Greenpoint
Lorven Pharmacy
Culture on the Cheap
Happenings on Franklin Street
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
Here is a smattering of what’s shaking on Franklin Street. There’s a little something for everybody. Even freaks like me, as you will see.
Tomorrow, August 16, from 7:00 – 10:00 p.m. Alter will be having a sample sale of jewelry made by Greenpointer (born and raised!) Fetty of Brooklyn.
Per Tommy, the co-proprietor of Alter, “…amazing prices (from $20-$100) and fierce selection of brass, sterling silver and even some gold jewelry” are in the offering. I have checked out Fetty’s web site and I gotta tell you that he (or she) has a pretty wicked sense of humor. “Lizzie’s Love”, a necklace graced with an ax and a heart with a significant piece of it missing, is particularly piquant.
Stop in after work and check it out. I have been told champagne will be served. (!)
ALTER
109 Franklin St.
Brooklyn, NY 11222
(718) 784-8818
www.alterbrooklyn.com
August 17 (a Friday) through Sunday, August 19 Dalaga NYC will be having their end of summer sale. An extra 10% off will be taken off all sale items. If you happen to be on their mailing list (as I am) you get an extra 10% off on top of that!
Their newest shipment of merchandise includes:
- Higher rise jeans in every fit. Starting at $68! (Thank GOD! No more whale tail! —Ed. Note)
- New Perfectly Plaid & Leather Tote bags by PINK
- Glamourous fall wrap dresses
- Lovely Long & Lean Sweater Sets by Beau Bois
Dalaga NYC
150 Franklin St.
Brooklyn, NY 11222
(877) 287 8395
info@Dalaganyc.com
Starting this September Word Books will be hosting a book club. For more details, swing by their shop, give them a call or shoot them an email at…
Word Books
146 Franklin Street
Brooklyn, NY 11222
info@wordbrooklyn.com
(718) 383-0096
Lastly…
Yeah, this is a ways off but let me tell you something: Rev Jen has been a major influence on yours truly. In fact, if it wasn’t for reading her pithy tomes (my favorite being an essay about Budweiser) New York Shitty probably would not exist. Seriously.
This sex symbol for the insane is not only the proprietress of The Lower East Side Troll Museum, but is also responsible for the fine cinematic masterpiece Lord of the Cockrings (about which she later noted she was not only the film’s director, but also its fluffer!), elfpanties.com (no longer extant) and Doo-Doo the fifth Teletubbie. I can’t wait to see what she and Nick Zedd have cooked up. Per their web site, East Coast Aliens says this will be the first of a monthly series of his films!
NIGHT OF THE LIVING ZEDD
East Coast Aliens
216 Franklin Street
Brooklyn, NY 11222
www.eastcoastaliens.com
Be there or be square!
Miss Heather
Greenpoint is for Lovers
A week ago I strolled down to the northern terminus of Manhattan Avenue to see how the new park is coming along.
Although you cannot tell from this photo, it looks pretty close to completion. I am really jazzed about this park. I can hardly wait to hang out there and check out the scenic views of Manhattan, Newtown Creek and lest we forget…
I have often cast my gaze across the fragrant thoroughfare that is Newtown Creek and asked myself:
I wonder what those Long Island City slickers think of us humble Greenpointers?
Well today I got my answer courtesy of Licnyc.com’s Online Forum. They think we’re HOT!
“BrandonZ” raves:
If I can just be completely frank… Seriously, I walk over the Pulaski and there are attractive, stylish young women everywhere. I mean, everywhere. It kills me.
Hardly ever on this side of the Creek. What gives? I suppose there’s hardly anyone in general on this side of the Creek, comparatively, so maybe there’s my answer.
The price I pay to be contrarian (and have more transit access) and live in Queens…
Aw shucks Brandon, you just made me blush! I’ll be sure to blow kisses at you as I’m pick-a-nicking and swilling Cabernet at my new park.
Toodles!
Miss Heather
The Greenpoint Hotel, Part I
This is the Greenpoint Hotel. It is located at 1109 Manhattan Avenue. My buddy over at 11222 has written about it. Recently she and talked about it. Follows is one of the tales I told her.
The year was 2002. The season was spring. I was engaged in a task most people who lost their jobs (due to 9/11) did: running a load of laundry on a Tuesday morning. My neighbor Cat was with me. Bored with Telemundo, we directed our respective thousand mile stares out the window and onto Manhattan Avenue. Our bubble of ennui was quickly and summarily popped by all manner and variety of police officers— replete with meter maids driving glorified golf carts— storming the hotel next door. We looked at each other and said:
Holy shit!
I harbor a long-held fascination for this establishment. Any abject aspect of the human condition my mother attempted to protect me from as a child is pretty much a source of fascination for me (as an CONSENTING adult, mind you) nowadays, e.g;
- criminal activity
- sexual deviancy
- all around anti-social behavior
and the Greenpoint Hotel delivers. In spades. I know because I have been researching this place for some time.
This is the “northwest wing” of the Greenpoint Hotel. This plot of land (on Clay Street) once belonged to the Meserole family. It was auctioned by Jeremiah V. Meserole in 1881. Ten years later his son Darwin was brought up on murder charges for an adulterous love affair gone bad. Just like the patricians who owned it before, this parcel of land quickly descended into ill repute.
Before it was the Greenpoint Hotel it was known as the Edward’s Hotel. Before it was known as the Edward’s Hotel it was known as the International Traveler’s Hotel. I think. It doesn’t really matter because regardless of the name, this place has always been a dump. As you will learn.
Which brings me to the first of three installments of Greenpoint crime blotter goodness about this establishment. The inaugural item hails from the January 1, 1899 edition of the New York Times.
Manhattan Avenue was once known as Union Avenue— after the union of American states.
Greenpoint Avenue was once known as Lincoln Street— after Honest Abe.
The Monitor was built in Greenpoint just off of what is now known as Quay Street— hence why there is a street bearing the name “Monitor” here.
Greenpointers are good Americans. Sure, one of us tried to rob a person using chloroform, but at least he was patriotic about it. Mr. Rohr might have been the first person to commit a crime while waving the American flag, but he was/is hardly the last. Thirty five cents is child’s play compared to the shit out current regime has perpetrated. The only difference is Rohr found his way into a jail cell: his most recent criminal protégés probably won’t.
Miss Heather
This Pretty Much Speaks for Itself
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
These guys were busy taking a nap as I was running errands this morning. It was 11:00 a.m. I think. The real estate industry likes to package the garden spot as being hip and chic— and that may very be true. If one considers paying $500,000+ for a condominium and turning a blind eye to the serious social issues around him (or her) to be “cool”, Greenpoint is RED HOT.
I do not wish to suggest that my humble burg is the only neighborhood with problems such as homelessness, displacement*, un/underemployment, alcohol and narcotics abuse: it isn’t. Not by a long shot.
Call me naive, but I cannot for the life of me reconcile the glowing rhetoric I read about Greenpoint with this image. It reminds me of something Marie Antoinette once said:
Miss Heather
*I love this term. It likens human beings to so much water thrown asunder. Nice.
Portrait of a G Train Rider
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
After having dinner this evening at Los Primos (on Grand Street) I decided to walk over to the Metropolitan Avenue stop of the G and start my trek home.
Jesus H. Christ!
My husband said. For some reason waiting a fucking eternity for the B43 bus to arrive makes more sense to him than spending an extra five or ten minutes walking to the subway. I told him I had my own set of keys and he was welcome to take the bus. I wasn’t. And in hindsight I damned glad I didn’t because…
the Baby Lama was waiting for me on the Queens-bound platform when I got to the station. At one point he started dancing and I followed suit halfway down the platform. It was the most fun I have had waiting for the G train in a very long time.
When the train arrived he got on. At Greenpoint Avenue, he got off. It makes me proud to have had the honor of sharing a subway ride with this man, much less to have him as a neighbor.
Miss Heather
P.S.: When I got home there was a smallish, balding man pacing in front of my building. To no one in particular he shouted:
Rene, your husband is fucking my wife!
God I love Greenpoint!
Newell Street Art Therapy
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
Over the last several months I have become a connoisseur of construction fences. When you see enough of them (as I have) you begin to notice that each of them has its own personality: in this respect they are just like people. Occasionally I will find one that stands out from its peers, like this fence at 140 Newell Street.
Like you, I initially thought it was pretty unremarkable, if ugly. But after watching the tenants of 142 Newell exit their house and pause to glare at their new Fedders friend, I decided to go in for a closer look. I’m glad I did.
Looks like someone decided to engage in a little art therapy. I’m not too sure what those angry lines emanating from the chimney are. Maybe they are RPGs? Nonetheless, I found myself wondering if this exercise in wishful thinking was directed towards this construction site or the rusting black behemoth across the street.
I suppose only the artist knows for certain.
Miss Heather
Miss Heather’s Apartment Share Inferno
Filed under: 11206, 11222, Crazy People, East Williamsburg, East Williamsburg Brooklyn, Greenpoint, Greenpoint Brooklyn, Greenpoint Magic, Greenwich Village, Williamsburg, Williamsburg Brooklyn
New York Shitty is a metropolis of pissers and moaners. Crappy jobs/job interviews, crappy dates, crappy landlords: someone has written a lengthy (and usually pithy) missive (or two) about them all. Yet no one has written about a subject that encapsulates all the previous and more: apartment shares and the people who offer them. Until today.
I care not for landlords, first dates or job interviews— but at least I know what all the previous involve: me getting fucked. Be it metaphorically, physically or both. The same cannot be said about apartment share interviews, as I learned several years ago.
The purpose of this post is to showcase the three worst (and/or weirdest) apartment share interviews I have ever had. I have even taken the liberty of creating a handy checklist to track the depths of depravity I endured. Nothing says “you’ve arrived” (in HELL) like PowerPoint, after all.
CASE STUDY #1: THE DUNGEON
Vital Statistics
Location: Meserole Street and Graham Avenue
Rent: $450 a month
The Catch: It’s a SRO
Truth be told, I was not very jazzed about the location of this share. Sure, it is a beautiful building, but I am a Greenpoint gal through and through. However, when one is dirt-ass broke, she cannot afford to be choosy, so I checked it out.
When I arrived at the front door I was greeted by a young woman. I think she was from Belgium, though it was hard to tell. She was a very pleasant and elegantly dressed lady— which made up for the decidedly NON-elegant setting.
As she led me through the front door (of her section) of the SRO, a man donning a dragon mask and reeking of marijuana popped out of another door and started giggling inanely. “Okay”, I thought “So he likes to party a little on a Sunday afternoon. Who doesn’t? No problem.”
The room she showed me was very spacious. I’ve seen many apartments smaller than this space, which probably measured around 400 square feet. I even liked the shade of lilac the walls were painted. Very pretty. I even told her so and she thanked me. She had picked out the paint herself.
Then I saw something I have never seen in any apartment/share space before: leather restraints, paddles and heavy chains anchored to the wall by mollies. Given that this was a three month sublease, the presence of these implements was non-negotiable. I could honestly not care less what this woman did (professionally?), but I don’t think I could have handled waking up every morning to the sight of Medieval torture devices. I was offered this sublet, but turned it down.
All things considered this experience was pretty mild (as I later would learn). What’s more, she was really likable and clearly not out to rip me off so I give this share a rating of…
CASE STUDY #2: MESEROLE STREET SUICIDE SHARE
Vital Statistics
Location: Meserole and Leonard Street
Rent: $500 a month
The Catch: Too many to summarize
The only reason I agreed to an interview at this share was because I confused “Meserole Street” with “Meserole Avenue”. After my interview at this hellhole I have never confused the two thoroughfares since.
I knocked on the door, a smallish red-haired man answered and ushered me in. It was dark. It was dirty. It was the bachelor pad date rape central replete with a disemboweled motorcycle in the living area. Although something about the “head roomie” was unsettling to me, I liked the other guy and heard them out. He was nice.
Then the shoes dropped, one after the other.
- Once the “Head Roomie” stood by the bathroom area (which was better lit) I recognized him; this shithead had I.M.ed me on Nerve a month ago. And being a freak (him more so than, me), I dissed him. Whoops.
- After making the previous discovery he showed me the room. It was okay, I guess. Then he pulled out a photo album and pointed to a picture of 20-something brunette chap.
See this guy?
I answered: yes.
He used to live in that space. Really nice guy, always laughing. We didn’t realize he had problems.
Me: Really, what kind of problems?
After not hearing from him a couple of days we went into his room and discovered that he had shot himself in the head hanged himself.
Me: I’m sorry to hear that.
What the hell do you say to something like that? How can one NOT notice a DEAD BODY for TWO WHOLE DAYS??? These are both very good questions. I kept them to myself.
I feel that people need to know about this, you know.
He said.
Let’s see: this was either the most diabolical form of revenge ever exacted (Where’s Candid Camera?) or this guy is being honest. Given the lack of overall intelligence he demonstrated on Nerve, I’m leaning towards the latter. I bet he is still trolling the Internets for leg too. My advice: no woman in her right mind is going to put out in a place that reeks of motor oil.
When I took the above the photo a meathead busy recycling beer bottles shouted:
Take a picture of the building across the street, it’s much nicer!
And, inasmuch as I hate to say it, I agree. At least no one has blown his (or her) brains out here hanged him (or herself) there.
Yet.
With so many different factors at play, I am going to stick with simple suicide on this one and give this share a…
At last! We are down to our last contender from the Universe’s very own Garden Spot: Greenpoint, Brooklyn U.S.A.!
CASE STUDY #3: STONER SPECIAL
Vital Statistics
Location: Nassau Avenue and Monitor Street
Rent: $600 a month
The Catch: It’s total fucking rip-off… and more!
I slog my ass over to this place. It stinks. Literally. Only a block away from Kingsland Avenue, the corner where this building is situated sports a perfume I like to call Petro le Um #5. Being the eager little domicile hunter I was (because I have a strong distaste about being homeless) I go in.
It is a loft. I do not like lofts. Inasmuch as the real estate industry likes to throw around the buzz phrase “artist loft” my experience has been that “artists” generally do not inhabit such spaces. I write this as an artist. 252 Norman Avenue was no exception.
I look around and note the “stoner special” layout of the living area: three really big, threadbare sofas encircling a very expensive widescreen television set. I am shown the room that is for rent: it is (maybe) eight by ten feet. It has no windows whatsoever. They are asking $600 a month for this piece of shit. In 2001.
I am then subjected to a gauntlet of questions by the residents of this place. I smile and answer them politely. Then I go home.
A weeks goes by and I get a phone call. It is one of the fellows from this apartment.
Me: So did I get the share?
Dude: No, but I thought you were cute and wondered if you’d like to go out on a date.
WTF!?!
When I told my buddy Larry about this recently, he opined:
You should have gone out with the guy and moved in with him. That way you will have a place to live and not have to pay rent.
Funny man, that Larry.
That said, there is something so utterly WRONG about using apartment share interviews to pick up chicks. It takes real chutzpah to call someone, tell her she did NOT get the share and then ask her on a date. Truth be told, it gave me the fucking creeps. So I give this jerk a…
In case you are wondering, I ended up putting all my shit in storage and sofa surfing until I found a place of my own. I can honestly say that one month of sofa-surfing wasn’t that bad when faced with my alternatives.
Miss Heather
To All The Landlords I’ve Loathed Before
Earlier this week I had an encounter with (yet another) aspiring journo visiting my humble ‘burgh seeking to “get the dirt” on the ‘Pernt. I met him in the most unexpected of places: the local Salvation Army.
The “new influx”of “dumbfux” has provided me a new means of acquiring nice duds dirt cheap. My only wish is that their mothers smoked during pregnancy so there would be more offerings in my size. But I digress.
Who knew the Garden Spot was so newsworthy? I certainly didn’t. The (lack of print) press coverage for my blog and those my fellow Greenpointers (wonderful people all) have seen fit erect makes my inner Dog Shit Queen wonder:
Why hast thou forsaken
meUS?
The only answer I have come up with that makes any sense is it’s easier to have young college graduates come up here and observe us like the relics we are: to solicit input from the local yokels would lower their employer’s journalistic standards. We are rent-paying Neanderthals in a Homo Erectile world. As antiquities we might be of journalistic or archaeological interest, but our presence and discontentment is
- incidental
- accidental
- inconvenient
to this neighborhood becoming “hip”.
When I walked into the Salvation Army and saw a clean-cut gent scribbling notes on a notepad while a porcine man pontificated about construction practices, undermining adjacent buildings and legal recourse. I knew I was onto something. I hung around. I eventually struck up a conversation with the scribbler.
He wanted to know about Greenpoint.
I told him I blogged about Greenpoint.
He asked what my blog was.
I told him.
He recognized it.
We talked.
What got me more than anything was his apparent surprise upon learning that I knew “the system”. And by “system” I mean housing law, rent stabilization law, the Department of Buildings, Department of Housing and Community Renewal and Housing Court.
I have been to Housing Court and I won. Twice.
Sure, I’m probably on a blacklist somewhere, but who gives a fuck? I don’t. Making that asshole eat shit for a collapsed ceiling, no electricity for ten days and no hot water was totally worth it. The judge even complimented me on the thoroughness of dossier I had painstakingly compiled for his edification.
When my landlord retaliated (by dragging me into court to set a date for making said “repairs”) my buddy Rachael tagged along and cheered as I ripped his paralegal a new asshole. The court-appointed moderator thought I was attorney “representing the tenant”. I told him:
I am not a fucking attorney, I am the tenant!
Housing Court is a very entertaining place. Those of you who enjoy gallows humor and/or care to know how miserably your condo-disabled brethren live should go. I mention this because (after a lengthy sojourn in Low Cal So-Cal) my buddy Rachael paid me a visit today and gave me a memento from my litigious past.
This is a water fountain in Kings County Housing Court.
This is a duck made out of a Post-It note.
Any questions?
Miss Heather
A Very Greenpoint Wedding
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
Life is a funny thing. Saturday night my husband was elated to discover that the bodega across the street has started selling 24 ounce cans of Coors, Sunday morning he was crestfallen upon learning a wedding we are to attend is dry. Of course I already knew this, but I thought it would be fun to see how long (if at all) it would take for him find out on his own.
Miss Heather’s Husband: Hey, did you know they’re not serving alcohol at this thing?
Me: Yeah, so?
M.H.H.: What… what am I going to do?
Me: Beats the shit out of me.
M.H.H.: I know, I’ll carry a flask.
Me: You are NOT bringing a flask to someone else’s wedding. That’s rude.
Had this wedding been a ‘family affair’ the absence of booze would have been a deal breaker. Alcohol is the social lubricant that makes most of my brethren (be they by blood or marriage) tolerable. That said, this is a friend’s function (READ: I actually give a shit) and I know damn well that serving alcohol to the likes of us is effectively soliciting a white trash reenactment of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf.
I hope that was an empty bottle, George! You can’t afford to waste good (malt) liquor, not on YOUR salary!
The fact of the matter is Greenpointers, alcohol and weddings do not mix. Never did, never will. Take an incident I discovered in the September 10, 1886 issue of the Brooklyn Daily Eagle recently. These newlyweds spent their wedding night in the most inauspicious of places: jail.
WEDDING FESTIVITIES SPOILED
The Bride and the Groom and Their Best Man Spend the Night in Police Cells
John Nile and Mary Lee, residents of Greenpoint, having determined to get married, went to New York late Wednesday night. They found an accommodating clergyman and then looked around for witnesses. The clergyman roused his hired man, Charles Allen, and the latter’s wife from their first nap, and they “filled the bill”. There ceremony being performed, the groom asked all hands out to drink to his continued happiness. The clergyman declined, but the hired man accepted and the trio started their way back to Greenpoint, where the groom thought to occasion could be more fully celebrated. By the time Long Island City was reached the preparatory “nips” caught en route had taken such a hold on the groom that he ingloriously collapsed. In their attempts to “brace him up” the bride and Allen made so much noise that the police took charge of them until yesterday morning.
And I thought I was being hardcore by spending the afternoon of my wedding in Red Hook.
Maybe next time…
Miss Heather
Penile Endowment & Pete’s Candy Store
As I was reading The Gowanus Lounge this morning I found myself taking a psychedelic trip down down the rabbit hole to my days as a single woman about town.
Yes, I am talking about “Missed Connection” post about Pete’s Candy Store. To the best of my knowledge the chap I met there did not have two penises. If he did, both tools were NOT located below the belt, if you know what I mean.
He was special. Very special. And given some of the VERY special peeps I have dated, this is no small accomplishment. To crack the top five in the smash-jaw world of Miss Heather’s all-time favorite male suitors is sort of like being the most retarded kid on the short bus. It is a dubious distinction to be certain, but a distinction it is nonetheless.
In a kingdom of the ‘tards, he who wears the crash helmet with a thick lucite mouth guard is king. This chap was the Hannibal Lechter of my dreams (whose type are only had by my person after eating a lot of spicy food before going to bed).
It was a sultry summer day in 2002…
My big fat dyke best bud Rachael and I were in a particularly rambunctious mood. Our friendship is a never-ending folie à deux sans the body count. Unless of course you include the male ego as an animal of prey: in which case our faces would be found in every god damned post office in this country. Possibly every milk carton too, but I digress…
We had quite a busy evening ahead of us. First a barbecue party in East Williamsburg, then a night of bar crawling. To this end Rachael showed up at my apartment with a diaper bag full of provisions, among the goods contained in this bag were a container of baby wipes (because New York Shitty is a very dirty place) and an electronic bull horn. After futzing around with the latter for fifteen minutes (and playing “The Yellow Rose of Texas” for my neighbors’ edification) we took our show on the road. We walked.
As we strolled down Manhattan Avenue I would turn on the megaphone and announce every stop of the G train replete with “stand clear of the closing doors”. The people at Greenpoint Avenue were confused by this. The folks at Nassau Avenue were amused by this. A woman at Metropolitan Avenue complimented me on my flawless recitation of the transfers available to the Canarsie and 8th Avenue bound L train. I thanked her and told her that I had done much research on the subject.
We arrived at the barbecue and quickly found ourselves getting bored. This is not criticize the hosts, Mark and Heather, they were terrific. Rather, Rachael and I had an itch to scratch and our fine fettle would be wasted at such an informal function. I was rocking a fuzzy pink tube top, furry pink platform shower thongs and rhinestone earrings shaped like dollar signs. I, in the clarity of hindsight, looked ridiculous.
I was Greenpoint Fabulous, albeit bereft of the usual “whale tail” and “camel toe” one sees in the ‘Pernt with disquieting frequency. In my humble opinion the Garden Spot is the Camel Toe Capital of the universe. If you’re into this kind of thing, brave the G train and come here. You’ll feel like a kid in a candy store.
So my buddy Rach and I headed to Williamsburg without delay. After hitting Union Pool (LAME), Sweetwater (and bumping into someone I went to undergrad school with back in Texas), walking by a school and acquiring a child’s desk we headed to Pete’s. We stopped to catch our breath. Carrying a desk, even one clearly designed for a kindergartner, is pretty tiring. We looked up and noticed a buddy of ours waving at us. We went in, desk in hand.
It was our buddy “Hunter”. That’s not his real name— I can’t remember what it is at the moment— but he bears a striking resemblance to Hunter S. Thompson. The moniker works so let’s roll with it, okay? He was seated with a motley crew of dudes we had never met. A chap who called himself “Snowflake” seated himself in our newly-acquired desk. He fit too.
Despite our best efforts Rachael and I kept calling him “Snowball”. I suspect this was probably the result of watching Clerks and reading Animal Farm one too many times. No offense was intended and none seemed to be taken: he invited us to go home with him later. We declined.
Next to me sat a rheumy-eyed dude whose name (also) eludes me. He probably told me what it was but it didn’t register. My intoxication was not to blame either; this dude was one beer and a bong hit shy of becoming Terri Schiavo. Frankly, I was amazed he could even sit up straight. Despite this handicap, he put on his best moves.
TS (looking at my earrings): Ssssssssso, I see it you’re in it for the bennies?
Me: What?
TS: The bennies, the benjamins.
Me: Benjamins?
TS: $100 bills babe, money.
Me: If I was I wouldn’t be so fucking poor, dude.
TS (while pulling out a one-hitter and stuffing it with grass): Really? Why did you break up with your last boyfriend?
Me: He smoked so much grass he couldn’t keep it up.
(He puts his one-hitter away.)
TS: Let me tell you something…
Me: Yes, and that is???
TS: I’ve got the biggesssssssst dick and the mossssssst money of any man in thisssss entire bar.
Me (raising an eyebrow): Really? Now that is interesting. Are you serious?
TS: Yes, I’ve got the biggessssssst dick and the mosssssst money of any dude in thissssss whole barrrrrr.
Me (to Rachael): Hey Rach, could you hand me the bag?
Rachel hands me the bag and I pull out the megaphone. Even though my suitor’s lips whispered “no”, everyone around us said “yes”. So, as Nike suggests, I just did it.
Me: Hey everybody!
(The dull roar of cocktail conversation and flirtation abruptly stops.)
Me: This guy has the biggest dick and the most money of any man in this bar!
After five full seconds of silence, everyone resumed their respective conversations and this chap got the point.
When Rachael and I left two very touchy feely gals were draped on his shoulders. Although I suspect they were more interested in each other than him, my act of mischief probably gave him ample material to submit to Penthouse Forum the next day. Or he awakened to discover that someone stole one of his kidneys. Either way, it’s a happy ending.
Miss Heather
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