Greenpoint
Lorven Pharmacy
Culture on the Cheap
Boss Heather
My father once told me that I have no ambition. Not only did I find this statement to be hurtful, but it was (and is) also untrue. I do, indeed, have ambition; it is simply of a very idiosyncratic bent.
I have never been attracted to the conventional, be it in art or life. Anyone can be a doctor, lawyer, professor or the president of the United States nowadays, big damned deal. Miss Heather craves a bona fide challenge. This is why I aspire to be not only the Dog Shit Queen of Greenpoint (and the greater NYShitty metropolitan area), but also its local ‘boss’.
If there was ever a time this ‘hood needed the likes of Peter J. McGuinness, it is now. If Pete could only see the shit going on around here (READ: luxury condos and coke-addled trustifarian hipsters). Man oh man would he get pissed. Heads would roll and asses (sorely in need of a good kicking) would get kicked. Repeatedly.
While I cannot profess to be another Pete McGuinness (and this is probably just as well), I think I could fill his (long vacated) shoes with both competence and style. The previous assertion can only be proven after I have secured the sinecure of “Ward Boss”, but follows is a little taste of things to come…
OFFICE
Every boss needs an ‘office’: a place to meet with other politicos and entertain visiting dignitaries. I am going to take a page from the book of Arthur Fonzarelli* and locate mine in the McGolrick Park women’s bathroom. After the park employees have been ejected from this facility (preferably in the most violent and degrading fashion possible— think of the mailman in Goodfellas), I will set up shop. My social secretary (a local tough) will be stationed at the entrance to meet and greet visitors.
ACCOMODATIONS
If that stuck-up snobatorium across the East River (that calls itself New York City) can shack up its head honcho at Gracie Mansion, certainly a suitable residence can be provided for yours truly. Although I am very fond of 128 Beadel Street, it is located too far afield from Miss Heather’s four essentials: the Garden, a liquor store, “The Thing” and the Franklin Corner Store. This residence (located at 76 Green Street) fits the bill perfectly.
I have had a fixation on this domicile for some time. I call it the “Babushka House” because it is one very old house nested inside of another pretty damned old house. Take a look at this close-up of the doorway (which is ALWAYS OPEN) and you’ll see what I mean.
The Babushka House is not only bereft of so much as a single square angle (which for me, is a big plus), but I always find some strange item discarded out front. Two days ago it was a rather large log (as seen in the above photo), the Sunday before that it was a half-consumed bottle of Puerto Rican rum and an unopened jar of Vlasic pickles. I like this building’s mojo. All it needs is a fierce paint job and lots of fringe.
PILLAR OF THE COMMUNITY
A good ward boss is not some thug who extorts money from those under his (or her) care. Much to the contrary, any ward boss worth his (or her) salt takes the money he or she has extorted from outside the community and shares it with the citizens he (or she) serves. Everyone gets a little piece of the pie. Those of you do-gooders out there who bristle at the thought of “extortion”, “embezzlement” or “graft” are only fooling yourselves: all the previous are very alive and well in Greenpoint. The only real crime being perpetrated is that we are not getting our cut. Simple as that.
I seek to redress this miscarriage of justice. All because something is illegal does not necessarily mean it is also immoral (and vice versa: if something is legal that does not automatically mean it is moral). This is Miss Heather’s platform. I will be the lovably crooked woman of influence (under the influence) who resides in the lovably crooked house on Green Street. My front door will always be open to my constituency— especially if they happen to bring beer.
CELEBRATION
In return (for your patronage), I will provide a number of festive events. To this end, I would like to announce The First Annual Greenpoint Dog Shit Parade.
WHERE: I envision this event transpiring on either DuPont Street (between Manhattan Avenue and Franklin Street) or West Street (between Eagle Street and Greenpoint Avenue). I am open to suggestions.
WHEN: TBA. I am looking into how to get a parade permit. Looks like I have to call 311— that’s what nyc.gov says, anyway. That said, I am leaning towards September of this year.
WHY: If you have to ask this question, you are not worthy of participating.
HOW: This soiree will require much in the way of planning and hard work. A marching band is simply a must. The Greenpoint Peoples’ Local Auxiliary Pooper Scoop Regiment needs to be created and start drilling. And, most importantly of all, scantily clad women (and/or men dressed as women) are needed to be chorines for the Greenpoint Turdettes.
Is anyone with me on this? I am dead fucking serious. This needs to happen.
Miss Heather
*Am I the only person who found Mr. Fonzarelli’s loitering in the men’s bathroom of Al’s really peculiar? The lavatory at a greasy spoon would probably stink to high heaven with the bouquet of blocked colon mixed with urinal cake and just a hint of stale piss. The previous leads me to believe that the Fonz had a slightly ulterior motive for spending so much time there: he liked to watch the young men pee. Under that tough guy exterior this homeboy was just another flaming queen.
A few thoughts about baseball bats
I got a little chuckle over my morning coffee today when I came across this article on Gothamist. One has to wonder what the world is coming to when his (or in my case, her) elected officials are debating the ‘fire power’ of metal baseball bats versus wood ones. There has got to be something more important to pursue than arguing baseball bat physics. Nonetheless, I will state my position (for the record) regarding this ‘hot button’ issue:
- I possess two baseball bats (Louisville Sluggers, no less). They are made of wood. One has a shoe and sock attached to it and looks a little like a human leg. I found this item on the sidewalk along McDonald Avenue eight years ago.
- If I was struck in the head with a baseball bat, I honestly wouldn’t care what it was made of: pain is pain.
- It has been my observation that grown adults are the ones who cannot be trusted to wield this item responsibly, not children.
The lattermost of the three previous points reminds me of a crime blotter item I read a week ago in the June 25, 1901 edition of the Brooklyn Daily Eagle. The reporter fails to note the composition of the baseball bat involved in this incident, but then again that isn’t really germane to the moral of the story. Read on and you’ll see what I mean…
Attacked a Stranger Who Used a Bat to Defend Himself
Martin Hughes, 45 years old, of 260 Oakland street (now known as McGuinness Blvd. — Ed. Note), was severely beaten yesterday by a stranger whom he assaulted on the street. Hughes’ son, James, of 93 Clay Street, called at the home of his father yesterday and the two men started out and visited several saloons. Before long there were in a fighting mod. As they walked down Manhattan avenue they were noticed by a number of men standing on the corner of Clay Street. The men, knowing of Hughes’ quarrelsome nature, moved away. Just then, however, a younger man was passing along carrying a bat in his hand. It is said that the elder Hughes struck the stranger in the face without the slightest provocation, knocking him down.
When the young man regained his feet he retailiated by striking the old man over the head with a bat, causing a scalp wound, and knocking him down. The younger Hughes then went to his father’s assistance, but the stranger turned on him and beat him over the head and back with the bat. It was at first thought that the men had been seriously injured and some one called up the police headquarters and the reserves were sent from the Greenpoint avenue station house, where Ambulance Surgeon Rorke of St. Catherine’s Hospital was summoned and dressed the wounds of the father, who was permitted to go home. The younger Hughes, however, refused to permit the ambulance surgeon to dress his injury, and declared that the only thing he wanted was to get a “whack” at the other man. He was locked up on the charge of disorderly conduct. He was arraigned in the Manhattan avenue court this morning before Magistrate O’Reilly and was held for examination.
NOTE TO SELF: Do not start a fist fight with a man wielding a baseball bat.
Miss Heather
Trolling for Dick…
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
Street, that is.
Although I am not one to count my chickens before they hatch, I will announce that I have been approached by Kevin Walsh (of Forgotten-NY) to guest-author a piece about Greenpoint. After mulling his offer over for 5 seconds (if that), I agreed. To this end, I have been busy researching my ‘nabe the last 2-3 weeks.
I have found some fucking fantastic stuff (and why wouldn’t I— this is one fucking fabulous ‘hood). The next couple of weeks I imagine I will be busy assembling my findings, so today I indulged my sophomoric side and searched for Dick Street.
I realize this map is of very poor quality so I have indicated a few major cross streets in order to provide a point of reference. Notice how “Arm Street” was located immediately west of “Dick”. Hee, hee.
Although no traces of “Dick” were to be found, I was VERY amused to discover that this building is located on the strip of Commercial Street that was once intersected by “Dick” and “Arm” Streets.
Whenever I have heard the words “dick” and “arm” in the same sentence it pertained to an ’emergency response’ brought about by not having a girlfriend for a very, very long time.
Miss Heather
PLEASE DEMOLISH THIS HOUSE!
These are desperate times for us Greenpointers. On the one hand, you have cool old buildings getting razed to build yet more unwanted ‘luxury housing’; on the other, you have this SHITHOLE which, in my opinion, cannot get torn down soon enough.
Anyone who has lived on this block for any appreciable period of time will tell you about the former residents of this building, 151 Green Street: a perpetually drunk old woman and her son. Although I found her practice of chaining her wheelchair(s) to the fence to prevent theft darkly amusing, the same cannot be said about the frequent visits made by EMS to collect her drunken ass. I wasn’t too big on her son’s proclivity for passing out on their stoop either. Charming.
The more observant of you (readers) will notice that there are several permits posted in the window of this property. One of them sanctions the demolition of this house. To the best of my recollection these were put up about a month ago, maybe a little longer. I remember quietly rejoicing when I got the news and have been eagerly waiting for the big day to come.
I am still waiting. In the meantime, a new (and equally dysfunctional) ‘family unit’ seems to have moved in: a trio of junkies. They have taken to lounging around on the sidewalk and passing GARGANTUAN BOWEL MOVEMENTS wherever the mood suits them. Like the one I found in front of my apartment building this morning.
They also left their ‘calling card’ on my stoop.
This has got to stop. I do not think it is either an unreasonable or a presumptuous demand to be able to exit one’s building without stepping in someone’s barf. Seriously folks, it’s fucking nasty.
Miss Heather
Uriah Hoare: Working Man’s Hero
For reasons I will go into another time, I have been spending a lot of time researching Greenpoint history of late. As I parsed through page upon page of old newspapers, I came to the realization that this neighborhood has not changed much over the last 150+ years. Greenpoint is a strange place; its inhabitants are even stranger. Yet, by the grace of god, not much in the way of serious criminal activity goes down here. But when something does happen, you can bet your bottom dollar…
- It will be a doozy.
- Alcohol consumption and/or arson will be involved.
Take the following gem of a crime blotter entry I found recently from the Brooklyn Daily Eagle:
July 15, 1860
Another Explosion of Fireworks — Suspected Arson and Arrest of the Supposed Incendiaries— Between 3 and 4 o’clock yesterday afternoon a large brick building situated in Green Street, near Union (now Manhattan Ed. Note) Avenue, Greenpoint, was blown into fragments by the explosion of a quantity of fireworks which had been placed there for storage. The building and the contents belonged to the firm of Boch & Puchta, of 50 Liberty Street, New York, and whose factory is at Greenpoint. The building is used exclusively for storing manufactured goods, and contained at the time of the explosion, at least, $4,000 worth of fireworks ready for delivery. The roof of the house was thrown upwards of forty feet into the air. Rockets, Roman candles, and squibs of different descriptions, were scattered in different directions for hundreds of yards around, and had the accident occured at night would doubtless have presented one of the most brilliant pyrotechnic displays ever witnessed. The noise of the explosion, it is said, was heard at a distance of two miles. The exploded building was detached and thrown at least two hundred yards away from any other house, consequently the damage done was confined entirely to the premises of Boch & Puchta, who estimate their loss at about $5,000 on building and stock. It is believed that the place was set on fire, and two men named Uriah Hoare and Henry Wendt were arrested on suspicion.
“Arrested on suspicion” is not a satisfactory explanation to Miss Heather. I needed closure and I wouldn’t rest goddammit until got it. I did: courtesy of the “Brooklyn Intelligence” section of New York Times published the same day…
…Hoare was discharged by Boch & Puchta yesterday morning for intoxication, the owners not considering it safe to trust such a man about their establishment. A few minutes before the explosion occured he was seen leaving the building, and it is supposed that he kindled a fire under it. The other man (Wendt) was arrested because he is an intimate associate of Hoare’s.
Not only does Mr. Wendt deserve induction into the Best Friend EVER Hall of Fame (if there is such a place), but this has got to be one of the most inspired acts of revenge against a former employer I have ever read. Someone should make a buddy movie based off this tale. I think Will Ferrell has the acting chops to depict Uriah Hoare with dignity and respect he so richly deserves.
Uriah Hoare, on the behalf of everyone who has ever wanted to rip their (ex) boss a new asshole, I salute you.
Miss Heather
Angel of Meth
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
The only thing worse than being home and watching a dozen police officers and EMS workers gather in front of your apartment building is to head home and FIND a bunch of squad cars and EMS workers in front of your apartment building. I learned this five years ago when my good buddy Rachael and I were headed back to my cracktastic apartment on Clay Street late one Friday night.
By the time we had reached the intersection of Eagle Street and Manhattan Avenue FOUR SQUAD CARS tore past us rollerballs ablazing. I turned to Rachael and said, “Fifty bucks says they’re headed to my block”. They were.
By the time we reached Clay Street on foot there were 60-70 gawkers (clad mostly in wife beaters and boxer shorts) milling about the remains of the ‘action’. I asked my Super (who was one the aforementioned wife beater wearers) what happened. He cryptically replied:
When you look for trouble, someone will give it to you.
After this sage wisdom left his lips, the Super proceeded to take a long swig from a bottle of Domaine Caton, his wine of choice that particular evening. Fortunately, my downstairs neighbor was a little bit more informative. “Angel” told me that some Dominicans and Mexicans got into a fight involving “machetes” and “pipes”. Ducky. Now jump to…
Yesterday, March 25, 2007
I arrived home at 5:00 p.m. to (once again) find a horde of policemen and EMS workers hovering around the front of my apartment building. Thankfully, machetes or pipes were not involved— unless one counts a crack pipe— but I digress.
Once I got past all the ‘looky-loos’, I saw a circle of 8-10 policemen and one civilian. In the middle of this pow-wow was a man lying face down on the cement with two tazer prongs stuck in his lower back. Unlike what I have seen on “Cops” this man was quite alert and talkative. This was probably so because ‘homeboy’ was tweaked out of his fucking gourd.
Follows are some highlights from his ‘discussion’ with New York’s Finest…
Cop: So, what have you been doing?
Tweaker: I’ve been runnin’ like Rocky Balboa.
Cop: What’s the problem?
Tweaker: I’ve been awake for three days, that’s the problem.
“Tweakie Bird” could not understand why the policemen were so interested in him…
Tweaker: Man, don’t you guys have a job to do?
Cop: We’re doing it right now.
This bon mot was met with a roar of laughter from all the onlookers, myself included. Having had my fill of ‘fun’ for the day, I went upstairs to my apartment. This was a bad call on my part: I later learned from my upstairs neighbor that he was hauled off in a straight jacket after rattling off a rather choice rant about being a U.S. Marine.
Miss Heather
Greenpoint Love
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
Last night my sister-in-law checked into the Chateau de Ghetto Arms (the living room of my apartment). Her flight ran two hours late, so she did not get the full ‘Welcome to Greenpoint’ experience until today (when we went out). On the way to the subway she (we) saw:
- One drunk dude falling asleep against a pay phone on Manhattan Avenue
- Another drunk dude pissing on Kent Street
At 12:30 p.m. Not exactly the stuff one usually finds in rural Indiana (which is where she resides). The piece de resistance however was when we arrived home this afternoon and exited the Queens-bound platform (of the G) at India Street.
A little motivational material to kick off the morning commute…
with a little something especially for the ladies.
In Greenpoint ‘love’ is an equal opportunity thing… and there’s always plenty of it to go around.
Miss Heather
Greenpoint Pest Control
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
Today my next door neighbors presented me with a new, challenging piece of refuse.
It took me awhile to figure out what this assemblage is, but I did:
- One used paper towel roll.
- One sticky mouse trap with…
- a dead mouse!
While deciphering the components of this contraption was difficult (until I noticed its strong resemblance to the ‘tools’ monkies make to fish dirt mounds for delicious termites), figuring out why it came about was not; someone was too grossed out to actually pick up the trap using his/her hand, so a TOOL was improvised. A ghetto-ass tool.
It was very thoughtful of my neighbors to share this tasty morsel with me. Periodic visits to my kitchen would simply not be complete without a scenic view of deceased vermin. Thanks a lot guys assholes!
As always this repulsive, but strangely ingenius, item has been added to my “Backdoor Crapstavaganza“.
Miss Heather
UPDATE 3/25/07: The dead mouse has since disappeared. I think the pigeons ate it. I have seen them devour rancid hot dog weenies, so a dead rodent soaking in water is probably right up their alley. The raw hide bone is still there, though.
At last, the shoe is on the other foot…
…and I wanna ram it up someone’s ass!
I initially had no intention of writing today. I had a number of errands to run and preparations to make for an upcoming house guest. I have been very busy. I am now very tired. But not too tired to read this article from the New York Observer and offer up a thought or two…
I distinctly remember an unpleasant incident that happened to me seven years ago. I was chatting with a co-worker and the subject of neighborhoods came up. He asked me where I lived, so I told him: “Greenpoint”. His reply was “Man, you live out in the middle of nowhere!”
After learning that this person lived off of the Morgan Avenue stop of the L (and saw fit call it “Williamsburg”) I realized that I had an asshole on my hands. A phony asshole. Not being the kind of person to waste her breath on an idiot, the subject was never brought up again. It was just as well; I was vindicated on 9/11 when this dude (and two other co-workers) made a pit-stop at my apartment on Clay Street, AKA ‘the middle of nowhere’, before dragging his ass home to ‘Williamsburg’. Or whatever the fuck that neighborhood is— I honestly don’t care.
Before I continue I want to make one thing very clear: the purpose of this post is not to ‘B-Burg bash. Hypocrisy, one up-manship and conformity are the subjects of this rant. And the person mentioned in the above paragraph was guilty of all three. He was also a flaming dick, but I digress…
I am neither an old-timer nor a newbie here. When I moved to Greenpoint in 2000 it was because my first two neighborhoods of choice were prohibitively expensive. Greenpoint, choice #3, not only provided fast access to Manhattan, but it is safe and has all the basics an apartment dweller needs: grocery stores, laundromats, etc. My moving here was based on very practical considerations.
I did (and still do) not want to live in or near a dangerous neighborhood to earn street cred with people I could care less about. ‘Coolness’ was NOT a deciding factor. I am not now— nor will I ever be “cool”. I have accepted this.
After living in Greenpoint my first year I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. I feel at home here, and consequently, I have been able to laugh off the years of snide remarks and mean-spirited ignorance that living here seems to invite. If someone in ‘Williamsburg’, ‘East Williamsburg’, ‘West Bushwick’, etc., doesn’t like my ‘nabe, FINE. Don’t move here. I don’t want you as my neighbor anyway.
The previous having been said, dear readers, you can imagine the look on my face when I read about ‘Jessica’:
…who refused to give her last name but admitted that she moved to the neighborhood (Williamsburg), off the Bedford Avenue stop, from Virginia two years ago.
“I can’t tell people I’m from Williamsburg,†she told The Observer. “It gets people so uptight; all ‘Oooooo, you’re from Williamsburg, and where’s your Brooklyn Industries bag and your trust fund and your newsboy cap, hmmm?’ So I just lie and say I’m from Greenpoint.â€
I think ‘Jessica’ needs to learn something I (finally) grasped back in 2000: this city is filled with assholes who are not worth the time trying to ‘convert’. It really saddens me that this woman feels the need to buckle under peer pressure. I mean, fuck, if you can’t be yourself who are you? Really?
If given the money would I live in her ‘hood? No. But I do like to pop down there on occasion? You betcha! Do I make fun of Williamsburg? Yes, a lot. I also make fun of Greenpoint, Long Island City, the Upper East Side, Park Slope, Prospect Heights or any other ‘nabe that tickles my funny bone (or piques my ire) on any particular day.
Several months ago my mouth got me into a pickle with a resident of Long Island City. This woman emphatically disagreed with my (admittedly) vitriolic take on her ‘nabe. Did she go around saying that she lived in ‘Greenpoint North’ or ‘Astoria South’ after reading what I wrote? Nope. She ripped me a new asshole on her blog instead.
Believe it or not (after we had some serious ‘dialoguing’) I gained a serious measure of respect for this woman’s willingness to stand up. Perhaps this is the person who should have a nice, long talk with ‘Jessica’? Or maybe I will start calling my ‘nabe ‘Long Island City South’ instead…?
Miss Heather
Photo Credit: Rebecca1122. Those ain’t turds, kiddos. They be some kielbasa! Welcome to Greenpoint, BAYBEE!
Anyone lose a bone?
A rawhide bone, that is.
If you happen to live in far north Greenpoint and lost your 12″ long bone, don’t worry: I found it.
I discovered this hilarious item while getting a cup of coffee this morning. What really puzzles me is that I know of no dog owners in the immediate area. I used to think that one of our neighbors had a dog, but I later figured out it was one of their children. I am not kidding. Maybe it’s his?
Needless to say, this oddity has been added to my “Backdoor Crapstavaganza“.
Miss Heather
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