Greenpoint
Lorven Pharmacy
Culture on the Cheap
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
Meanpoint*
As it happens, my upstairs neighbor started a blog recently. I am very happy to see this, as he is one cool guy.
When I looked at his blog this morning, I came across a short film of a drunk Polish Nazi (yes, I just wrote “Polish Nazi”) he made recently.
This man is most decidedly NOT cool.
I can’t believe anyone (outside of perhaps, Iran) would say such things. Someone should take a brickbat to the side of this asshole’s head. Preferably one of the concentration camp survivors who reside here. (I do not see them often, but they do exist; the numbers tattooed on their arms say it all.)
Unless my high school history classes were wrong, I do not recall the Nazis as being particularly kind to Polish people either. Fucking idiot.
*UGH*
Miss Heather
*A term coined by my ‘nabe. Liked it so much I just HAD to use it.
Kent Street Cocksucker
Firstly, I’d like to give props to Jake Dobkin and Jen Chung at Gothamist for mentioning New York Shitty in a recent feature about (what else) dog shit*. It pleases me to no end to know that when people think of dog shit, they think of me. Speaking as a woman who has been a colossal misfit her entire life, this is a big step up from the nasty (and numerous) epithets I have been called over the years. I have generously offered both Jen and Jake a complimentary pair of Poopyhead panties as a token of my gratitude.
That said, I got up bright and early this morning to go for a walk. Snow works wonders for this ‘hood: it makes even the biggest eyesores palatable, if not beautiful. I also hoped to find an especially provocative offering for today’s post. I did.
This cluster of crap can be found at the northeastern corner of Kent and West Street. Unlike the rest of the block, this area is bereft of snow due to recently-erected scaffolding. This has got to be the most striking example of exactly how FUCKING LAZY the dog owners are hereabouts that I have ever encountered.
I can halfway understand why some people get lax when their doggie dumps in several inches of snow. I don’t condone this behavior, mind you; I simply “get it”. Nothing more. The above shitpile, on the other hand, is fucking ridiculous. If anyone deserves a $250 fine (and good kick to the ‘nads) for failing to curb their dog, it’s this asshole.
Miss Heather
*Be sure to read the comments, some of them are priceless. Here’s my favorite:
So who’s gonna pay the fine for not scoopin’ up the big fuckin’ TURD we have in the White House?
P.S.: Here’s an extra treat! Yellow snow from 212 Green Street. Snowcones, anyone?
Fargo
Today’s “Dung of the Day” comes from a frequent commentor here at New York Shitty. “Rebecca11222” writes:
I call this pile “Fargo.”
The lattice-work layers of the poop on top of the snow remind me of Grandma’s apple pie in Winter. And the lone cigarette butt reminds me that poop don’ git done by itself. But why the cliche of the single gig butt lying near the aftermath of dog butt? I’d like to believe that the dog needed a fix after laying down the brown, but it’s probably just some asshole not taking responsibility for his dog or himself.
If you wanna see something choice, check out the creepy bodega on Manhattan Avenue between Huron and India Street*. The one where old Hispanic dudes loiter, watch television and hiss at female passersby. They’re a real bunch of charmers, these guys. Here is a picture of their handiwork. Here’s another one.
Be advised that a sign has been erected requesting that they cease littering. I seriously doubt it will do any good. They’re a bunch of fucking pigs.
Miss Heather
*NOT Green and Huron Streets as indicated in this article I read recently. An article, I would like to add, that is one of the biggest pieces of smug white liberal horseshit I have ever read in my life. And given that I AM a white liberal, that’s really saying something.
It depresses me to no end to see that so-called progressives believe in the good ol’ Calvinist/Victorian work ethic, e.g.; these ‘bums’ live on the street because they cannot or will not work. To be “workless” (or poor) is indicative of a lack of moral character. Or conversely, in the case of this offal, the bum ‘earns’ his right to sit on the author’s stoop by handling her packages. NICE.
The reason ‘bums’ blight this neighborhood is because we, the registered voters of this fine country, have failed them. A number of these men have very serious substance abuse and emotional problems. They should be in a residential treatment program, not being some bitch’s ghetto-ass concierge.
You’re one arrogant cunt, Sabine.
P.S.: Get your damn facts straight. Fuckweasel.
A very special Dung of the Day
Yesterday evening I found a very special submission in my inbox.
Not only does this photo feature Greenpoint’s nastiest sign-maker, but the person who sent it is someone Miss Heather holds in high esteem: none other than Kevin Walsh, the creator of Forgotten New York! Way cool. Thanks!!!
He wrote:
This was found on West St about a year ago…ab(ou)t Green St.
I actually remember seeing this and laughing my ass off. I have mulled over giving dog shit walking tours, but frankly, it’s a little too unpredictable. I am of the belief that selling Mr. Poopyhead merchandise is a much better use of my talents (READ: two art degress) anyway. I worked on this project yesterday and it it looks very promising.
Miss Heather
P.S.: I also have a line of thong underwear featuring chicken bones in the works. Tres Sexy!
Footprints
One night I dreamed I was walking along Manhattan Avenue with the Lord. Many scenes from my life flashed across the sky.
In each scene I noticed footprints in the shit. Sometimes there were two sets of footprints, other times there was one only.
This bothered me because I noticed that during the low periods of my life, when I was suffering from anguish, sorrow or defeat, I could see only one set of footprints, so I said to the Lord,
“You promised me Lord, that if I followed you, you would walk with me always. But I have noticed that during the most trying periods of my life there has only been one set of footprints in the sand. Why, when I needed you most, have you not been there for me?â€
The Lord replied, “The years when you have seen only one set of footprints, my child, is when I carried— wait a minute— I just stepped in something. Aw FUCK!!!â€
Miss Heather
P.S.: I hate this fucking poem.
Skidmark Row
Last Sunday I rooked my husband into accompanying me as I went on another (albeit smallish) fact-finding mission*. Our route was as follows.
West Street has never failed to deliver (large quantities of dog shit) before and this occasion proved to be no different. Here are a few of my favorite shits.
65 Green Street
SHIT Tac Toe! I won! I won!
79 Green Street
This is just plain scary. And last but not least, my personal favorite from…
150 West Street!
It was a very fruitful trip— and the dog shit I found was only the tip of the proverbial iceberg, if you know what I mean.
When I reached Kent Street I noticed yet another group of older buildings that seemed to be awaiting a date with the wrecking ball. I went in for a closer look. And when I did, I found this. I walked another 5-6 feet and found these.
It would appear that had stumbled upon a trail, a Skidmark Row if you will, of grannie panties that spanned 59 Kent Street. Fascinating.
So if any of you:
- woke up last Sunday morning (after several rousing trysts at Mary D’s the night before) and found yourself wondering “Gee, where’s my underwear?”
- have fantasies involving Estelle Getty, The Golden Girls, getting golden showers from golden girls— or all of the above
- find the “I’ve fallen and can’t get up” lady strangely arousing
- have a thing for underwear resembling Depends undergarments
today’s your lucky day! Go on down to Kent Street (I have indicated the location on the above map with a red dot) and dig in. And when you’re done, why not swing by Brooklyn Bridge Marriott tomorrow afternoon for this?
Happy hunting!
Miss Heather
*After what transpired earlier that day, I felt my husband owed it to me.
I woke up on Sunday about 30 minutes after my husband. I got out of bed, put on my pajama bottoms (which were exactly where I had left them the night before: at the foot of the bed) and wandered into the kitchen. After I had managed to plow through two cups of coffee, my husband charged into the living room babbling “You aren’t wearing the striped pants, are you?”
“Striped pants?” I thought to myself.
Husband: Yeah, the ones you are wearing. I found those wadded up in the cat box this morning.
I must had worn these soiled ‘striped pants’ for at least 20 minutes before my husband saw fit to notice and/or tell me. I am still trying to figure out why the hell he didn’t simply put them in the dirty laundry hamper instead of putting them back on the floor. Gross.
Dung of the Day
Today’s “Dung of the Day” can be found in front of the Murder Bar (better known to non-locals as “Tommy’s Tavern”) on Freeman Street at Manhattan Avenue.
Shitastic!
Otherwise, I have parsed through Cafe Press’s merchandising opportunities (for New York Shitty) and found the following products of particular interest:
- Doggie coats: for the obvious reasons.
- Baby bibs: because what goes in the front inevitably finds its way out the back. I’m considering offering a rebate to Park Slope parents if they purchase and USE this item. Naturally, I will demand photographic evidence that the latter came to pass.
- Postage stamps: pay off your student loans with style!
- Thong underwear: although I have never been a fan of them, emblazoning the front of fannie floss with a pile of shit makes a certain amount of sense. Consider it a harbinger of things to come because I have little doubt that poo is exactly what you’ll find on the business end after you peel them off the wearer.
And (to shamelessly steal a quip from Vice Magazine) I will not shave my hairy ass before modelling them. Perhaps I’ll even pull a Farrah and select a pair that is two sizes smaller to better showcase my assets.
This is not an idle threat: it’s a promise.
Hugs and pisses,
Miss Heather
2007 Crap Map
After taking some time off to recuperate from having company, this morning I bundled up, wandered into the living room and sorted some shit.
My latest route took me to Manhattan Avenue between Green Street and Newton Creek.
Not only did I find plenty of crap, but I discovered that an ice cream shop is slated for 97 Commercial Street (the former location of Bleu Drawes). This does not strike me as the most appropriate business venture to pursue this time of year, but then again at least it isn’t (yet) another bank or Thai restaurant. This ‘hood needs more pad Thai as much as it needs more dog shit: both are already in overabundance in my not-so-humble opinion.
Anyhoo, after becoming better acquainted with the vagaries of Flickr Maps (READ: I broke down and followed the directions), I have added my latest finds to my 2007 Crap Map. I have also reorganized a number of my photos so the newer readers among you can parse through my “Backdoor Crapstavaganza“: a photo diary of stuff my neighbors throw out their window. After a four month dry spell, I finally found a new item to add to it this week.
Enjoy!
Miss Heather
P.S.: After some serious thought, I have decided to (somewhat) reverse my “no profit” stance regarding this blog. I am of the opinion that “Mr. Poopyhead” mugs (and possibly t-shirts) bibs, doggie coats and thong underwear need to be made available to the general public. I am currently investigating ways to make this happen.
NYS Flickr Pool
