involved and myself would be very grateful if the previous practice was implemented.
Not being a parent myself, I have no idea what ‘logic’ belies shoving over-sized children down the street in a stroller. But if I had to take a guess, I’d say the stroller is merely a temporary residence until these pampered babes’ parents buy them a brand-spanking new condo. From the cradle to blue chip Williamsburg digs (and a new couch mommy picked out just for you), so it goes on planet entitlement.
That said, the previously-mentioned stroller mom did not exhibit any of the previous qualities. What’s more, she and I bonded over our collective hatred of dog shit. After crossing Nassau Avenue (on Lorimer Street), this women saw me take a photo of a smeared pile of shit and said:
Don’t you hate that? I live next door and if I find the person who is responsible for this I am going to kill them.
Shortly thereafter she asked me what I was going to do with my poopie photo. I told her that I was going to put it up on my blog.
And I did.
Miss Heather
Can you take me to Poopytown?
Yesterday the heavens opened up and spewed forth poo manna for Miss Heather. I was (and still am) very grateful, because I had to make a trip to the bank (which is not exactly one of my favorite places) to stop payment on a check that had not been presented in over TWO YEARS. I wasn’t too happy about being charged $15.00 to do this either. There is something very wrong about me spending one hour of my time, much less fifteen dollars to (re)solve a problem I did not cause. Oh well…
My mood brightened significantly on my ride home when I had the pleasure of meeting the V train Poo Man.
This reminds me of that blob thing from the Gigglesnort Hotel. I do not remember much from my early childhood, but I do remember watching this show. Many of my early days were spent in day care gaping at that diarrhea-esque semi-animate blob on the idiot box. Perhaps this sight imprinted itself on my subconsciousness somehow? This would shed some light on my proclivity for poop.
Regardless, that thing freaked me out then and it freaks me out now. Those of you who are old enough may remember the hysteria over LSD laden stickers in the mid-70’s. I do. My mother admonished me not to lick any stickers that had smiley faces on them, no matter how pretty they were. Yet, these same concerned parents let their young ones watch a television show that was the psychoactive eqivalent of a bag of shrooms. Go figure.
Ah the 70’s, gotta love ’em!
Miss Heather
That Smell
It’s a funny thing; when I find myself wanting to be alone I go for a walk. This is what I did yesterday. No cell phone, just me and my trusty camera. I took a number of wonderful pictures, most of which have been uploaded to my Flickr page. Check them out.
When I reached 79A India Street I was assaulted by an odor SO FOUL it made me stop dead in my tracks. I looked around so as to ascertain the source of the stench. It didn’t take very long.
This melange of canine (?) crap was so nasty it literally made me gag. It was one of the worst smelling specimens I have ever found. I didn’t couldn’t record where it was located until I was safely at the end of the block.
Later on I created a little ditty about my experience (with a lot of help from my Lynyrd Skynyrd Greatest Hits CD):
Ooh that smell!
Can you smell that smell?
Ooh that smell!
The smell of shit is all around you!
Miss Heather
Italy?!?
I was recently astonished to discover that someone in Italy added me as a Flickr contact. I mean 1/3 of my photos are scatalogical in some way, shape or form and it has been my observation that poop usually doesn’t win friends or influence people. Now I am beginning to rethink this long-held assumption.
After a little digging I discovered that Italians dislike dog shit as much as we do. In fact, they make light of their crap conundrum in a manner that is unabashedly stylish and witty. Then again, how could we possibly expect anything less from country who boasts some of the finest fashion designers in the world? Shit, their country is shaped like a boot with a stylish stiletto heel for crissakes!
Miss Heather
NYS Flickr Pool
