Greenpoint
Lorven Pharmacy
Culture on the Cheap
Starbuck’s N***a!
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
Now that my mother is safely on her way to the Land of Enchantment (replete with meth and trailer), I find myself woefully behind on my correspondence. Those of you who have emailed me and have yet to receive a response, it is nothing personal. I am simply all talked out right now. As I write this tome I am sipping an ice cold beer and enjoying something I have not experienced in about a week: being alone.
Anyhoo, I received the following email from my Poo Bag Dispensing Buddy:
Subject: I am sure you are aware of this…
but i had to send this to you.
im not sure when it opened since i haven’t been very detailed oriented this past week or so. i’ve been a walking zombie actually, but that is neither here nor there. (Boy, do I ever understand that! — Ed. Note) anyway, today on my way home from the garden with a cup of some delicious soup for lunch, i passed three girls walking the opposite direction. each about 12 years old or so sipping on strawberry mocha frappa-half-caff-with-whip-chinos. the girl in the middle announced, “I am like sooooo happy that we finally have a starbucks near us!”. the other girls like, totally agreed.
then this evening i had to get off the bus one stop early so could take a picture of it. I hadn’t yet seen it all lit up like this. wow.
is it odd that the brand new sign is already half burnt out?
To answer your question, my comrade in the war against caca, I am not the least bit surprised this sign is malfunctioning. I am certain you have heard of places that are reputed ‘hot spots’ for one kind of activity or another. For example, planes and people tend to disappear in the Bermuda Triangle and UFOs are fond of making visitations to Roswell and most of south Florida. I cannot for the life of me understand why anyone— human or otherwise— would want to go to the latter, but I digress.
As it happens, our neighborhood is also one such magical place. I call the unnatural phenomenon that exists here “The Greenpoint Effect”. “What is The Greenpoint Effect”, you ask? It is not very easy to describe so I will cite some examples of it ‘at work’.
- Any subway poster bearing an image of a person with his (or her) mouth open will eventually (via Sharpie Marker) have a penis inserted into it.
- Any person who moves here (by choice) is an eccentric. Anyone who lives here for an extended period of time will only become more so. This ‘nabe is not unlike a terrarium; it is a hermetic environment that enables the careful cultivation of crazy the likes of which makes our ‘nabes to the north (Long Island City) or the south (Williamsburg) wince. Or call the cops.
- Any attempt to buck the trend of endemic Greenpoint slack (READ: putting up a fancypants sign or building high-end housing) will eventually be despoiled by mishaps, graffiti or a pile of shit (human or otherwise).
I hope the previous explanation has been helpful.
That said, I overheard a particularly choice ‘review’ of our new Starbucks from a crew of pre-pubescent hoodie macs on the B61 bus yesterday afternoon.
Hoodie Mac #1: What the fuck is that shit!?!
Hoodie Mac #2: Starbucks NIGG-UH!
Out of the mouths of babes comes much wisdom. I am seriously considering making myself a tee shirt with “Starbuck’s NIGGA” emblazoned on it. Rendered in rhinestones, naturally. The way the world is going I’ll probably end up serving sugar-laden drinks to teeny boppers there for a whopping $8.00-$10.00 an hour.
Miss Heather
Photo Credit: Erin, the Poo Bag Bandita
No Hat Water
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
Yesterday afternoon the Stupor informed me that we would not have any hot water that evening. Then he uttered some shit about the basement being flooded. At least I think that is what he said; his command of spoken English is about as proficient as his writing skills (or his ability to ‘manage’ this building). Shitty.
It is 9:33 a.m. Monday, April 16th. My hair is filthy (it is standing up by itself), my mother is staying here and we still have no hot water.
Good times.
Miss Heather
My neighbor is hilarious
Today I was showing my mother a few blogs I like to read, including one written by my upstairs neighbor HQ. This man has the cutest fucking dog in all of Greenpoint (and perhaps in all the world): Magellan. I wanted my mother to see a photo of him.
Pretty damn cute, huh? Well, apparently under this cute exterior lies the mind of a mischievious little shit.
The above photo is a little taste of the goodness featured in this post. Do read it. It is very, very funny.
Miss Heather
Photo Credit: HQ
106 Green Street Speaks
When I got home last night I found a very interesting message in my flickr mail:
i live down the street from you at 106 green street! i found your blog when a friend of a friend was asking where i lived- i said green street, and then they asked me if i wrote a blog about dog shit… naturally, my curiosity was piqued, so i checked out your blog later that evening. it’s fantastic! anyway, it has been strangely helpful to read someone else rant about the condo development happening at 110. my bedroom is RIGHT FUCKING NEXT TO IT, and as you can imagine, life at home has been utter hell over the past few months. remember that day in february when all the firetrucks and police stopped by? that was because a 2’x2′ hole was poked through the wall of my upstairs neighbors’ apartment (Emphasis mine— Ed. Note). sweet jesus! anyway, just thought i would say hello!
-(name removed)
Sweet Jesus indeed!
For the record, I do remember that day in February. It sucked.
Miss Heather
Meet Haile Selassie
Tonight I am going to be self-indulgent and write about a post about a kitty I know: one Haile Selassie. He currently resides at the BARC shelter, but until about two weeks ago he was my neighbor. From the mean streets of Greenpoint to the blue chip hipster haven of Williamsburg, Mr. Selassie is, to quote George Jefferson, “Movin’ on up” in the world.
I first became acquainted with Haile about 2 1/2 years ago. Every so often he would pay our apartment a ‘visit’, much to the consternation of our cats. One time my cat Uni and he were having a stand-off, nose to nose, through my bedroom window. Neither one was very happy to see the other. Uni was scratching at the glass like the Tasmanian Devil, which was pretty remarkable given that she hardly moves from her spot on the bed on any given day. Seriously, this gal is fucking lazy. Even for a cat.
Boy was she was pissed, but Haile kept his cool. He simply turned around, positioned his hindquarters just so and managed to discharge a heaping helping of spray right at her face. This did little to assuage her anger. From that day I on referred to him as “Clarence Thomas” and called Uni “Anita Hill” because (after that incident) they had a special ‘thing’ for each other— and it was most decidely NOT love at first sight.
Soon thereafter I learned that my next door neighbors were providing Haile (formerly known as Mr. Thomas*) with food and water. I suspect he was (is) either a runaway or a throw-away because around the time Haile came on the scene I noticed flyers around the neighborhood featuring a “lost cat” whose description matched him to a “t”. If this lost cat was Haile, no one came forward and as a consequence, the area behind my apartment became his home. If I went out there to read, Haile would come over and say “Hi”— albeit while keeping his distance. Last August when my husband and I were out back roasting chili peppers for 3 hours Haile kept us company. Perhaps he has a penchant for spicy food? Only Haile knows and he isn’t talking.
This routine changed when the building next door was gut-renovated last September. After not seeing Haile for awhile, my husband and I thought (hoped) our former neighbors took him with them when they moved out. Earlier this year we learned this was not so; not only did the visits resume, but he pulled the ‘piss in the face’ trick on another one of our cats. This act precipitated a feline feud at Chateau de Ghetto that took 15 minutes and a water gun (that had to be reloaded TWICE), to put down. Although this was not an enjoyable event, my husband and I admired Haile’s raw chutzpah. We even laughed about it later and I thought to myself: “Yeah, this cat is 100% Greenpoint through and through.”
Now jump forward to two weeks ago. The visits became more frequent because Haile was clearly hungry. He would show up at our kitchen window every time I served supper to our little pride. I shit you not, the poor fella licked his lips whenever I would open a can of cat food. I suspect most of you can deduce what happened next: I started feeding Haile too. (Miss Heather may hate dog shit, but she loves animals.)
Shortly thereafter I contacted Lisa Vallez (of BARC) and we set up a trap to catch Mr. Selassie. To his credit, Haile is one clever cat: the first time he set off the trap, he managed to eat the food without getting caught. Exasperated, I rummaged through the fridge looking for something especially enticing to put in there… and I found it: marinated lamb leftovers from Ghenet Restaurant.
Mind you, this was only 36 hours after being violently ill with stomach flu— and one of the things that made the roundtrip into and out of my mouth (and nose) was Ethiopian leftovers. The sight and smell of this foodstuff made me queasy, but being the proud person I am, I was not about to be outsmarted by a cat— no matter how cute he is. Haile was gonna get in that cage if it killed the both of us.
Thankfully, it did not come to that. One minute (if that) after placing the lamb in the trap I heard a loud “SNAP“. I peeked out the window and lo, there Haile was in the cage! Hence how he got his new (and decidely more politically correct) name: Haile Selassie. Although he found the Wellness wet food perfectly acceptable, his taste for Ethiopian marinated lamb from a top drawer dining establishment facilitated his capture. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised by his epicurian tastes: Mr. Selassie sports a tuxedo coat, an ascot, white ‘spats’ and gloves. He was clearly born to appreciate the finer things in life, but life saw fit give him something else. Until now.
Thankfully, Haile has a new (and hopefully temporary) home at BARC. Aside from an eye infection (and missing three teeth), he has a clean bill of health: no FIV, no feline leukemia. I imagine it will take a little time for him to learn to trust humans again, but can you blame him? Perhaps it is wishful thinking on my part, but I think Haile will come around.
Miss Heather
P.S.: I would like to give a big shout out of thanks to Lisa (who also took the above photo) and the peeps at BARC for helping Haile have a shot at a better life. God only knows, he deserves it.
*As unbelievable as it may sound, until recently I never considered the racial implications regarding my choice of moniker for this cat. I am not Don Imus, thank you. Rather, I have a strange (and probably unwholesome) fascination with the Clarence Thomas/Anita Hearings of yore— especially Mr. Thomas’s quip about finding a public hair in his Coke. Every so often when I am at a party (or some other public gathering— especially art openings) and find myself getting bored, I will shout “Someone put a pubic hair in my Coke!” just to see the look on peoples’ faces. I strongly recommend doing this, the response is priceless.
The previous having been said, I (fairly) recently found myself applauding something Mr. Thomas did: his letter of dissent regarding the Supreme Court’s decision to allow eminent domain for private use. He said something to the effect of ‘urban renewal is negro removal’. Not only is the man right, but his tome should be expanded to ‘urban renewal is poverty removal’. One needs not be black to be poor.
As I have gotten along in years (or perhaps have become more aware things— or both), I have noticed that being poor is an unwritten crime in this country. The popular perception seems to be that a person is poor due to a simple lack of moral character. The thought that our government’s lack of moral character (and we, the people’s voting patterns) may be responsible for making these people poor and keeping them that way has clearly not crossed these peoples’ minds. Instead we sweep them under the rug. Good for U.S.
Welcome to New York Shitty
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
April 10, 2007, 6:40 a.m.
April 11, 2007, 6:46 a.m.
April 12, 2007, 6:48 a.m.
The pile-driver at 110 Green Street has been eerily silent of late. No worries, another source of irritation (READ: psychosis-inducing sleep deprivation) has reared its ugly head: the contractors who are upgrading a transformer for the G train in front of my apartment building.
This brings me to the above-listed dates and times: these indicate when I have been awakened by this crew making an UNGODLY amount of noise. I am talking about a colossal din that makes my brick shithouse of an apartment building rattle. Scary. As a result, I have not had a contigious eight hours of sleep until today. I cannot over-emphasize how much better I feel.
The same cannot be said about yesterday. It was the third morning of total and utter fucking chaos and I was going out of my mind. I understand that these guys have a job to do and all that happy horseshit, but SO DO I and all the other people whose apartments overlook this site. All because some of us keep different hours due to being ‘night people’ or working the graveyard shift (and many people here do), doesn’t mean we should be singled out for this cruel and unusual punishment.
What’s more, their shenanigans have claimed another unwitting victim: my younger cousin Jennie, who happens to be visiting right now. She and my mother arrived in New York Shitty the evening of April 11th and checked into their hotel. The next morning we were to talk on the phone and come up with some sort of plan for the day. This task is usually delegated to me by my husband. He says it’s because he will “just screw it up anyway”. I say it’s because he doesn’t want to do it. ANYHOO…
My mother calls and my husband puts her on speakerphone. In hindsight, this was probably not a wise call on his part…
Me (to my mother): …I’m really sorry, my brain just isn’t working too good right now.
Mamasan: Well grab a cup of coffee to wake you up and get down here.
Me: I am tired because some ASSHOLE woke me up at 6:48 this morning. This has been going on for THREE DAYS.
Mamasan: Was it the cats?
Me: No, it was not the fucking cats. The contractors who are doing work for the MTA have been firing up their heavy machinery before 7:00 a.m. for the last three days.
Mamasan: (laughing)
Me: IT IS NOT FUNNY! It’s so loud it even wakes Sam up. I am so fucking sick of this shit I think I am going to call the city.
Mamasan: (*chirp, chirp*)
Let me tell you a few things:
- I have not seen my cousin in over ten years.
- She was raised in a much more devout household than myself (READ: Southern Baptist). I cannot recall this person using profanity of any kind. Ever.
- I, on the other hand, drop f-bombs and other colorful phrases with total abandon. The only reason I never got in trouble for doing so when I was younger is because my mother felt it would hypocritical to punish me for using language I had clearly learned from my own father.
- Although I can exercise restraint (regarding the use of the above-mentioned language), my ability to do so is severely compromised when I have had not had a normal night’s sleep IN THREE DAYS.
I’m really sorry Jennie. Then again, you were probably going to hear someone drop a salvo of f-bombs (or worse) eventually. I mean, this IS New York after all. Perhaps it’s better that you got a taste of it from your own flesh and blood first. Oh yeah, welcome to New York Shitty.
Miss Heather
High Life on Manhattan Avenue
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
This week I have found two— count ’em TWO— photos on Manhattan Avenue. The first one was located in front of Alfenet Consulting, the latter, in front of the Mexican grocery that is located, get this— TWO doors away. Here they are for all to enjoy…
Bring on the brown sugah!
Bring on the:
- Bong
- Booze
- Cocaine
- Coffee
- Screwdrivers and…
- Time Magazine?!?
When I find shit like this it just goes to show how incredibly fucking dull my life really is. I didn’t know Keith Richards lived in Greenpoint. Perhaps I should bake a nice casserole and welcome him to the neighborhood?
Miss Heather
Magic Johnson’s Bigass Tool
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
This evening I had the pleasure of moderating a comment regarding my recent piece about 110 Green Street. Lara writes:
Great site! Thought you might like to see my video of this so called “pile driver” (new term for me as well). And just so you know…yep, I reside directly in front of this hell hole…look right out over it. The video was shot from my window.
Check it out at: http://onesweetworld.wordpress.com
Just in case you didn’t get enough of it already!!
Thanks Lara! Please accept my sincerest condolences.
Miss Heather
Easter: Greenpoint Style
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
This morning (upon discovering that Dreamhost was down) I decided to go for walk. Follows are a few things I saw of interest.
The fine gentlemen at the Franklin Corner Store saw fit to make a statement about global warming and climate change.
The residents at 204 Franklin Street are attempting to combat the dog crap problem while keeping with the spirit of the holiday.
141 Kent Street could clearly care less. Christmas, Halloween, Easter— these ‘holidays’ are nothing more than an opportunity for kids get hopped up on sugary food… and parents drinking heavily in order to make the resulting mayhem tolerable.
Thankfully, the “Beer Bunny” was kind enough to leave 143 Kent Street a little something to take the edge off.
Miss Heather
At last, affordable housing in Greenpoint!
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
Yesterday I read an article in the April issue of Greenline entitled “Too Little, Too Late?”. As some of you can probably deduce, the subject of this piece was housing. And after I completed the second paragraph of this opus I learned that:
…plans for 459 units of affordable housing on the waterfront and 246 in the upland area (Where the fuck is that? McGuinness Boulevard? East New York?!?— Ed. Note) are…
to quote the HPD representative who spouted this bullshit “in the pipeline.”
Of course they are, I thought to myself. If there is one thing I can safely assert about the housing situation here, it is this: if you (and yours) earn under $100,000 a year (yes, I just typed six figures) and seek a domicile— be it a rental or for purchase— you might as well drop dead. 705 ‘affordable units’ of housing?!? Houseshit!
Perhaps I should revise the previous figure to 706 because today I discovered a bona fide piece of affordable housing. It is located in the ‘upland’ area of Greenpoint at 218 India Street…
or would that be 216 India Street? This cozy ‘starter apartment’ was not labeled, so both of the previous addresses are little more than educated guesses. Regardless, I liked their flexible terms in regards to financing.
I’m not too sure I like the “ass” part, but accepting a lid (or two) of weed as rental payment is probably sound business practice. Checks bounce, our money isn’t worth shit anyway, so why not implement the ‘grass standard’? Marijuana: America’s other greenback.
A great number of you (who are undoubtedly interested in this wonderful real estate opportunity) may harbor concerns about security. I will put this issue to rest here and now. Although 218 India Street is not appointed with jimmy-proof locks, a buzzer system or security cameras, its neighbor (222 India Street) has a Doberman Pinscher on the premises for your peace of mind. (Or to take a piece out of some unfortunate trespasser’s ass.)
The word on the street is that this canine is a real cocksucker. (Yeah, that was a cheap shot. If it wasn’t for cheap thrills I would have lost the will to live a long, long time ago. Sue me.)
Last— but hardly least— here is my favorite feature of 128 India Street.
New York Shitty, I present the Play-Mor Palace!
Miss Heather
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