Greenpoint
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Culture on the Cheap
How to Purchase Previously Owned Porn: A Primer
I always dread the first Friday of the month. “First Fridays”, as my buddy Rachael calls them, are very busy days at the junk shop. She says it’s because this is the day people get their public assistance checks. Maybe this is true, maybe it isn’t. If it is, I can tell you what the taxpayers’ money was outlaid on in my little corner of Greenpoint today: PORN.
BAD PORN.
Before I continue:
- It is not the purpose of this post to malign people who receive public assistance. A person may lack money, but that does not mean he (or she) lacks integrity, intelligence or worth. More often than not all the previous qualities render a person poor. I speak from experience.
- It is not the purpose of this post to malign people who spend their public assistance on porn. Everyone deserves a diversion from the misery of their daily life. Especially those in the throes of poverty. Let them eat c*m— or better yet— watch someone else eat it for them. That sticky substance is catharsis for many a down-trodden person. “What’s that strange taste in my mouth?” you ask. It’s freedom. Spit or swallow. The decision is yours to make. The good ol’ U.S. of A. is a democracy after all.
- Rather, it is the purpose of this post to establish proper etiquette for buying porn, as it became very manifest today that such ground rules need to be set. Here they are.
Rule #1: Do not buy your porn from a thrift store.
Rule #2: If you find yourself in the position of having to purchase porn from a thrift store, don’t be an asshole.
The rest of this post will explore Rule #2.
Porno Pointer A
Any attempt to be sly about perusing porn is a waste of effort.
Today I finally commandeered more space to put out craft supplies and bargain bags of earrings. Immediately to my left was a chap foraging through a sizable container of DVDs. Though a recent addition to the store, we all knew what it contained:
- Four or five DVDs of “mainstream” movies
- A lot of porn, most of which involved inserting large objects up a woman’s rectum
As I was organizing this man hunched over this cache of affordable and no-strings-attached female companionship like a miser. He thought I would think that cinematic flicks such as The Fugitive (which was in said container) were the target of his dogged search. He was wrong. His attempt at subterfuge was pathetic.
This man was a picky poonhound. After much consideration Black-eyed Pees did not make the cut. I immediately brought this to my coworker’s attention. We laughed our asses off. Which brings me to the next titulation tip…
Porno Pointer B
Those of you who are thinking:
Gee, I bet these folks see people come in and buy this stuff all the time. If I want to buy Super-sized Black Booty Butt Plungers #87, they won’t think anything of it. This is normal, right?
WRONG.
Speaking as someone who has gone through boxes purchased at storage facility auctions, I have had plenty of moments when I find myself saying, “Ewwwww, GROSS.” You get used to finding the odd butt plug, cock ring or stacks of Juggs magazines. And worse.
You do NOT, however, get used to seeing a woman with a mop handle shoved up her nether-regions. Consider yourself warned because…
Porno Pointer C
We will talk about you behind your back. Your sexual eccentricities are our entertainment. Learn to live with this fact or:
- acquire some social skills and get a girlfriend
- buy porn made by companies who do not treat women like garbage
- get therapy
- all of the above
Porno Pointer D
Perversion has a price. Asking $5.00 for a gently used copy of Let’s Get Our Orgy On or Big Black Women with Little White Chicks is not at all unreasonable. What IS unreasonable is trying to haggle the price down because “other video stores sell these types of movies for $2.00.”
The previous sentence speaks volumes about your life(style). It is not a very flattering portrait.
Porno Pointer DD
Further attempts to justify a lower price will not work. What’s more, approaching the solitary female employee of the store with the hope of exploiting her lack of adult entertainment expertise might backfire. Which brings me to…
Porno Pointer E
Do not insult Miss Heather
What we’ve got here is… failure to communicate. Some men you just can’t reach. So you get what we had here
last weektoday, which is the way he wants it… well, he gets it.
Miss H: Yes, I am aware these movies are of inferior quality. Jenna Jameson, they are not.
Pornophile: These movies are nothing more than footage culled from other movies.
Miss H: Yes, I know what “loops” are. I recently read Jenna Jameson’s biography, you should read it.
Pornophile: Did you learn anything from it?
Miss H: I was merely stating that it was interesting book. You should read it. You might learn something. (And being a cocksucker isn’t one of them, this dude has clearly mastered that art already . — Ed. Note)
*Chirp, chirp*
After taking ten seconds to deduce that he had been insulted by a broad, this dude transgressed…
Porno Pointer F
Appealing to another store employee in order to secure a low(er) price for porn is a futile endeavor. In the above case study this sad attempt at duplicity backfired. Big time. The price went up: $16.00.
And this chap tendered it. He even had the temerity to ask for a bag to conceal his salacious purchases. Had I been alone I would have told him we had none. Asshole.
After this episode I ventured out to forage lunch-time vittles. I was hungry. I was pissed. I needed to vent. So, as I was walking along McGuinness Boulevard with my newly acquired foodstuffs, I called my husband.
Miss H: …Remember that Hare Krishna looking dude we saw on the G train last weekend? The guy with the pants you liked?
Husband: Yes.
Miss H: That motherfucker tried to stiff me! He tried to tell me what loops were versus full length features. Like I don’t know the difference.
Husband: That was dumb.
Miss H: Yes it was. Who the fuck does this dude think he is? I’m not fucking stupid, you know. Give me a fucking break!
It was at this moment I noticed there was a woman walking behind me. A pregnant woman. A pregnant and very horrified woman. She looked like she had seen a ghost.
Let’s review:
- I was walking down McGuinness Boulevard shouting into a cell phone.
- I was walking down McGuinness Boulevard shouting into a cell phone while clad in a pair of hip-hugging stretch pants (rolled up to the knee), a yellow tank top with a black bra underneath (need to do laundry) and large sunglasses. My hair is currently blond. VERY BLOND. Long story— let’s just say that I recently had an epiphany: if Britney Spears can (still) dress like Britney Spears, so can I.
- I was shouting about someone trying to “stiff me”.
- Now subtract the previous telephonic exchange from my (previous and lengthy) context.
I am not so egotistical to think I am of professional porn caliber. I am not. Never was. Greenpoint has more, uh, LAX standards for such a sinecure. I know this because I have found “home grown” porn strewn on my block. You could probably stuff a sow in a negligee and get takers. Yes, it’s that’s bad.
When I got back to work, lunch in hand, my coworker was busy helping another customer. This man was— get this— BUYING PORN.
Lather.
Rinse.
Repeat.
NEXT WEEK: Customers say the darnedest things. AKA; Don’t try to understand ’em, just rope, throw and brand ’em.
Miss Heather
Toxic Waste in Greenpoint
Feeling the holiday spirit, I decided to whip up some tasty goodies to nibble on July 4th. My menu du jour was:
- Tomato Salad
- Baked Eggplant
- Hummus
- Brie
- Sourdough baguette
All the previous were delicious, by the way. But the purpose of this post is not to boast of my culinary prowess. Rather, it is to expound upon an unpleasant task I had to perform BEFORE prepping the above foodstuffs: cleaning out the refrigerator.
Since I have more time at my disposal (and have a lower threshold for abject filth), I perform most of the household cleaning. I do not want to suggest that my husband does nothing; he does some work— just not as much.
I am by no means a poster child for stellar home economics myself; when one of our cats throws up I usually wait a little while before cleaning it up. I do this because more often than not one of our other cats will come along and eat it. This apartment is a little ecosystem and why should I be so presumptuous as to tamper with it— especially since if it means there is less work for me to do? I ascribe to the Tom Sawyer work ethic: why whitewash a fence if you can trick some rube into doing it for you? Work smart, not hard.
The previous having been said, yes I was a co-enabler of the horrors you are about to behold. But— and this is a BIG BUT— I am not the only person in this household to blame. Capiche?
The last 2-3 weeks I have been insanely busy. My husband, however, recently took seven days off.
Seven.
Days.
Off.
Question: What happens when Heather is running around like a madwoman because she has to work extra hours and has no Internet or telephone service?
Answer: Nothing. And by “nothing” I mean our refrigerator continues its transformation from a place of nourishment into something more akin to Chernobyl.
Tuesday, July 3rd, 5:30 p.m.
After a whole day of procrastination I finally got the wherewithal to confront my enemy: several months of festering foodstuffs. I was assisted and/or anesthetized by several glasses White Zinfindel. To do such an onerous and repulsive task completely sober was decidedly NOT an option. The following rogue’s gallery of rotten food should help you understand why. (If you have the means, please play “The End” by the Doors while viewing. — Ed. Note)
Exhibit A
Estimated Age: Three Months
Getting my husband to eat vegetables is a bit of a task. For this reason I will occasionally put rice in my tomato salad as an enticement. The white stuff in the above salad is not rice.
Exhibit B
Estimated Age: Four Months
This is was Nigerian Bean Stew. I got the recipe from Madhur Jaffrey’s World Vegetarian Cookbook. Since I only make this dish during cooler, wet months (because it bears a strong similarity to chili), I estimate its age to be four months.
Exhibit C
Estimated Age: Unknown
…don’t you make make brown rice blue…
I have no friggin idea how old this is. When I threw it into the garbage can a puff of blue dust tickled my nostrils. Scrumptious.
Exhibit D
Estimated Age: Probably three months
I couldn’t find a “eat by” date on this container. This made me a little nervous, as rotten dairy food makes one helluva stink.
*Whew!* It’s just a bunch of rotten onions. Judging from how coursely they are chopped, I can safely state that this is my husband’s handiwork.
Exhibit E
Estimated Age: Three— possibly four— months
Of all the rotten food I sorted, this one by far smelled the worst.
When I was a kid my parents had some friends who had a son my age. These people also had a teenage son who would occasionally be charged with babysitting the two of us. Big mistake.
One time he sat us at his grandparent’s house in California. Both his grandparents had emphysema and would cough up lung cookies into a coffee can. One time, when I was left alone with this sadistic motherfucker, he shoved my face into this can. I mention this story because the above goo reminds me of what I saw.
The previous is only a selection of the revolting substances I handled last Tuesday. There was more. Much, much more. When my husband arrived home I stood in the kitchen, seething. Upon noticing that I had cleaned out the refrigerator he said:
…I had been meaning to do that but I was waiting…
“FOR ME TO DO IT!” I bellowed.
Nothing else was said.
And on that note, dear readers, I too have nothing else to say. Save perhaps that I have left a “present” in the refrigerator for my husband to find. I won’t say what it is, but I will tell you it is six months old.
Miss Heather
High Life in Greenpoint
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
I am plowing through my new(ish) Jenna Jameson book, How to Make Love like a Porn Star. It’s a really fun read; once I pick it up an hour or two will pass before I can muster enough self-control to put it down. Although I am certain the fact that I am raging pervert has something to do with my rapt fascination with this book, I have to concede that Ms. Jameson’s story is an interesting one and she tells it well. I like this woman— there, I said it.
In keeping with the spirit of fallen women, I have pulled a particularly choice offering from the Brooklyn Daily Eagle archives this week. It is entitled “High Life in Greenpoint” and dates from from July 11, 1871.
HIGH LIFE IN GREENPOINT
Two Shop Girls Horsewhipped by a Rich Man’s Son.
ONE OF THE FEMALES A FORMER VICTIM TO HIS WHILES.
While the fact is well known that Greenpoint is one of the most dormant localities, as regards the gathering of general news items, it is also conceded that for scandal and gossip of the baser sort, there is not other single ward in the city to compare with it, the authority for which assertion is not based wholly upon brief articles which have appeared in weekly publication, an owner of which is a resident of the Seventeenth Ward, and is therefore assumed to be a competent judge.
At 5 o’clock on Saturday afternoon, a genuine sensation transpired within a short distance of the Tenth street ferry slip, which was no less than the inhuman application of a lash whip, commonly used on road wagons by Pierre Smith, the scion of a wealthy family whose father Mr. Thomas C. Smith is a proprietor of the Porcelain works in Eckford Street. The particulars of the unmanly act as related by witnesses, and one of the victims, exhibit a cowardly spirit on the part of young Smith, stamping him as void of the first principles of genuine manhood, and for that reason unworthy the respect of his fellows.
THE FEMALES ASSAILED
were Miss Rachel Kenny, of No. Washington Street (now West Street), and Alice Mooney, a resident of No. 136 Franklin Street, Greenpoint, both of whom earn a livelihood by their industry, at a shop in New York. The one last named, who is a handsome brunette and an intelligent young woman, was some four years since employed at the establishment of the Senior Mr. Smith, and became intimate with the young man to whose persuasion she yielded, under his solemn promise of marriage. She found out in time that in trusting young Smith, she was leaning as it were on a broken reed, as he failed and utterly refused to be bound by his word of honor, compelling her to appeal to the Courts for the support of their child. This course of proceeding, instead of mollifying Mr. Smith, enraged him only the more, but up to the time of the last affair of the horsewhipping, he had managed to control his temper whenever chance threw them together. At the time of their coming face to face on Saturday, the two girls were on their way home from work, and in passing along the sidewalk, beside which Smith, in company with two fashionable female acquaintances, was seated in an open wagon, they directed an unflinching gaze upon the occupants of the buggy, especially at the young man.
THE WHIP DRAWN
Without a word being uttered by either party, Smith, as alleged, drew the whip and with an effort lashed it across the shoulders and hand of Miss Mooney, at the same time, as he claims, unintentionally striking her companion on the left cheek, cutting into the flesh, from which the blood flowed profusely. Smith at once drove on board the ferryboat, taking passage to New York, and thence to Central Park, among the beauties of which he soon doubtless entirely forgot the two poor girls whom he had so recently maltreated. At all events this seems probably, as when conversed with upon the act he coolly dismissed the matter with the remark that the women were bad characters, who made a practice of insulting him whenever they met, and that having the whip handy, in the moment of excitement he had lost his temper and struck regardless of consequences. Considering the obloquy heaped upon her, Miss Mooney, strange to relate, still seems to be
INFATUATED WITH SMITH
regardless of the great injury and slight upon her by him and his family, by whom the girl is apparently held in utter contempt as a prospective relative. After the encounter and departure of the buggy containing Smith and his two friends, the young women went to the Seventh Precinct Station, where a complaint was lodged against their assailant, whose arrest was not effected until this morning.
THE HEROIC SMITH,
accompanied by his parents, both eminently respectable, and greatly grieved at the predicament their son was placed in, as also by his counsel ex-Justice Chauncey Perry, appeared before Justice Voorhies today to answer to charges of assault and battery with a whip preferred respectively by Miss Kenny and Miss Mooney, who were represented by Mr. H. B. Davis. In pleading to the complaints a distinction was made on the ground that the assault was a single act and for that reason one complaint should be entertained. Smith plead guilty to striking Miss Kenny and upon the decision of the Justice to entertain the complaint of Miss Mooney, the accused determined to contest the action of the examination of which was adjourned until Thursday next, when judgment will be rendered on the plea to the charge of Miss Kenny. To this course Mr. Davis made strenuous objection, as also to the reception of a bail bond for the appearance of young Smith on that day from the father, both of which were overruled, and the prisoner let go on the qualification of Mr. J. C. Smith in the sum of $200. Mr. Davis was proceeding to denounce to be the influence of
MR. SMITH’S MONEY BAGS.
when he was summarily cut off by the Justice and requested to take his seat. With an apology to the Court for the utterance, which Mr. Davis said he did not intend should apply to the magistrate, the irate counselor took his seat, and in a few moments the score of interested Greenpointers left the courtroom in a body commenting upon the different phases of this latest scandal in their midst.
Whoever thinks the good old days were any kinder or gentler than today clearly didn’t live in 19th century Greenpoint as woman. Yikes.
Miss Heather
Seeing Double in Sunnyside
During my latest sojourn to Sunnyside I happened upon a house on 38th Street that shone head and shoulders over its neighbors.
St. Francis stands guard over the front door.
As I moved in closer to take the above photo, a battery-operated bird started chirping. The overall effect was a shinier, happier version of The Abominable Doctor Phibes. If Mr. Phibes decided to drop a lot of acid and move into a row house in Queens, that is.
Two captains silently hold court over this electronic menagerie from an air conditioning unit on the second story.
I saw the person who lives here; he is a teeny tiny old man. Had to be in his 70’s at the very youngest. I strongly suspect him to be a widower because I can’t imagine a woman living in this animatronic domicile. A woman’s touch this house decidedly lacks.
Perhaps I should set this gentleman up with a woman who lives on my block? Not only does she have a taste for the artificial, but she could knit some nice gate cozies for him.
Miss Heather
Great Moments in Greenpoint Siding, Volume VII
Today’s architectortural masterpiece hails from Kent Street just west of McGuinness Boulevard.
As you can tell from the above photo, it sports some seriously retro asphalt siding like its predecessor. What you cannot see, however, is what makes this seemingly unremarkable two story house worthy of distinction.
Please give a hearty round of applause to The Kent Street Country Bunker!
Miss Heather
Adult Entertainment
Last Saturday I attended the Mermaid Parade. My journey to Coney Island (via rapid transit) was as follows:
- I took the Smith and 9th-bound G to Bedford-Nostrand.
- Then I had to cross the platform and get on yet another Smith and 9th-bound G train.
- At Hoyt-Schermerhorn I tranferred to the Manhattan-bound A train.
- Took that one stop and finally got on board the Coney Island-bound F train.
It took me 1 1/2 hours to get to there. Ridiculous.
Yesterday I attended the Brooklyn Blogger Meet-up in Flatbush. This required:
- Taking the Smith and 9th Bound G to Bedford Nostrand. Again.
- Crossing the platform and get on yet another south-bound G train. Again.
- Going above ground at Fulton Street, walking to the Atlantic Terminal and hopping on the Q train.
This trek took me approximately one hour. If you do the math, I spent approximately five hours of my precious life on the subway this weekend. That’s almost as much time as I spent at the Mermaid Parade. At least I got my money’s worth, I suppose.
Fortunately the venue where yesterday’s meet-up was held, Vox Populi, provided me some inexpensive entertainment for the ride home. This coffeehouse happens to sell books and I scored a copy of “How to Make Love Like a Porn Star” for a paltry six bucks. I whiled away my journey home looking at boobies. BIG BOOBIES. I would occasionally point out a select set to my husband for his edification, much to the confusion of my fellow subway patrons. The time flew by!
Unlike many people, pornography doesn’t faze me. When I see a woman who is approximately my size sporting a pair of breasts that weigh ten pounds a pop, the only response elicited from my person is one of amusement. In fact, when I was an undergraduate (studying for my BFA in fine art) I did a series of hilariously wicked collages using images culled from the Cadillac of all big boob magazines: “Busty”. I am not too sure what criteria Mr. Flynt uses to determine who gets featured in this magazine, but I suspect having breasts approximately the same size as one’s head is one of them.
Anyhoo, one collage I created using Mr. Flynt’s magnum opus featured an image of “Pandora Peaks”. It was a real masteurpiece too. She was laid upon on her back, legs akimbo; her gargantuan breasts slung to her sides. Next, I located a picture of a taco which happened to conceal Ms. Peak’s naughty bits seamlessly. In fact, the copious amounts of shredded lettuce contained on this photograph foodstuff bore a striking resemblance to pubic hair. If one was to casually glance at this subtle addition he (or she) would not notice that anything was amiss. But if (or when) he or she did notice, the message I was trying to convey became quite clear: eat me.
I was so proud of this creation I placed it in a joint show I had at the University of North TEXAS Student Union Art Gallery. Heh. Despite being the least revealing image (of a nude woman) of the lot, it got pulled after about a week or so. Some do-gooder said it was pornographic. It just goes to show you that an image in and of itself has no meaning until the viewer imbues it with one. And when it comes to the minds of those who seek protect us from the evils of lascivious literature, well, they have the dirtiest fucking ones of all!
This brings me to today’s selection of Greenpoint crime blotter fun. It is a little piece (of ass) from the December 7, 1896 edition of the Brooklyn Daily Eagle entitled “Rosa Will Not Pose.” Enjoy!
ROSA WILL NOT POSE.
WANTS TO FORGET THAT SHE WAS A MODEL
Many Letters Asking Her to Go on the Stage— Her Father Says She Won’t Work.
The Lee Avenue police court was crowded this morning with police officials, lawyers and men about town, all of whom were present to get a glimpse of Rosa Blumfeld, the young woman who has gained considerable undesireable notoriety since she posed in “the altogether” in Kwiek and Schaffner’s studio at 39 Greenpoint Avenue. Kwiek and Schaffner were recently arrested at the instigation of Anthony Comstock. The case was tried in the Adams Street police court last Saturday and the testimony taken at that time has already been published in the Eagle. Justice Walsh has reserved his decision in the case.
Soon after artists Kwiek and Schaffner were arrested, Isaac Blumfeld of 13 Orient Avenue, Rosa’s father, went to the Lee Avenue police court and secured a warrant for his daughter’s arrest on a charge of disorderly conduct. Blumfeld alleged in his complaint that Rosa posed for pictures in the nude and that objectionable photographs were made of his daughter. Rosa when first arraigned in court pleaded not guilty and was paroled for trial.
This morning, when Justice Goetting called the case, Rosa stepped hurriedly up to the bar and stated that she was ready for trial.
“Your father tells me that you have not been a very good girl since you were first here,” said Justice Goetting. “What have you got to say to that?”
“I think he must be mistaken,” replied Miss Blumfeld.
“But he claims that you remain out late nights and that you won’t work,” continued the magistrate.
“Why, I don’t see how that can be,” said Rosa, “for I have only been out after 12 o’clock one night and that was when I went to the theater.”
“There is no reason why she should not work,” interrupted Mr. Blumfeld, who thus far had been an attentive listener.” At present she lives a life of luxury and ease. She remains in bed until nearly 9 o’clock in the morning. Then she has her coffee. After breakfast she reads until 12 o’clock and then dresses herself up and that is the last we see of her until late at night. I want her to work and at some respectable business.”
“I am willing to work,” concluded Miss Blumfeld, “but as yet I haven’t had an opportunity to do so. I had to go to court three times last week.”
Justice Goetting then adjourned the case for one week.
To a reporter Miss Blumfeld said that since the stories had appeared about her in the newspapers she had received letters from all over the country. “Some write that I ought to go on the stage,” she added, “while others are anxious to have me pose for them. One man offered me a place in a museum at a guaranteed salary. I have torn up all the letters as I want to forget the past. I am going to try and be good in the future. It is true that I posed once, but I will never do it again.”
I have tried to find out what became of Ms. Blumfeld, but to no avail. I imagine she was released to the custody of her father and went on to do “respectable work” such as being a laundress, maid, or some other back-breaking and poorly compensated job. Given the dearth of career opportunities presented to her, can you honestly blame Rosa for showing a little skin? Stories such as hers (and there are many of them, I assure you) make me thank the heavens each and every day I was born a hundred years later.
Miss Heather
Love Letter
Shove this pencil up your self-involved hipster ass.
The above phrase is emblazoned on (what else?) pencils for sale at the Front Room Gallery. While a little mean-spirited for my taste, I outlaid $10.00 and bought me one because it brought back memories. Or at least one helluva memory, anyway.
Although I have always had the presence of mind not to shove a pencil (eraser OR business-end first) up my ass, I once knew someone who did. Involuntarily being made privy to the aberrant sexual practices of others is one of the manifold reasons I am the Dog Shit Queen of Greenpoint and you aren’t. It’s no picnic, I assure you.
Just over twelve years ago I worked as a helper for a gentleman who had cerebral palsy— we’ll call him “Juan”. He was a fellow college student whose motor skills were impaired to such a degree that he required help with even the most basic tasks. I would do his laundry, run errands for him, feed him, etc. Over the course of the summer I got to know him fairly well; not only did he have a mind that was sharp as a tack, but it was also a pretty damned dirty one at that. I returned his porno rentals back to the local video store on a number of occasions.
I was not the only “attendant” Juan had; there were three. We each had our respective days. Mine were Saturday and Sunday. Late one Sunday morning I got a phone call from one of Juan’s friends, “Mike”. “You need to come over immediately, Juan is in the hospital.” I hurried over immediately, met Mike, collected a number of Juan’s other friends and we drove to the hospital. En route, I learned what happened.
“Juan got a pencil stuck up his butt and then took a lot of laxatives thinking it would push it out,” said Mike. “HOW THE FUCK DID HE MANAGE TO DO THAT?” I thought to myself. I bet he made one hell of a mess. At the hospital I had the pleasure of being present when the E.R. doctor (who treated Juan) asked him the very same question. Juan replied:
I fell on it.
Uh-HUH.
Before any of you dear readers go off on me for being mean because I am picking on someone who is “handicapped”, let me tell you something. It would have taken a LOT of concerted effort for Juan to “fall” on a pencil in such a manner that it would find itself lodged in his “nether eye”. In a strange way this (very misguided) act was a testament to how tenacious he was: despite a very substantial challenge he doggedly persevered in every aspect of his life. The previous having been said, no matter how “abled ” a person is, he (or she) shouldn’t stick a pencil up his (or anyone else’s) ass. Much less lie to an ER surgeon about how it got there.
This brings me to the photo featured at the beginning of this post. It is a gift I received recently from my buddy Rachael. She found it on Nassau Avenue near the Evergreen Funeral Home. Let’s go in for a closer look!
Hmm… looks sort of like Paris Hilton. Like the body glitter.
Tortilla the cat likes Miss Heather’s new Greenpoint Barbie.
Um, that’s sort of disturbing. Then again, as long as the person who made this sticks to the attempted pencil penetration of inanimate objects, we’re probably safe.
Miss Heather
Sunnyside vs. The Garden Spot
I found the above sign yesterday on Greenpoint Avenue in Sunnyside, Queens. Whoever made this clearly lavished a lot of attention upon the illustration at the top right-hand corner. The raffish little rabbit peeking out from behind the tree is a nice touch. If this sign is any indication, Sunnyside lives up to its name.
Now, for the sake of comparison let’s look at a sign I found right here in “The Garden Spot” the day before.
To: Whoever uprooted all our chillie pepper plants + picked all of our basil leaves
PLEASE DON’T
Its so frustrating to grow something & then have it destroyed.
thanks!
It would appear that someone on Green Street has a taste for basil.
Miss Heather
Excuses for Being Drunk: Greenpoint Style
Today I had the pleasure of accompanying my husband on a bourbon acquisition trip to Sunnyside, Queens. This trek was precipitated by the (READ: his) discovery that there was no 101 proof Wild Turkey whatsoever in our apartment. There hasn’t been any for several days; I know this because I am the one who polished it off (that shit works wonders for cramps). Feeling mean-spirited and menstrual, I placed the empty bottle back on the shelf and waited for him to notice. Three days later he did. Today.
After much whining on his part about “having to go to Manhattan or Astoria” to get his high octane (self) medication of choice* and how mean my act of trickery was, etc., I took action. I went online and searched for liquor stores located in Sunnyside, Queens. My logic was as follows:
- I remembered my husband talking about having the “perfect” cocktail at an Irish pub in Sunnyside recently.
- The mixed drink in question requires the use of Wild Turkey 101. To him it does, anyway.
So…
If there is a bar in Sunnyside that keeps Wild Turkey 101 in stock…
- There must be a demand for it and…
- if there’s a demand for it, the local liquor stores probably carry it.
Voila! 8-9 years of college/post-graduate education put to good use!
I called the “Lowery Liquor & Wine Company”. The kindly woman at the other end of the phone assured me that they had 101 proof Wild Turkey in “one liter bottles”. We hauled ass to the Greenpoint Avenue stop of the B24 without delay. I even spied a choice piece of turdage en route. On Green Street— or Manhattan Avenue, take your pick.
I will gladly traipse along the “Boulevard of Death” if it means my husband gets his drinky and shuts the fuck up. Besides, riding the B24 means I can savor the splendor that is Pissville within the confines of an air-conditioned bus.** Long story made short, my husband got his booze and is now contentedly watching episodes of Robot Chicken (courtesy of our TIVO).
Now that he is out of my hair I have time to recount a morsel of Greenpoint goodness from the days long gone. Today’s selection dates from the August 17, 1889 edition of the Brooklyn Daily Eagle and is entitled “Excuses For Being Drunk”. Enjoy!
EXCUSES FOR BEING DRUNK.
Justice Goetting Is Furnished With Quite a Number.
Yesterday the bulk of the business before Justice Goetting consisted of assault and battery cases. Today, by way of a change of fare, the larger portion of the business consisted of intoxication cases. The pleas and excuses of the prisoners were various and amusing.
“I went to see my folks in Greenpoint. I live in Myrtle Avenue, and I was tired,” said Miss Jennie Hullback.
“But how came you to be found drunk in the cellar of a house on Manhattan Avenue?” said the Justice.
“I used to live there.”
“Ah, $10 or ten days.” And Jennie was hurried to the rear.“Well, Maggie,” said the Justice, addressing Mrs. Meyer, a fresh arrival at the bar, “have you ever been arrested before for being drunk?”
“Only wanst, yer Honor (with an amiable simper) and Justice Naeher discharged me.”
“But you don’t expect to be discharged this time, do you?”
“Well, (with a supplicating look) I leave it all to yer Honor.”
“Well, I’ll let you off with a fine of $3, or three days in jail, whichever you prefer.”
“Well, I suppose I’ll have to take the days.”Frank Cunningham, of Greenpoint, was the next called.
“Was he drunk yesterday?” asked the Justice of the officer who arrested him.
“Drunk? Why he is never sober,” said the officer, and the Justice left Frank the alternative of dollars or days.“What,” said the justice, “You here again?” as he recognized Mrs. Mary May, who, with her husband, had been fined by him yesterday $3 each for being drunk. “Were you drunk again last evening?” he asked.
“Well, yes, your Honor, I was drunk, but I was not paralyzed drunk; I had only drunk beer.”
“Where is your husband?”
“Oh, he went home.”
“And you went home and got drunk. Ten dollars or ten days.”
Mrs. May was piloted to the rear.Mrs. Annie Howe, of Oakland Avenue (now McGuinness Boulevard— Ed. Note), was next called.
“How” (said the justice, unconscious of the fact that he was perpetuating a pun), “did you come to get drunk?”
“Well,” said Mrs. Howe, “a lady friend of mine came to see me and we drank a little too much beer. I have never been drunk before.”
“It is a bad business getting drunk, but anyhow I’ll suspend this sentence: you can go,” and she did not stand on the order of going, but, bowing departed with all speed.Mrs. Mary Boylan, of Manhattan Avenue, accounted for her appearance before the justice on the charge of being drunk by saying, “Your Honor, I was very weary and I went to the Greenpoint Avenue police station to rest awhile and the officers thought that I was drunk when I was only tired.
From now on I am using “The Mary Boylan” defense, it beats trying to blame the cats.
Miss Heather
*This is one of the perverse ironies of living in Greenpoint. On any given day there are people passed out at the intersection of Greenpoint and Manhattan Avenue, liquor stores are open every Sunday (all of which offer a mind-boggling array of vodka)— and yet there is no 101 proof Wild Turkey to be found. Go figure.
**”Circles” (36-21 Review Avenue) has since been rechristened “Rush Hour”. The awning describes this establishment as being a “gentelman’s club“, so be sure you’re donning a dinner jacket when you stuff that hard-earned cash into those g-strings. This is a class establishment.
Mattress with Benefits
I encountered the above mattress yesterday evening on Greenpoint Avenue. Upon closer inspection I learned this item has some “added-value” you’re probably not going to get from the likes of 1-800-Mattress, Macy’s or even IKEA.
Tasty.
Miss Heather
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