Greenpoint
Lorven Pharmacy
Culture on the Cheap
Area 51
At last, photographic evidence confirming what I have suspected all long: Area 51 is located in Greenpoint. Where else would someone see fit to sculpt a graven image of ‘the male anatomy’ using a wad of chewing gum and stick it to a light pole? Stick that in your pipe bong and smoke it, Williamsburg!
Miss Heather
Something I found on Huron Street yesterday…
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
Once in a blue moon I find something that is so right I am willing to overlook its imperfections. This is one of those things.
We Greenpointers may not be cool (or know how to spell) but we have the presence of mind to know that Bus(h)wick sucks. Big time.
Miss Heather
Today’s piece of Greenpoint history
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
Contrary to what most people think, my ‘nabe’s distinctly Polish flavor is a relatively new phenomenon. I get more than a little irked when I tell someone a tale of Greenpoint hooliganism from the days of old, only to have him or her assume the perpetrator was Polish. The fact of the matter is people have been getting fucked up and doing weird shit here for a long, long time. The Poles are doing nothing more than continuing a tradition started by their Irish and German predecessors.
The historians among you probably understand the European geo-politics that precipitated the mass migration of Polish nationals to this country. The Polish presence was not felt in Greenpoint until the end of the 19th century. But when it was, it started off with bang. Literally. (We Poles don’t do anything half-assed.)
From the April 29, 1898 edition of the New York Times:
A $75,000 FIRE IN GREENPOINT
A Sausage Factory and Thousands of Pounds of Lard Burned.
By the explosion of a steam pipe in the boiler room of Walter and Peter Heidelberger’s sausage factory at 1085 and 1087 Manhattan Avenue, Greenpoint, yesterday a fire ensued which did damage to the extent of nearly $75,000.
The buildings were of brick and three stories high. Two families lived over the provision store on the Manhattan Avenue side, and in the rear of these buildings was another three-story brick building used as a storehouse and smokehouse. In this building were thousands of pounds of lard. The explosion occurred at 5:30 a.m. and its force was so great that the inhabitants of all the tenement dwellings in the neighborhood were aroused. The explosion set fire to the greasy floors, and soon the inflammatory material on the premises burned with great fierceness. The fire at first was thickest in the rear of the building, which fronts Dupont Street.
A policeman who heard the explosion turned in an alarm of the fire, and the firemen were promptly on hand. By that time, however, the flames had burned through all the floors and reached the roof.
The tenants in the front building succeeded in getting safely out, some in only their night garments. Two more alarms of fire were turned in because the wind was driving the fire toward a row of tall tenements. On the arrival of additional fire apparatus the flames had reached the interior of the main building, but they were kept confined to the two buildings.
Come to think of it, the surname “Heidelberger” strikes me as being a wee bit German. Just like a pickle helmet filled with sauerkraut and beer is somewhat German. I can only imagine what the Heidelberger’s Polish neighbors thought about being awakened by this conflagration, but I’ll bet my bottom dollar one them muttered:
Przeklinani Niemcy, tam idzie sÄ…siedztwo!*
Miss Heather
*Damn Germans, there goes the neighborhood!
And the beep goes on…
In just over two hours my new electronic neighbor will have been beeping for three whole days. I cannot tell a lie: in the last 25 hours my irritation has become fascination. Not only do I want to see how long this appliance will continue chirping away, but after it stops I am going to conduct an autopsy and determine the make and model of the battery. Whatever it is, I will buy nothing else the rest of my life.
Given the previous paragraph, some very thoughtful advice tendered to me recently (by a commenter), thought greatly appreciated, is irrelevant. Not wanting to seem ungrateful, I will share it here. “Jukeboxgraduate”writes:
miss heather – you can’t rig something to pull it across the roof? or scramble across the roof to get it yourself? or leave a note on the front door of the offending building:
TO THE MORONS WHO THREW THE SMOKE DETECTOR ON THE ROOF
THE BEEPING IS DRIVING US NUTS. IF YOU DON’T TAKE IT OFF THE ROOF AND TAKE THE BATTERIES OUT, WE WILL CALL THE POLICE AND REPORT SUSPICIOUS DRUG DEALING ACTIVITY IN YOUR BUILDING.
THANK YOU FOR YOUR CONSIDERATION.
Although the above advice is pretty sensible stuff, yesterday I heard the most diabolical (and effective) means of handling a noisy neighbor problem. EVER.
My buddy, we’ll call him “John”, had some seriously noisy neighbors. They were the dreaded frat boy type who swills beer and blares music at all hours. Wishing to resolve this problem amicably, John spoke to them several times. All to no avail. This is when he got an idea. An excellent idea.
“John” proceeded to draft a terse but civil letter using the best legalese his mind could muster. The phrase “quiet enjoyment” was employed repeatedly. After printing this letter on quality bond and signing it, he added the final fiendish touch: he mailed it in an envelope he had found recently. An envelope whose preprinted return address happened to be a law firm.
The noise stopped.
Miss Heather
Belvedere XXVIII
As my husband and I were passing Java Street this afternoon we noticed a balloon festooned sign with “Open House” emblazoned on it. Not even bothering to read the details, I told my husband:
I betcha this is an advertisement for one of those fucking Belvedere buildings.
I have a perverse fascination with Belvedere. Despite the posh sounding name, these buildings are little more than perfect facsimiles of the pre-fab piles of shit that grace gated apartment communities in suburban Dallas or (insert outer ring suburb here). I am also amazed by how god damned many of them there are. Too damned many, as you will see.
You needn’t pound the pavement in Greenpoint long to deduce how many of these ‘exclusive’ properties scar the local landscape. The developer has saved you (and me) the trouble by numbering them. Including the building my husband and I saw yesterday.
Twenty eight?!? Shit, that means there’s almost as many of Belvederes as there are Super Bowls. And I am not too crazy about the Super Bowl either. Wardrobe malfunctions notwithstanding, obviously.
This sheds light as to why I see these posters all the damned time. I have always interpreted the euphemism “motivated seller” as meaning “desperately trying to unload something nobody wants to buy”. Perhaps I should give my buddies Bridge Realty an Economics 101 refresher course? *a-hem*
Dear Mr. Belvedere,
If you are having trouble selling your existing stock, it is an indicator that your product supply has outstripped consumer demand. Constructing another property exactly like it across the street is not going to change anything. In fact, doing so will only exacerbate the problem.
It does not take a graduate of Harvard Business School to figure this out. I have two degrees in fine art and I easily grasp this defining principle of the free market system. What’s your problem?
In closing, I would like to point out that calling the property (across the street from Belvedere XXVIII) “Belveder XII” makes you look really fucking stupid. Can you count? Oh wait, maybe you can’t. This would explain why you continue to build these crappy condos despite having a dearth of interested buyers.
Sincerely,
Miss Heather
How many hipsters does it take to turn off a smoke detector?
Hell if I know. All I’m saying is for the last two hours my husband and I have had the pleasure of hearing “BEEP, BEEP” at four minute intervals. OVER AND OVER. Why? Because our ‘nabes tossed their smoke detector behind their/our apartment.
Why didn’t they just remove the fucking battery!?! And to think these are the very folks who will be bankrolling my social security in my old age. I’m already staking out my spot under the BQE.
Miss Heather
UPDATE: it is 12:45 a.m., May 4th, and the alarm is still going strong.
SECOND UPDATE: 9:52 a.m., May 4th, STILL GOING.
THIRD UPDATE: 4:13 p.m., May 4th, STILL GOING.
FOURTH UPDATE: 8:35 p.m., May 4th, STILL GOING STRONG.
Miss Heather
There’s no place like home!
A few weeks ago I did something I rarely, if ever, do: drop $60.00 for a pair of shoes. The above shoes. When I saw them at the Mini minimarket I was smitten. How often does one find red FLOCKED flats, much less red flocked flats THAT SMELL LIKE FRUIT. I shit you not, they do. After wearing them my feet smell like The Copa Cabana. Not that I’m into sniffing feet (my own or anyone else’s), mind you.
Which brings me to a recent dialogue I had with one of my readers, “jukeboxgraduate”. She writes:
Ah, Miss Heather. Clearly you do not live close enough to Franklin St. to remember the hell that was the YEAR AND A HALF of its destruction, rebuild, destruction, rebuild, etc. I remember jackhammers outside my window – repeatedly – at 6am. I remember flaming man holes (no, really, actual man holes in the street – me calling 911 because everyone outside just seemed to be standing there staring at it).
To wit I emailed her back:
…I chuckled at your memories of exploding man holes and the utter hell that was Franklin Street. Remember when they had a rash of muggings there a year or two ago? I do. It was around that time my husband and I had the pleasure of walking by some young toughs smoking crack around a discarded stove… (Ah, those were the days!)
Damn, I miss those flaming man holes. Nowadays if I want to experience that kind of thing I have to consume large amounts of tofu— but somehow it just isn’t the same. Yes indeedy, to quote Archie and Edith Bunker, those were the days. The days when Franklin Street was a special place teeming with very special people. I’m going to click together my tooty fruity red ruby slippers, go back in time and tell you about one such special person…
It was a sultry summer night in Greenpoint. On a lark, my buddy Rachael and I went to the G Lounge. (This bar is long gone, Van Gogh’s Radio has since taken its place. —Ed. Note) After we arrived we noticed our friend Jez was there, so we joined her. Next to her was this tall lanky dude. The three of us struck up a conversation with him.
Or should I say two of us conversed with him? For reasons I do not recall this guy pissed Jez off and the two commenced having a shouting match. Knowing that Jez can be a bit of a hot head, Rachael and I laughed it off. We made no effort whatsoever to suppress our amusement at her scathing bon mots. This act of insouciance on our part was the final straw; she stomped out of the bar, leaving us alone with our new friend. We explained to Michael that he should not to take anything Jez said personally. She’s a very sweet— but very opinionated gal— who clearly needed to blow off some steam.
After making peace, Mike left the bar. Rachael and I, no longer having a source of entertainment, left as well. We bumped into Mike a few doors down. He was with two young Polish toughs drinking Johnny Walker Red straight out of the bottle. Demonstrating true Greenpoint hospitality, they offered us a swig. Rachael accepted, I declined.
Having broken bread, Mike started to open up. A LOT. He wanted to know if Rachael was married. Rachael answered to the affirmative. He was visibly crushed by this and we took pity on him. Enough so to acquiesce to a strange, but other harmless request: to suck one of our big toes. Yup, Mr. Mike was a foot man.
Although this is not my thing, my “inner fucker” was dying to know if this dude would actually do it. And by “it” I mean stick my dirty, unwashed toe in his mouth. Right there on the street. My more sensible side figured his mouth was probably pretty clean after swigging that high-octane hooch. I mean, think about it: I know where my foot has been, but god only knows where his mouth has been. Oh wait, I DO KNOW: feasting upon the finely fettled and festering feet of New York Shitty. *shudder*
Long story made short, he did it. The Polish dudes thought this was the funniest fucking thing they had ever seen (because it is FUCKING FUNNY). As time went on Rachael and I came to learn how truly weird Mike was. Not only was he into feet, but he liked to wear women’s pantyhose (preferably control top) and was entranced by Landmark Forum. The lattermost was what really turned me off. Those people give me the fucking creeps.
Thankfully, Greenpoint gentrification eventually forced Mike to move elsewhere. “Where to?”, you ask?
Where else: QUEENS.
Miss Heather
Anyone need a dog sitter?
I saw this advertisement yesterday at Word Books. If anyone out there needs a dog sitter for his/her not too strong friendly with people and not sick dog, today’s your lucky day. Isabel runs a 100% professional business; she will only sit at your house. So you better damned have cable and keep the refrigerator stocked.
Miss Heather
A little piece of Green Street scenery…
for all you hip urban professionals out there who cannot afford Manhattan digs. Be advised that the developer’s rendering of 110 Green Street does not do justice to the scenic views your $400,000+ will buy. So in the interest of making an informed decision, I want to share a little slice of Green Street point life I spied yesterday afternoon with you.
I shit you not, this dude was asleep (passed out?) as the pile driver (seen behind the tree in the above photo) continued its aural assault on everyone who has the misfortune of living within earshot of it. Which (from what I can tell) is pretty much anywhere within a 3-4 block radius, myself included. All you homebuyers better take note, as this dude is clearly very serious about getting first whack at this great real estate opportunity.
And oh yeah, be sure to practice safe sex while you wait! 111 Green Street is already feeling the magic, how about you?
Miss Heather
P.S.: For those of you who may wonder why I have a ‘thing’ for 110 Green, read on. Just over a week ago I told my upstairs neighbor, who I will call Yessenia a (fan-fucking-tabulous) Puerto Rican woman who has resided in my building much longer than myself, about Magic’s— uh— magic. Her question was “So how are the people here going to afford it?”
To wit I said:
They can’t. This 130 unit condominium building is (per the developer) directed towards affluent young families who cannot afford to buy in Manhattan.
Which brings me to this. I knocked around this site (albeit lackadaisically) and no mention of 110 Green was to be found. I think revitalizing ‘inner cities’ and ‘under-served communities’ is a good cause. The fly in my proverbial ointment is though Greenpoint may be ‘under-served’ it is NOT ‘inner-city’— or to use the common moniker nowadays: ‘blighted’.
The crimes committed against my (otherwise very vibrant) community are countless and I doubt the culprits (READ: Exxon-Mobil, our elected officials, et. al.) will ever be held accountable. A 130 unit ‘luxury’ condominium building on Green Street is not going to change this. Much less encourage ‘diversity’. “Yessenia” put it perfectly when she told me the following Puerto Rican proverb:
The last one at the table is the first one to eat.
Earvin “Magic” Johnson’s financing ‘urban renewal’ in Greenpoint is facilitating (to bastardize Clarence Thomas) minority removal.
Bon appetit, Magic!
Interesting Email
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
I take pride in the fact that when my readers find a pile of dog shit, they think of me. What’s more, the following email leads me to believe that public nuisances in general are becoming my calling card. Read on and you’ll see what I mean. Karolyn writes:
Hey. I’ve been lurking your site for awhile and woke up thinking about you this morning. (! —Ed. Note) Don’t be scared, it was largely due to the construction thumping that’s shaking my building a block away. I call the department of buildings nearly every day to register a complaint.
Also, my indoor cat’s developed kidney stones twice in the past 6 months and I’m wondering if you’ve had any problems with your pets. Until October, she was in perfect health and now I’m mopping up bloody drops of urine in our bathtub. The vet said it could be atmospheric (This is really disturbing, thoughts anyone? — Ed. Note) and I’m more than willing to believe it has something to do with all of this stuff going on in the neighborhood.
Happy thumping.
Karolyn
I’m going to be a bit presumptuous here and assume that Karolyn woke up (again) today with Miss Heather on her mind. At 7:20 a.m. to be exact, as that is when they decided to fire up the pile driver this morning. I feel like Charleton Heston’s character in the movie Ben Hur as I write this tome. You know, the scene where he (Ben Hur) is in steerage rowing the boat while some shirtless dude beats a drum.
What’s that I hear? Ohhhh, it is the sound of Magic telling me to speed it up. Gotta run now! Ramming speed, everybody!
Miss Heather
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