Greenpoint
Lorven Pharmacy
Culture on the Cheap
Street Fashion in Greenpoint
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
If there’s one thing living Greenpoint (and interfacing with the Stupor of my building) have taught me, it is this: why bother fixing something the right way when it can be done half-assed in half the time and be twice as amusing?
We Greenpointers take the adage “time is money” very seriously. And literally. Why lavish too much time on some boring, tedious task when one can be spending money on a six-pack of beer to get drunk instead? Think about it.
Which brings me to the following photo of something I discovered at the northeastern corner of Kent Street and Manhattan Avenue yesterday…
Grow-up Heather, acid-washed denim and electrical tape is SO 1987…
Miss Heather
Mexican Radio
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
Last night I had one of the strangest experiences I have ever had here at Chateau de Ghetto. Naturally, this ‘event’ came to pass as I was sitting on the john half-asleep…
After tossing and turning for about an hour I realized that I had to go to the bathroom. Given the large quantities of water I consume on a daily basis, this was hardly surprising. Silently grousing to myself, I got out of bed and shuffled into the bathroom.
As is his habit, Tortilla was sprawled out in front of the toilet. I step over him, drop trou and get down to business. I hear something. Thinking this was just another exotic sound my apartment makes at night (there are many), I try to ignore it. After about 5-10 seconds I realize that what I am hearing is too melodic to be a mere squeaky pipe or gurgling radiator.
It took another 5-10 seconds of intense concentration for me to come to the realization that I was hearing music. Tunes of the Latino Hip Hop variety my next-door neighbors often see fit to blare for my (shared) entertainment. They’re thoughtful that way, my ‘nabes.
Having awakened sufficiently to exercise logic, I look around for my husband’s shower radio. I can’t find it. Suspecting that our old bathroom radio may be the culprit, I checked it as well. IT IS WASN’T ON.
This is when I started to get agitated. Tortilla, on the other hand, didn’t seem to mind this the least bit. For all I know, homeboy was probably enjoying it. I’ll never know this for certain, as Tortilla does not have the gift of speech and bears a permanently stoned expression on his face. He is not the brightest of bulbs.
When I reached for the toilet paper I (finally) discovered the source of the sound: the water pipes. It was coming from the plumbing stack that goes to the apartment upstairs.
From the best I could tell, the pipe was serving as some kind of ‘receiver’— much like those urban myths you hear about when a person’s filling picks up radiowaves and a house party commences inside his (or her) mouth. I have ruled out my upstairs neighbors, a 50-something married couple, as being responsible because they do not listen to Hip Hop. Even if they did, I doubt they would do so at 11:30 p.m. at night. This strikes me as being out of character for them. In any case, as soon as someone upstairs turned on a faucet, the music stopped.
Weird.
I don’t think I will tell the landlord about my new ‘radio’. Knowing him, he’d probably try to charge me for it. If this happens again, I hope it’ll be a different station. Preferably one that specializes in Mariachi music. I like my bathroom visits to be festive.
Miss Heather
Update, 2:12 p.m.:
About an hour ago I received an email from Kevin Walsh (of Forgotten NY). He wrote:
Months ago I too noticed faint music emanating from no discernible source in my apt. I assumed it was a ghost though I don’t believe in them, ignored it and it went away…
Feeling a little cheeky, I wrote back:
Well if there is a ghost in this apartment, right now he/she is listening to Motley Crue. AGAINST THEIR WILL. I am currently engaged in ‘rocking out’.
After Motley Crue, I listened to Kiss. After Kiss, I listened to the Butthole Surfers. Into the second song I heard a LOUD, inexplicable rap on my living room wall. I guess my resident goblin doesn’t care much for Gibby Haines. He (or she) seems to be perfectly OK with Britney Spears though. Go figure.
Winning friends and influencing people…
As I was parsing though my incoming links today I came across this gem. WOW. I think I should hook her up with this guy. Who knows, after going “Christian Slatter” on my ass maybe romance will blossom? Contrary to what my husband says, I’ve always fancied myself as quite the incurable romantic.
Sheesh.
In all seriousness, I find differing points of view fascinating. If this gal likes living in LIC, more power to her. I am actually happy to see someone standing up for her ‘nabe; I only wish she would have refrained from the personal insults. Those were not necessary and only serve to undermine her credibility.
Given all the cynicism and apathy I see every fucking day, I find Miss Striped Shirt’s, uh, enthusiasm refreshing. The next time I go to Long Island Shitty I’m wearing fucking body armor.
Miss Heather
P.S.: Long Island City still sucks. 😉
Behold, the softer side of the MTA!
As I was taking a walk this afternoon I came across a kitty cat condo complex par excellence. For those of you who are not in the know, the property in question is where the MTA maintains a sizeable fleet of buses. I think it is safe to say that (at least) one of their employees is a cat lover.
These cats have a pretty fierce set-up: six units, a recreation center, free kibble, the works. Although I was unable to conduct a closer inspection of these ‘apartments’ (the concierge in the above photo explicitly forbade me doing so), I’d wager they’re probably a lot nicer than my own. (Though now that I think of it, that isn’t really saying much.)
No wonder these guys want to raise our fares; they’re blowing our hard-earned cash on tinsel balls, Meow Mix and catnip!
I’m outraged!
Miss Heather
P.S.: Just kidding— I think it’s cute, actually. Whatever you do, be sure to check out the embedded “Detail” photo; they have even gone to the trouble to INSULATE these bad boys. Incredible.
McGuinness Boulevard
Filed under: 2007 Crap Map, Bum Shit, Crazy People, Dog Shit, Dung of the Day, Greenpoint Magic
Lest the subject matter of this blog does not make it clear already; I have unusual tastes when it comes to entertaining myself. After busting my ass last week, I finally got some ‘down’ time Sunday. Some people spend their leisure time by taking vacations to such exotic locales as Tahiti, Martha’s Vineyard or even Florida. I for one am perfectly content with strolling McGuinness Boulevard. Your eyes are not deceiving you: you just read McGuinness Boulevard.
The way I see it, McGuinness Boulevard epitomizes what is so wrong, and yet, so right about Greenpoint. Like a whore past its prime, this throughfare is highly-trafficked, noisy, and more often than not, filthy. But (under the right circumstances) it does have its charm.
Have you ever witnessed a 40-something couple who— man and woman alike— bore a strange resemblance to Barry Manilow making out in front of a Hess Station?
I have.
Do you like to watch an old man work his dentures like a wad of cud, pop out his top plate and suck it back in— hands free— while dining at Taco Bell?
I do.
The gentrifiers of this ‘hood can keep their waterfront parks, humvee-sized strollers and triple mocha lattes. The Dog Shit Queen of Greenpoint wants entertainment— and Mickey G’s is where it’s at! What’s more, the very namesake of this fine boulevard, the honorable Peter. J. McGuinness, was pretty damned entertaining in his own right. As I learned recently.
When queried about nominating himself as the Assistant Commissioner of Public Works during Seabury investigation, his answer was as follows:
Well, as the leader of the Greenpernt People’s Regular Organization of the Fifteenth District I couldn’t pick a more better person to suggest for for this job than myself. I drove nine gypsy bands out of Greenpernt, as well as three hundred Chinese coolies, and all the cats and dogs that used to run down the streets. I got Greenpernt three playgrounds, the subway, the one-and-a-half million bridge on Greenpoint Avenue, and two million dollars’ worth of paving… I done good. I thank you.*
Not to sound like I condone racism (I don’t), but thanks to Mr. McGuinness’s hard work I have yet to see any gypsy bands or large numbers of ‘coolies’ roaming the streets in my seven years of living here. However, it does beg one to question whether he knew anything about the large number of Polish people reputed to live here. I suppose Pete took that one to the grave.
As for the two million dollars worth of paving, I am certain the seemingly endless cycle of destruction/construction on Franklin Street would make Mr. McGuinness proud. That public works project (if one can call it that) reeks of graft. Or, at the very best, extreme incompetence. Oh well.
Aside from the odd stray cat, there isn’t much in the way of feral animals running the streets now. Not on four legs anyway, but I digress…
Pete may have been the beacon of progress for this fine ‘nabe, but there is one form of blight he obviously missed: dog shit. And that’s exactly what I found during my leisurely stroll along his boulevard. Lots of (sh)it.
A comprehensive photo record of my findings can be viewed on my Crap Map, but here are some hightlights.
Dung of the Day: DEP
This may very well be the best “Dung of the Day” I have ever found. This ironic pile of poop was located at 381 McGuinness, which is also where one of the finest buildings in Greenpoint happens to be located.
Or perhaps a better term for this architectural masterpiece is “bunker”. Note the metal slit in the doorway. I wonder if you have to give the secret password to get in? If so, I wish I knew what it is. Not too long ago when I was apartment-less and jobless I seriously mulled over listing 381 McGuinness as my address on my resume. Wisely, I elected against it.
For now, anyway. Who knows what tomorrow will bring?
Poopy al fresco
I found this ad hoc bathroom on Ash Street under the Pulaski Bridge. Not only was it thoughtfully appointed with a magazine, but it had an exciting array of hygiene products necessary for the urbane bum-about-town. I envision the person who patronizes this lavatory to be the Hugh Hefner (or Alistair Cooke) of bums. After awakening in a pool of his own vomit, ‘Hugh’ adjusts his fez, puts on his loafers and proceeds to bathroom to ‘freshen up’ for the ladies.
Condoville
No post about Mickey G’s would be complete without mentioning the prodigious quantity of condos being built along it. As the Gowanus Lounge indicates in this post, the median price for an apartment in Greenpoint has increased by 65% over the last year. Ouch!
Then again, does anyone (save the developer or a real estate agent) honestly believe that the following turd is going to command top dollar? Really?
I call the above exercise in wishful thinking, Fort Apache, The ‘Point. I cannot for the life of me imagine who would want to purchase one of these condos. For starters, the building is ugly as shit. Secondly, the point of having a balcony (as I understand it) is to enjoy a scenic view. Here is some of the scenery that will come with that top corner unit’s (undoubtedly inflated) price tag.
NICE. All you taxi cab and dumpster fetishists out there will have to wait: this building isn’t ready for habitation. Sorry.
But easily the most provocative discovery made during my adventures along McGuinness Boulevard cum Condoland was here.
I call this monolith the “Blockbuster Condo” because it is located behind the shuttered Blockbuster Video on McGuinness Boulevard. In many ways this building resembles the strip mall in front of it: both are over-sized, boxy and very grey eyesores. In addition, (just like the Blockbuster in front of it) this condo has some added-value the real estate brokers probably won’t tell you about…
A scenic view of Bum Shit Central!
I cannot tell a lie: if I had the money, I might pay the asking price for this blue chip view. I cannot think of a better way to start my morning than to sip coffee while gazing out my window to sight of homeless people shitting and masturbating. Constantly.
Miss Heather
P.S.: Check out this nifty mug I designed last weekend!
*From Once Upon a Time in New York by Herbert Mitgang
Beaver Shot Barbie
I found this at a local 99 cent store today. I have heard of accidental panty-flashings, etc., but for fuck’s sake— this gal isn’t even trying to conceal her (admittedly non-existent) naughty bits! The coy facial expression says it all: this woman knows damn well what she’s doing. Tramp.
The cocked head is also telling: upon closer inspection one will notice that she has a wonky eye just like Paris Hilton! At least this moll is encased in a prophylactic sheath to protect the general public.
Miss Heather
Greenpoint Gentile Fondler
As I indicated in yesterday’s post, I no longer try to fathom the depths of human stupidity. It is simply too big (and depressing) a task. That said, as I was checking my email last night, I came across something in my inbox that reminded me of yet another ‘golden rule’ I espouse: the world is teeming with idiots, many of whom also happen to be flaming perverts. Perverts the like of which make Dan Hoyt seem downright respectable by comparison.
This email featured a caveat circulating amongst the McCarren Park Dog Run Association. My tipster (whose husband happens to be a dog walker) wrote:
The following email crossed my monitor yesterday… I’ve fact-checked, and the events detailed seem to be true. As f-ed up as the situation is, see if you can find the most awesome Freudian-slip spelling error EVER (even since before Jesus and the dinosaurs roamed the planet together, singing “Kumbaya”).
I read what she forwarded me. Not believing what I had just read, I read it again. Once the content began to sink in, I got a queasy feeling in my stomach— and it wasn’t due to my husband airing out his balls while watching television either (which is what he was doing at the time). The Dog Shit Queen of Greenpoint was grossed out.
Follows is a condensed version of what I read. Be advised that after reading this item one may have the utmost desire to:
- Gouge his/her eyeballs out.
- Vomit. Repeatedly.
If this happens to you, dear readers, fear not: it’s normal. Without further ado, here it is. In all its abject glory…
I wanted to send you an email that I hope you can send out to others you know who use the McCarren dog run. I was at the run this morning (02/27) at about 9:00 am when I was approached by a Hasidic male who was asking me questions about my dog (breed, gender, etc)… When I left the run to bring my dog across the street to Must Luv Dogs, he approached me and asked if he could pet my dog. I told him yes, and as he was petting my dog’s head, he took his other hand and started fondling my dog’s gentiles. I saw what he was doing, pulled my dog away, and loudly told him off. He left the park very quickly.
When I went into MLD, they told me that he has been in the day care before, asking to hold the dogs, and that (he) had fondled another dog’s gentiles that was with a female owner.
I found this to be very disturbing and alerted the NYPD. While nothing will probably will come of it, anyone at the dog run who is approached by a mid-30’s to early 40’s Hasidic male, with dark brown hair and glasses should be careful.
This week I have learned about the existence of Greenpoint Nazis, people who lose their guinea pigs (in public parks), and now, Hasidic “gentile” fondlers. This dude gives the term “community outreach” a whole new meaning. I feel so dirty.
I can only imagine what next week will bring. God help me.
Miss Heather
P.S.: No one better lay a finger on my gentiles; if they do I’ll kick their fucking ass!
Franklin Corner Store Food Porn
After having a heaping helping of anti-semitism for breakfast, I have decided polish off my day with something that makes me happy: the Franklin Corner Store.
Greenpoint is not very well appointed when it comes to restaurants. Especially if you happen to be a vegetarian (like me). I do not mean to short-change the likes of Casa Mon Amour, The Chinese Musician, or Paloma; all the previous are excellent restaurants.
They simply don’t induce the transcendent state of carbohydrate-overload bliss in my person that the Franklin Corner Store’s “El Mexicano” sandwich does. Nothing does.
I realize this photo is a bit washed out, so I will give you a general rundown of the contents of the above sandwich:
- Two kinds of cheese
- Bean Dip
- Green Peppers
- Jalapeno Peppers (I request this as an add-on)
- Lettuce
- Tomato
- Avocado
- Onion
- Orgasm-inducing flavor
Some of my fellow Greenpointers bemoan how long it takes for these guys to make a sandwich. I don’t. If you want a sandwich made quickly, without tender loving care and entertaining banter, go to Subway. On the other hand, if you want to eat something that will blow your fucking mind, go to the Franklin Corner Store, place your order, park your ass in front of their television and wait for about 10-15 minutes (like everyone else). It’ll be the best $6.00 you’ll ever spend.
Franklin Corner Store
210 Franklin Street
Brooklyn, New York 11222
Phone: per their menu, they don’t have one. (718) 389 – 4575
When you go, be sure say “Hi” to the Franklin Corner Kid and give Oreo (who likes to meet and greet customers outside the front door) a good tummy rub…
…and a table scrap or two.
Miss Heather
Meanpoint*
As it happens, my upstairs neighbor started a blog recently. I am very happy to see this, as he is one cool guy.
When I looked at his blog this morning, I came across a short film of a drunk Polish Nazi (yes, I just wrote “Polish Nazi”) he made recently.
This man is most decidedly NOT cool.
I can’t believe anyone (outside of perhaps, Iran) would say such things. Someone should take a brickbat to the side of this asshole’s head. Preferably one of the concentration camp survivors who reside here. (I do not see them often, but they do exist; the numbers tattooed on their arms say it all.)
Unless my high school history classes were wrong, I do not recall the Nazis as being particularly kind to Polish people either. Fucking idiot.
*UGH*
Miss Heather
*A term coined by my ‘nabe. Liked it so much I just HAD to use it.
High Velocity Vomit Spatter
After a pleasurable day trip last Saturday, my husband and I came home to find a new pool spatter of vomit on our landing. By all appearances it looks like the author of this puke leaned over the railing of the third or fourth floor and let it rip. Or at least this is what my Court T.V. viewing habits would lead me to believe.
This still blights my building as I write this post. And there it will remain until someone cleans it up. It sure as fuck isn’t gonna be me, I’ll tell you that much. I did my good deed two years ago. I had to; it was stinking up the entire second floor.
It was the morning of the Puerto Rican Day parade. It was already getting very balmy when my husband and I left the apartment at 11:00 a.m. When we arrived home two hours later (after running errands) our senses were assaulted by one of the most vile odors I have ever smelled in my life. I’m talking about the kind of stink that makes your eyes water. Bad.
Covering my mouth, I looked around the foyer of our building to find the source. This didn’t take long: someone had puked BEHIND the door leading to the stairwell. As shit-faced as this person was, he (or she) had the presence of mind to ‘hide’ it. I still chuckle at this stupid and futile gesture.
Naturally, I brought this to the attention of the Stupor— and he did what he does best: absolutely nothing. I finally broke down and cleaned it up one hour later. I suppose this was (is?) still better than giant puke monster that inhabits my floor now. At least that one was good for a laugh.
My neighbor in apartment #8 and I have a very good idea who is responsible for this (latest) incident. This is not a very difficult task given that there are only 8 occupied apartments in this building; once you rule out my floor and all the older married couples, only one apartment is left.
Miss Heather
P.S.: I have added this item to my “House of Pain“. If the latest building-wide scuttlebutt is true, I suspect there will be much, much more to come. So stay tuned. Word has it that apartment 6 has been rented out to an old Polish man who “reeks of alcohol”. Great.
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