At last, Greenpoint gets some good news!

Today I am very pleased to announce the opening of a new business here in Greenpoint— and the answer to my prayers…

AN HONEST-TO-GOD BOOKSTORE!

I’ll be frank: when I noticed the phrase “Kids’ Stuff” on the facade I started to get really turned off. But I overcame my apprehension and went inside to discover… books for big kids.

In English, no less!

Miss Heather gives this development two enthusiastic thumbs up. Go check them out, they just got a big shipment of books today!

Word Books
126 Franklin Street
Brooklyn, NY 11222
(718) 383-0096

www.wordbrooklyn.com

Reach out and touch someone…

This morning I read a tale (via my email) that MUST be shared with the general public. “John” wrote:

…I’ve been on Kent between Franklin & Manhattan for ten years and believe I’ve found my spiritual home in our retarded little corner of Brooklyn.

My favorite sight by far was late last summer, when one of the bumskis was pissing OVER the pay phones onto the subway stairs by the newstand/Greenpoint Deli. At about 3:30 PM. On a Wednesday.

That one pretty much left me speechless…

Dude, that one leaves me speechless. After mulling over the physics required to pull off such a feat (and the conclusion I came to was that this bum must have ‘equipment’ like this guy), I came to the realization that some poor soul probably got a really nasty surprise when he/she exited the subway station. Speaking as someone who has been shit on the head by a pigeon (during my lunch hour no less), I understand the stages of grief that come with being used as a human pissoir:

1. DENIAL: Is it raining? Maybe it’s just condensation from an air conditioner…
2. ANGER: Aw FUCK, that burns! A pigeon did a deuce on my head! I fuggin’ hate pigeons!
3. BARGAINING: Maybe no one at work will notice it. I will sneak back into the office and wash it out in the bathroom. No one will be the wiser.
4. DEPRESSION: Nah, that bitch receptionist in our office will notice. She has undoubtedly been praying for this to happen for months.
5. ACCEPTANCE: I will go back to the office and shampoo my head with hand soap. I will be utterly humiliated. This is unavoidable.

The receptionist did indeed derive a lot of pleasure from my suffering. My experience circulated through the entire office… and several weeks later this very same woman was sent home (and docked pay) because she was thirty minutes late to work (again). The lesson to be learned from my tale (if there is one) is this: when the Assistant Manager (your titular boss— READ: me) gets shit on the head by a pigeon, keep your goddamned laughter to yourself.

Miss Heather

Greenpoint Irish

This morning my husband was kind enough to inform me that we were dangerously low on toilet paper. Although I seriously dislike getting repeat money shots of sleet to the face, I dislike wiping my ass with napkins even more, so I went to the grocery store. The following curiousity can be purchased at the Garden. Get your green bagels while supplies last!

I was mulling over leaving this item as an offering at Pete McGuinness’s grave, but since I can’t locate it, his boulevard will have to suffice. I hope the bums don’t eat it.

When asked about his (BRIEF) stint working as a lumber inspector in the south, this fine man replied:

I don’t like that Jim Crow they got or their goddam white crow either.

God bless you Mr. McGuinness. Happy St. Pats.

Miss Heather

Beadel Street, Here I come!

It’s pretty hard not to get depressed when you live in a ‘hood that is having much of its character eradicated in the name of ‘progress’. With every walk I take I become aware of (yet) another high-density faux Modernist heap of diarrhea being built here. Yesterday’s walk was no different— until I hit Beadel Street, anyway. It was on this humble block that I encountered the most fucking awesome house in all of Greenpoint.

Yes, you are seeing leopard print.

Lots of leopard print.

And fringe.

As you can imagine, I was rendered utterly speechless by the sublime genius of this domicile. I am dying to know what the inside looks like, but then again, I am probably not worthy of the experience. God, I want this house.

Miss Heather

McGolrick Park Crapper of Death

Today I made a lengthy sojourn to the far hinterlands of Greenpoint. I took a number of wonderful photographs during my trek, many of which have since been uploaded to my Flickr page. After reading this post, do check them out. After. Reading. This. Post. What follows is some life/dignity-saving information that you, dear readers, may find of interest.

Unlike a lot of people, I’m pretty tolerant of New York City public lavatories. When you live in a city with 8 million plus people, things are going to get pretty raunchy. This is an unavoidable fact of life.

In fact, I had a life-changing experience in one such public crapper: Washington Square Park. This is arguably one of the most disgusting public bathrooms New York City has to offer.

It was almost a decade ago.

It was my first trip to New York Shitty.

I was deciding upon which graduate school to attend— and I really had to go to the bathroom.

When I entered the Washington Square Park bathroom I was met with that special fetid piss cum ASS aroma that can only be had in such places. After some investigation I deduced that I was expected to select my allotted amount of toilet paper from the improvised ‘holder’ (made by stringing a chain across the front right-hand DOORLESS stall) before going to the bathroom. I got my t.p. and got down to it. No problem.

As I washed my hands I noticed there were no paper towels. Being an early adopter, I ventured back to the toilet paper cache to find a woman sitting on the can staring at me. I think it was a woman, who really knows— and I didn’t want to find out. As I grabbed a wad of t.p. she looked me squarely in the eye and grunted. LOUDLY. This was followed by the sound of two turds plopping into the toilet. Oh what a relief it is!

That’s when my friend/tour guide (from the Bronx) turned to me and said:

Welcome to New York.

Needless to say, I have been enamored of New York Shitty ever since. That moment inspired me to tell the Chicago Art Institute to go fuck themselves. Miss Heather went to school in New York*, and well, the rest is history (in the making, maybe).

Jump forward to today, March 14, 2007…

I loaded my backpack for my two-hour journey, and in so doing, I forgot my cardinal Greenpoint Golden Rule: always carry a pack of disinfectant baby wipes. By the time I had (almost) reached the Kosciuszko Bridge I realized I needed to go to the bathroom. I made a hasty retreat to McGolrick Park so I could patronize their facilities— and I damned near met my maker.

When I reached Monitor Street I knew I had a serious situation on my hands. I sprinted to the can and dropped trou. Then I noticed there was no toilet paper. None that I would care to use, anyway.

I grabbed my backpack and tore through it looking for a napkin, paper towel, handkerchief, ANYTHING I could use to wipe my ass. No such luck (schmuck), so I had to improvise a solution. I did, albeit through trial and error:

1. ATM receipts: the slick photo-static paper make for poor absorption of fecal matter, as I discovered
2. Post-It notes: much more absorbent, but still lacking
3. a plastic lid from a take-out container: BINGO! Remembering what a good buddy of mine told me about going to college in the Soviet Union (and having no running water in her fourth floor dormitory bathroom), I realized had the raw material for an ad hoc bidet.

I high-tailed my ass to the sink, hydroplaned and almost slammed my head into a wall. In my enthusiasm I had forgotten that the park employees were thoughtful enough to mop the floor— but not enough so to DRY MOP afterwards.

This moment acquainted me with my own mortality— and pride. Unlike my husband, I am not a full-blown athiest. I probably qualify as being an agnostic. This is a good thing, as it makes me a little less of a hypocrite when I muttered:

God, please do not let me die here.

Being found with a fractured skull, shit-smeared ass and a take-out lid in the McGolrick Park women’s bathroom is NOT the way I want to go. Come to think of it, I can’t think of anyone who would like to die in this manner. For too many a good reason to go into here.

After regaining my senses (and traction) I headed to the faucet.

Ever tried operating/stabilizing a shitty faucet while filling a lid with water? Try it. You’ll find yourself exclaiming exactly what I did, or worse:

GODDAMMIT!

This is when I heard a roar of laughter from the room next to me. A room where two park employees were hanging out. This pissed me off. A LOT.

I’ll show them, I thought to myself. So I spent the next two minutes doing a bucket lid brigade so as to render my ass spotless. And I did.

Not having any porter to tip, I left my own (non-monetary) token of appreciation.

Miss Heather

P.S.: Thanks Zoya!

*And had one of the most mind-blowingly intelligent and COOL teachers ever. Nayland Blake. Look him up.

Someone call the ASPCA!

Last weekend my husband and I were walking down India Street when we discovered a dog gazing at us from an apartment window. A stuffed dog. I thought this was really funny until I walked past this house (again) today…

This poor pup has clearly met with foul play. Anyone up for starting a Stuffed Schnauzer Rescue Organization?

Miss Heather

Reason #8,950,879 why I live in Greenpoint

I found this yesterday afternoon while strolling along Diamond Street.

Priceless.

Miss Heather

P.S.: I am currently listening to Kiss. Not only do I like Kiss, but I have noticed that it is very effective at covering up construction noise. The dull roar of (il)legal construction/destruction blights my block more often than not nowadays. It sucks ASS.

Anyhoo, when “Heaven’s on Fire” came on (you know the beginning part where Paul Stanley sort of yodels), someone outside my window (a foot soldier for the Greenpoint Battalion of the Kiss Army?) did a dead-on imitation of it immediately afterwards. This makes reason #8,950,880 why I live in (and love)…

GREENPOINT ROCK SHITTY!

A Greenpoint Grandma Speaks

Contrary to what my mother will tell you, I can control my mouth. When the occasion arises, I can/will refrain from using the ‘colorful’ language that is so near and dear to my little heart. It simply doesn’t happen very often— I do live in Greenpoint, after all.

Even so, sometimes my old-fashioned southern sensibilities color my interactions with/perceptions of others, especially the elderly. I was reminded of this last week when I happened upon one of the most delightful senior citizens I have ever met in my life. In hindsight, I wish I had asked begged this woman to adopt me.

Thursday, March 8, 2007

After a long, meandering walk I was headed home. When I reached 110 Green Street, I spied a little wisp of a woman (push cart in tow) staring at the destruction, mouth agape. I initiated a conversation.

Me: Nice, huh? That site is slated for 130 condo units. ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY UNITS.

Gran (shaking head in disgust): Where are they going to park all those cars?

Me: I don’t know and I do not think they care. I suspect one or both of those sites on Huron Street will be used for parking, not that it will help much. Magic Johnson just poured twelve million dollars into this monstrousity.

Gran: Yeah, I know. I read that in the paper yesterday.

Me: I still can’t get over it. We’re talking SIX STORIES of building. It’s going to dwarf everything on this block. It’s insane.

Gran: You know, there was a time when only three or four story buildings were allowed here. See that building over there (pointing at 158 Green Street, a five story building)? That guy probably had a hell of a time getting permission to build it.

Me: Yup.

Gran: See that bath house over there? That was built in 1903. My mother took me there once when I was a child. I am 80 years old you know, I was born in 1927.

Me: Really? You don’t look a day past 20.

Gran (giggling, punches me in the arm): Get out of here!

Having broken the ice, this sweet-looking little old lady (wearing a knit hat with a big floppy flower on it) told me a little bit about herself. She must have dropped at least two F-bombs in the process. I didn’t keep count.

Gran: I live on McGuinness Boulevard. I have lived here my entire life. Raised my children here. I really love this neighborhood, don’t you?

Me: You bet. I suppose I am newcomer, but I really love Greenpoint. I consider it my home.

Gran: There was once a time when you knew everybody here. It isn’t like that anymore. (pointing to her cart) Every day I get my lean-to and walk the neighborhood. Metropolitan Avenue and Grand Street, you know where that is?

Me: Yes.

Gran: Everyday I walk to there and back. It’s getting to where I can barely recognize this neighborhood anymore. People don’t talk to each other either…

Me: Nor do they care to. I have noticed this particularly of late. I live by a bar. For about a year I had to call the police and file noise complaints because they were blaring music at 2, 3 4:00 o’clock in the morning. It was ridiculous. If they want to do that shit they should take it to Manhattan. People live here— people with families.

Gran (nods in agreement): I raised seven children here. It was hard. I wasn’t happy with living on my husband’s salary, so you know what I did? I got a job. I worked the midnight shift at Merchant’s Bank. I rode the subway to and from work at first. But after being followed by a man at Court Square late one night, I started driving to work instead. I told my husband about being followed and he told me “Betty, I am going to teach you how to drive a car”. And I learned. I drove until about ten years ago. That’s when I sold my car. I was 70 then, you know.

Me: (nodding)

Gran: It’s hard raising children nowadays. It is simply not worth it. My youngest daughter is going to St. Francis right now, it’s expensive. College isn’t affordable anymore, these kids have to take out loans… I used to give money to all sorts of charities, you know, to feed hungry children, the homeless, etc., but I don’t anymore. If man doesn’t want to work so he can feed his kids, he should keep his goddamn dick in his pants!

Me: What about the woman? I mean, it DOES take two people to make a baby.

Gran: If the man is the boss, does she really have much choice? Of course not. I blame the man. You said you were married —is your husband the boss?

Me: No, my husband is not the boss. I am the boss.

Gran: (giggling maniacally)

Me: Can I take your picture?

Gran (chuckling, waving me away): OH NOOOOO!

Me: Well, I thought I would ask. In any case, I really like your hat.

Gran: I made it myself. When the weather is bad I stay home and knit hats. I made seven in one week recently. I make the hats and then give them to friends and family. One time a friend told me that I should sell them, but if I did that it would become work and I wouldn’t enjoy it so much.

Me: I got ya.

This was when we parted ways. We said our respective “Nice to meet yous” and “Goodbyes”. I love my new Greenpoint grandma— even if I cannot remember her name.

Miss Heather

Still credit: “Ma Boggs” from the movie Every Which Way but Loose. After searching for a decent image of her on the ‘Internets’ I broke down, popped my copy of this cinematic masterpiece in the VCR and made my own (admittedly SHITTY) still.

My time spent ‘Googling’ was not wasted, though. When trolling Amazon (where you can get this movie and its sequel, Every Which Way You Can, for $21.00!) I came across the following user comment:

I’m currently taking a Clint Eastwood course at UT Austin, and we recently watched this movie.

And its a bit confusing. I’m not sure what to make of this fun, wacky, and somewhat random movie. Eastwood himself seems to strive and always aims for ambiguity in his work. And it shows here.

There were a lot of dumb ass critics in the 60’s and 70’s that liked to bash Eastwood and used the popular buzzword of fascist and labeled him as such. So in response, Eastwood was very particular about what he did afterward and would do things that contradict (in the eyes of critics) his previous work or characters. This of course confused critics and ultimately forced them to look at his work again and see that they were being dumb ass idiots and were just going along with the popular liberal clap trap at the time.

So we have this movie, in which Eastwood is this hillbilly mechanic and competent street fighter and his adventures with his orangutan (not a monkey Afsheen, they have 12 ribs like us). And its this almost really weird PG comedy. It has these sort of random plots and events that are kind of incorporated into the story and well, not really sure how I can best put it into words, but its just fun. It shows that Eastwood can do this wacky road, comedy.

But it has some surprisingly dramatic moments as well. The audience is well aware of the Sandra Locke’s characters true intentions before Eastwood’s Philo. And when he does figure it out, its pretty brutal. And I really bought into that emotional confrontation and Philo’s reaction. And then Eastwood throws a fight, and in some ways its bleak. But in other ways it isn’t. Philo I think found a little bit about himself and learned who his true friends are, people like Clyde and Orville, and Orville’s girl Echo(a young Beverly D’Angelo).

The character of Tank Murdoch I believe is meant as an allegory to Clint Eastwood and his celebrity status, his celebrity and his star persona. Philo wants to challenge Murdoch and beat him. Murdoch is a guy who everyone knows and has this huge reputation. And then Philo sees Murdoch who’s really pretty sad. His friends turn on him and aren’t real friends, and he realizes he doesn’t want to be Tank Murdoch. And he doesn’t want other people gunning for him. So at the end of the movie, it almost feels like it was Eastwood REJECTING his own star persona and choosing to stay in obscurity with his friends. Makes me wonder how Eastwood truly feels about his celebrity status.

Um, I think dude has put WAY too much thought into this review. I do not know what disturbs me more: the fact that he doesn’t “get” this movie or that it is being used as college course material. If a man has not learned how to conduct himself in front of woman by the time he reaches college, e.g.;

We’re gonna meet a real lady now Clyde, so no spittin’, pissin’, fartin’, or pickin’ your ass.

…the case is probably hopeless.

And come to think of it, it’s pretty ironic that this movie is being shown to college students, as “Philo Beddoe” exacts some seriously hilarious revenge on an ‘uppity’ college student who rebuffs his advances.