Greenpoint
Lorven Pharmacy
Culture on the Cheap
Alas Poor Fozzie
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
Yesterday I had an interesting conversation with a customer at work. The woman I bantered with is a lifelong Greenpointer whose mother, at 99 years of age, has lived her entire life on North 8th Street. The topic of our discussion is a pretty popular one here in Greenpoint. It was instigated with an observation (along the lines of):
Gee, it smelled pretty bad here a couple of days ago… I wonder what it was?
This is an excellent question. Was it the sewage treatment plant? Was it Newton Creek? Was it the oil spill? Is it (shudder) something else? The world may never know.
All I’m saying is something’s gotta smell pretty damned bad if even a Muppet sees fit to take precautions.
Alas poor Fozzie, I knew him well.
Who knew the D.O.T. recruited Muppets? Perhaps the Foz and his fuzzy brethren got pushed out of Prospect Heights by gentrification and were relocated to the ‘affordable housing’ being built here? Perhaps Big Bird procured it for them? With Snuffalufagus’s help, obviously; it takes a non-entity to find a non- entity.
Maybe Fozzie couldn’t adjust to his new digs and decided to say Goodbye cruel world! I bet Oscar is adjusting well, though. He would like the Garden Garbage Spot. A LOT.
In any case, Fozzie (R.I.P.) left behind some pretty phat wheels. The McGuinness Boulevard sign is a nice touch.
Miss Heather
Zen and the Art of Buzzer Maintenance: Bushwick Style
This is the intercom system for my building. As you can clearly see, this fixture has seen better times. The sweet salad days of its youth, e.g.; when this appliance was not only wired in a coherent fashion and allowed the residents contained within this building the luxury of “buzzing” people in are, alas, no more.
What was once a facilitator of convenience to others has become my nuisance. The only people who bother using this “intercom system” are drunks, junkies and fools. A motley crew that god (for reasons only known to him) has seen fit to protect. In Greenpoint. With a particular emphasis on my block.
Unless of course one of these ne’er do wells takes to hitting my buzzer repeatedly at 2:00-6:00 in the morning. You see, I quit going to church at a very young age. Being pontificated at like a child by children and hypocrites of all ages did not sit well with me. But I did a learn a thing or two during my indoctrination. For example: it is much better to give than it is to receive.
On a hot summer morning/night who would not like a nice cold cup of water (or two)? I know I would. Especially if I happened to be shit-faced drunk and/or high. That’s why I see fit to “water the plants” whenever someone sees fit to pummel my buzzer when most people (myself included) are asleep. The problem is (at such odd hours and being very sleepy) my aim isn’t very good; most of the water I pour finds its way onto the stoop below. Exactly where the “buzzer-pusher” is.
To those of you who I have accidentally showered (and we both know such an attempt at hygiene on your part would come to pass by accident), please accept my sincerest apologies. My hand and eye coordination are not what they used to be. If I was not enfeebled by old age (READ: being in my 30’s) I assure buckets of boiling oil would find their way to you.
That said, I recently found a buzzer “fixture” in Bushwick and it inspired me. Not only was it out of the reach of drunks, mischievous children or ornery little chicks like me, it was also a test.
Speaking as someone who has taken oodles of tests, I am familiar with the logic of “multiple choice”. From Kindergarten to the grave, one’s worth— be it financially, personally, sexually, etc.— is decided by such examinations. The first of many inquiries about my worth as a human being came in Kindergarten. The fact that I used scissors with my right hand and could not write with the same said hand was troublesome to my teacher.
Was Miss Heather retarded?
That was the issue my teacher brought up at an urgent meeting with my mother. My mother (not being a elementary education professional, but being my mother) made the presumptuous suggestion:
Did you try to let her write with her left hand?
It worked. But I digress…
When faced with a question I couldn’t answer on one of the many standardized tests I took— be they in junior high school, high school or college (each designated to highlight the defects of the previous institution and my person) I rarely picked “none of the above”. Perhaps if I label my buzzer as such the luck will rub off?
Hope springs eternal. In the meantime I’m keeping a pitcher of ice water ready.
Miss Heather
Loathe Thy Neighbor
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
Good fences make good neighbors
-Robert Frost, “Mending Wall”
One of the biggest learning curves for me after moving to New York City was getting acclimatized to having a lot less space. When people are stacked chock -a -block (as they are here) concepts such as “personal space” and “privacy” become a much more relative thing. In fact, I have occasionally amazed myself with what I have managed to tune out, e.g.; street noise, music, noisy neighbors, a PILE DRIVER, etc.
People are, contrary to popular belief, a pretty tolerant lot here. That said, when the reach the breaking point things can get interesting. Anyone who has lived in New York City must (in my opinion) have a rite of passage called the noisy neighbor. You know; some cretin who is either unwilling or unable to understand what impact his (or her) actions have on others and persists in making ungodly amounts of noise (usually at ungodly hours of the night). Many try to entreat these people by employing reason. Sometimes this works.
Usually it doesn’t.
Of course, if one is willing to get his hands dirty redress can be had, as in this case of today’s tale pf Greenpoint hooliganism from the October 13, 1902 edition of the Brooklyn Daily Eagle. The issue at hand: a fence. Enjoy!
FAMILY FEUD IN COURT;
A GATE CHOPPED DOWN.
Sequel to Wright-Jackson and Jackson-Wright Complaints to Health Board
A COP VS. A REAL ESTATE MAN
Latter Comes Out Ahead in the First Round Before Magistrate— No Proof to Convict Chopper
The cause of it was a plain, long, high, unpainted gate. The gate isn’t to blame, but it has divided two families, caused a great deal of trouble and finally involved the principals in court proceedings. As is usual in such cases the sacrificial offering was an innocent victim of circumstances. He didn’t know and of course didn’t understand.
Patrolman Charles Jackson of the Greenpoint Avenue Station lives in 160 Calyer Street. Next door, in 162, is the home of George Wright, a well known real estate dealer. In his employ is Thomas Sharp, a laborer. In the side of Jackson’s house is a gate, which swings into the alley, and, incidentally, strikes against the house of Wright.
For two years this gate has been the primary cause of the friction between the families, The Wrights didn’t like to hear the banging of the gate against their house. Little things tell and the bangety-bang so worked upon the nerves of the Wrights that finally the friendship between the families turned into enmity.
Wright fumed and Jackson defied. Jackson determined to get even. Wright has two bantam roosters. They know how to crow at the most unreasonable hours. Mr. Jackson, or somebody else, sent word to the Board of Health that the crowing disturbed the slumber of the neighborhood.
The war was on. Mr. Wright, or somebody else, then complained to the Board of Health that Jackson’s yard was in unsanitary condition and that he should be compelled to have it drained. On the day this complaint was made Mrs. Wright became ill. Her illness was attributed to the constant banging of the Jackson gate.
Wright, in wrath, again complained to the Board of Health. The next day Jackson, or possibly someone else, complained to the Boards about the condition of Wright’s yard. It was in unsanitary condition, it was alleged, and threatened the health and happiness of the neighborhood.
Hearing of this Wright got “mad clear through” and when an inspector from the Board informed him that his yard should be drained in compliance with the law, the real estate dealer said that he was in financial straits and couldn’t afford to have the work done.
“Why don;t you look after Jackson’s yard,” said Wright.
The inspector told Wright that Jackson’s yard was all right.
When Jackson heard that Wright had talked about his yard the pot of his temper boiled over and the Wrights say that subsequently the gate was banged with greater force than ever. Wright became furious. Mrs. Wright and her family talked about nothing else but that gate and Wright may be pardoned if the constant reiteration caused him to forget the virtue of patience. There was a family council. In anger Wright declared to his admiring family that he would end it all and forever. Alas, poor Sharp! Wright, Jackson claims, got his laborer to chop down the gate. He did, but for the time being, at least, that was the undoing of Sharp. Jackson, in a rage, had Sharp arrested.
Before Magistrate O’Reilly in the Manhattan Avenue police court this morning Sharp was arraigned. The Wrights and the Jacksons were there. They glared and glared, but the justice was calm. Nobody had seen Sharp chopping down the gate. Sharp grinned. Wright looked elated. Jackson frowned. Sharp was discharged and the Magistrate told Jackson that he should not have had Sharp arrested. With a merry ha-ha the Wrights, followed by faithful Sharp, left the court room.
Jackson and his friends marched out as if there were in the wake of a hearse— but the end is not yet. The Wrights and the Jacksons still live in adjoining houses and new gates are easily constructed.
You know, this story reminds me of the lovely Pre-Perestroika fence Magic Johnson’s crew erected on my block earlier this year. A fence that was, not surprisingly, built without a permit. I hate this fence. What’s more, I hate the fucking surveillance cameras mounted atop it. I have quietly wished someone would destroy those things for months.
Thankfully, I did not have to lift a finger. Magic Johnson’s crew did all the work themselves.
My husband and I noticed that something, uh, happened when were walking down the block a couple of weeks ago. I noticed a couple staring at the destruction and struck up a conversation with them.
Me: Yeah, Magic’s crew managed to knock out their own cameras and electricity.
Man: I know, I helped wire the lighting. I was pretty bummed out when that happened.
I smiled and proceeded down the street.
The cameras have since been re-wired. Last week I called the 311 to report that 110 Green was doing after-hours work without a permit. Again.
The bleak goes on.
Miss Heather
For all you gourmands out there
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
This evening I walked by Cafecito to see how arepa night was going. That’s when I realized it was a private party and that I probably needed to RSVP in order to attend. Whoops.
That’s okay because Greenpoint has plenty of vittles itching to be eaten. You may not want to eat them, but they are available for the delectation nonetheless. Like something I discovered at Toluca La Bella recently.
The more seasoned Greenpointers among you probably call this restaurant San Diego. I do; that’s because this restaurant went by this very name for years. Since the name change very little has, well, changed. But a few adjustments in the menu have been noted. Such as the tortas they are offering.
For those of you who are not Spanish savvy Wikipedia states:
A torta is a Mexican sandwich, served on an oblong 6-8 inch firm, crusty white sandwich roll, called a bolillo or telera. Tortas can be served hot or cold.
Some of the most common ingredients to be found in a torta are ham, marinated pork, beef tongue and steak. But this being Greenpoint, the mere “common” will not suffice.
Thus the invention of the hot dog and egg torta. Being a vegetarian, I have to say this foodstuff sounds pretty repulsive— which of course virtually assures that my husband (and other colon-cloggers like him) will love it. As I often ask my husband (while he is eating a hot dog):
Hey, what are hot dogs made of?
“Snouts, lips and assholes” he replies.
Then comes my bon mot:
You are what you eat!
Hence why I am featuring this item on New York Shitty today: that joke never gets old. To me it doesn’t anyway and that’s the only thing that matters.
If any of you, dear readers, decide to give this culinary creation a whirl let me know what it’s like. Seriously. My curiosity is killing me. Call me unadverturous, but I am going to stick to the nachos. They’re pretty good and most important of all: CHEAP.
Toluca La Bella
999 Manhattan Avenue
Brooklyn, NY 11222
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.
101 (minus a few score) Uses for a Dead Rat
Last weekend I endeavored to purchase a Metrocard from one of the machines located at the Driggs Avenue entrance of the Bedford Avenue stop of the L train. I pushed the requisite buttons, tendered my ten bucks and a new card popped out. Then I got a message stating there was an “error” and that I needed to take my person, my card and my receipt to the token booth attendant. I waited.
And waited.
No receipt.
Getting edgy because I thought I had been gyped out of ten bucks, I went to the token booth in a huff. They tested it and everything was okay.
Now jump forward to a comment I got today. Thenextstopwillbe writes:
…exited the L at the Driggs end one day to discover that someone had stuffed a dead rat in the change chute of the Metrocard machine. It fit in there sideways perfectly.
Perhaps this is what I did wrong? Instead of anticipating a piece of paper, I should have waited for the dead rat to be dispensed. Silly me.
This dead rat concept has legs. Four of them to be exact. If New York City wants to become greener, why not start with its copious use of paper? Take parking tickets for example. I find these discarded on the street constantly. Presumably by scofflaws. Jane Q. Doubleparker might blow off a piece of paper, but I seriously doubt she’ll be very nonchalant after finding a dead rat under her windshield wiper.
The same goes jury duty summonses, Stop Work Orders, arrest warrants, birth certificates, death certificates, marriage licenses or unemployment insurance questionnaires. Save a tree and utilize one of New York’s greatest and least utilized natural resources: rattus norvegicus. Deceased.
In fact, why not bring this revolutionary movement to the private sector as well? Someone in Greenpoint already has; a few days ago I found a dead rat doormat at 294 1/2 McGuinness Boulevard. I think it was a dead rat, anyway. It could have also been Marv Albert’s toupee* after a rough night in Long Island City. Or both. Who knows?
I wonder where the bones went?
Miss Heather
*No women or rats were bit, forcibly sodomized or coerced into threesomes during the writing of this post.
Paint it Black
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
No more will my green sea go turn a deeper blue
I could not foresee this thing happening to you
As many of you have read, the much anticipated and long-overdue law suit regarding the Newton Creek oil spill has been filed! To celebrate this most auspicious occasion I am going to share a little piece of treasure I acquired recently: a map of Greenpoint from the 1939 July issue of Fortune Magazine.
Hmm… Greenpoint isn’t looking too, well, green. Let’s check out the key and find out why.
Obviously this is but a section of this map. It encompasses all five boroughs of New York City. Greenpoint is pretty easy to find at a casual glance though: just direct your attention to the blackest section of the map.
NEXT UP: An article about Newton Creek from this same issue of Fortune Magazine.
Miss Heather
Upcoming Events
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
There’s a host of interesting things going on in and around the Garden Spot this week. Follows are a few of them.
Cafecito Set to Celebrate Colombian Independence Day
This Friday, July 20th, at 7:00 p.m. Cafecito will celebrate Colombian Independence Day by unveiling their new arepa menu. Per their press release:
Cafecito Bogotá (CB) is poised to unveil its full arepa menu at a 7:00pm reception on July 20, 2007 just in time to celebrate Colombia’s Independence Day. Expect to see an exotic arepa assortment comprised of over 15 mouth-watering choices, which will range from the traditional cheese-infused Arepa Paisa to the innovative Arepa Millonaria confectioned with red caviar. This menu addition will turn Cafecito Bogotá into Brooklyn´s one-and-only arepa café, and fabulous Greenpoint into arepa central.
For more details, contact Freddy Varela at (718) 569 0077.
Cafecito
1015 Manhattan Avenue
Brooklyn, NY 11222
Dirty Harry Potter Party
After loading up on delicious Colombian food, why not swing by the Dirty Harry Potter Party at Word Books? Word has it that Jack O’Neill’s pub will be furnishing Sangria. Festivities start at 11:00 p.m. For more information check out their web site.
Word Books
126 Franklin Street
Brooklyn, NY 11222
(718) 383 0096
BARC’s Cat Carnival & Block Party
On Sunday, July 22nd, BARC will be hosting their Cat Carnival & Block Party. For more details click the link embedded in the above flyer and it will take you to BARC’s web site.
Brooklyn Animal Resource Coalition
253 Wythe Avenue
Brooklyn, NY 11211
718 486 7489
Finally, I suppose I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the blogger meet-up I am hosting this Sunday at Casa Mon Amour. It looks like it’s going to be a full house, so after tomorrow, July 18, I will no longer be accepting RSVPs.
To those of you who have already responded: I look forward to meeting you. It looks like there will a lot of new and different faces at this event, and frankly, I find this very exciting. I will be sending each of you an email with a rough itinerary for this event in the next day or two, so be on the lookout for it.
Miss Heather
Fun With Public Urination Part I: The Nassau Avenue Stop of the G
Have you ever found yourself having a day when you find yourself muttering “I’m not seeing this. Please tell me I am not seeing this!” REPEATEDLY? Well, today was one such day for Miss Heather.
Before I continue I am going to be brutally forthright and state that I do not harbor a very high opinion of the human race. Although I have rarely met an individual who is completely unlikeable, there’s something that happens when otherwise nice and reasonable persons coalesce into a group. In a nutshell, they turn into fucking animals.
I have long accepted the fact that most people (myself included) don’t have the stuff to be a Stephen Hawking, Eleanor Roosevelt or Mahatma Gandhi. That special something, whatever it is, is simply beyond the grasp of the rest us. So be it.
However, this doesn’t mean one should do a complete 180 and (for example) hold your toddler son’s dingus as he pisses on platform of the Smith and 9th Street bound G train at Nassau Avenue. I saw just this today. Or more accurately, I heard it.
It was about 12:30 in the afternoon and I had a long day ahead of me. As I waited for the G train to arrive I was lost in thought regarding the day’s busy itinerary. I was abruptly jarred out of my private wonderland by the sound of running water.
I look to my right. Nothing. Then I looked to my left and saw a woman kneeling over her two year old son less than five feet away from me. Liquid was hitting the pavement and languidly drizzling onto the tracks. It was piss. After another good hard stare I deduced that she was holding his “wee wee” for him as he urinated onto the platform. Lovely.
Revolted and yet titillated, I could not draw my attention away from this spectacle. Like a deer in headlights, I was mesmerized. The sight of this child passing what had to be at least a liter of water had rendered me helpless.
After what seemed like an eternity, the little boy’s bladder was voided and mommy zipped up his pants. “I have to document this” I thought to myself. So I whipped out my camera and enthusiastically shot some close-ups of this newly christened piece of platform.
Much to the horror of the mother; she grabbed her child and booked it to the other end of the platform. The entire time she glared back at me as if to say “Get away from me, you SICK FUCK!”
Now I understand that this is New York City and this kind of thing happens on a daily or hourly basis. If I was unwilling to live with this operational hazard I would not be here. But— and this is a big BUT— if you help your two year old take a piss on a subway platform in front of 20-30 people you shouldn’t be the least bit surprised if someone wants to photograph it. As I said before: this is New York City, after all.
If you don’t want photos of your kid’s piss splashed all over the Internets, take him to a bathroom where he can tinkle in private.
Simple as that.
Miss Heather
Slushies for the masses!
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
Today is apparently the grand opening of the Corner Frenzy’s slushie stand.
Why not savor one of the 24 flavors of soft serve this laundromat sells while washing your tighty whities? It’s not like you have anything better to do anyway.
As one satisfied customer proclaimed this weekend:
Hey, get over here and try this before someone calls the city!*
Fuck Zagat or Michelin, the previous review merits five stars in my book.
Those of you who want to get your summer slushie fix can do so at the “Corner Frenzy” (located at northwestern intersection of Manhattan Avenue and Huron Street).
Miss Heather
*This is in no way meant to insinuate this place is unsanitary, though there was no permit condoning such concessions to be found. If anything, this place is probably cleaner than Enid’s (which was recently shut down by the DOH). To be honest, I place the blame regarding the latter on the clients, not the proprietors.
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