Greenpoint
Lorven Pharmacy
Culture on the Cheap
When it’s time to party Greenpoint parties hard
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
Yesterday morning I got up early so I could buy some garlic bagels at the Garden before they sold out. There are serious benefits to shopping at the Garden early on a Sunday morning. For starters, you avoid the stroller nazis—- which is a good thing for me, because they piss me off royally. Secondly, the powers that be there play some fierce tunes before ‘peak’ shopping hours. This particular morning I got to rock out to Billy Idol’s “Rebel Yell” while foraging for breakfast foodstuffs. I enjoyed this tremendously.
Anyhoo, on my walk to the Garden I came across the remains of one swinging party. Perhaps someone decided to celebrate Chinese New Year? Although there are no Chinese people to speak of in Greenpoint, an opportunity excuse for partying ’til one pukes is seldom left unexploited. And this person had clearly partied hard, as you will see…
Confetti was involved.
Fornication came to pass.
Lots of fornication.
While I’m happy to see that safe sex practices were followed, I found this a bit unsettling.
Note the phone card located under the hypodermic. I’ve heard of drunk dialing, but junk(ie) dialing? Long distance no less. Wow.
And like all good things, this party had to come to an end.
This explosive spray of vomitus was located in front of the C-Town. When I walked by there later I noticed that it had been removed. I suspect either a dog ate it or the store Manager decided that having a rancid pile of puke outside the entrance (or more importantly, the EXIT) of his/her grocery store was not good for business.
Miss Heather
P.S.: Later this same day my husband and I returned to the Garden to get (yet more) food. Van Halen’s Dancing in the Streets was playing over the PA system. I busted out some moves I learned while watching Mexican music videos recently. This irritated/embarrassed my husband to no end, thus increasing my pleasure/hamming it up ten-fold. He hates it when I dance in public.
Gotta get back to mopping the kitchen. To make this chore more interesting, I have decided to pretend that I am Diamond Dave. The mop is my mike. About five minutes ago I marched into the hallway and shouted Mr. Roth’s monologue from Unchained to my husband who happened to be sitting in the living room. He was clad in a t-shirt and boxer shorts. I just about pissed my pants laughing. He was not amused.
My Greenpoint Lifestyle
I had high hopes for today. I knew exactly what I wanted to write about. I had my laundry readied to wash. I had even procured a box of hair dye to touch up my ‘outer borough’ roots. Thanks to the ticking time bomb that is my apartment building, these carefully laid plans totally went to shit.
Unlike my husband, I wake up in a pretty affable mood. I do not need much time to ready myself for the rigors of the day. Give me 5-10 minutes to get dressed, wash my face and brush my hair and I’m good to go. This morning was no different. I got up, got dressed and dove right in reading my email. Here’s the one that started my day. It is from my neighbor upstairs.
Gahhhh, letting you know of a shitty situation:
There’s been the most annoying leaky drip occuring for the past two months or so in my kitchen right above the radiator that’d fill buckets in 2 days or so. Didn’t really bother me too much. I def. let the Stupor know about it….This morning there was a dimple, then it turned into a major dent, and just as I was about to leave it turned into a collapse. There’s shit all over my floor, sink, everywhere… I’m pissed off cause I went downstairs to let those douchebags know that it happened and that I needed them to, at least, look at it and see how messed up it is since I have to go to work and the bastard said “he doesn’t care.” (! – Ed. Note) Point blank. No fooling.
He can’t play that no speaking english role cause we had some words that translated in any language, knaw mean?
Anyway, I finally contacted the Stupor. He says someone will be around at 9:30ish. But I went ahead and placed a complaint at 311 with HPD: Complaint # 3712820.
I said there’s been a constant leak. No response from landlord. Hole in ceiling due to lack of maintenance.
Do you have a digital camera so I can snap a few photos for records?
This crap is messed up dood.
Shit. This building is just like herpes: when left untreated, you get ‘outbreaks’ (such as this). Unfortunately, there is no pill this building can pop to suppress its inner rot. The landlord doesn’t care anyway. He’s too busy putting the screws to us and plotting ways to (FURTHER) inflate the rent rolls for the building. Cocksucker.
After writing my neighbor back, I popped over to The Gowanus Lounge. Life is one sick son-of-a-bitch. The last thing I needed at this particular moment was being reminded of the atrocity slated to blight much of my block. But that’s exactly what happened.
Six stories and 130 Units worth of glass covered crap. Great. The one reason I really like my block (as fucking ugly as it is) is that it is not densely populated. I am not up to my eyeballs in people and their stupid little problems. I guess I should enjoy this while I still can, because in just over a year I will be deluged by entitled affluence and triple decker strollers teeming with ‘Frankenkids’. Dear god: please kill me now.
By far, the best part of the 110 Green Street offal advertising copy laid before me was this ‘mission statement’:
The developer will focus on creating a “lifestyle” for residents as a key selling point for the units. Other amenities planned for the project include concierge, fitness center, wireless internet throughout the building, a library, children’s playroom and indoor pool and sauna.
CONCIERGE?!? Let’s get something straight: no one— I am mean NO ONE is too busy or too ‘important’ to handle their own shit. Period. I don’t care if you’re Donald Fucking Trump; if you cannot be bothered to schlep your ass the the Duane Reade (for example) and buy your own goddamn A 200 Pyrinate or diapers for little Timmy McPussyfart you (and your children) deserve to writhe in squalor. Get off your fat lazy ass and do it your self.
This goes double for anyone crackheaded enough to think that living in Greenpoint requires concierge service. Only a bona fide prick would not find such expectations to be ridiculous. Because it is. VERY. RIDICULOUS. Let’s face facts: if you’re moving here, it is because you do not have the money to buy in Long Island City or Williamsburg. Cut the crap. Or I’ll cut it for you.
Having worked my self into a fighting fucking mood, I called my husband and told him about my morning. He had a wonderful idea: we should get Mr. “I don’t care” from downstairs hired on as 110 Green Street’s new concierge. I’d pay cold hard cash to see that: asshole vs. asshole.
Miss Heather
Photo Credit: Miss Heather. As I write this I am doing what this (admittedly cute) little girl is doing— except I am not looking for something to eat; I am trying to give myself a lobotomy.
A little something for the ladies…
I found this outside my bedroom window last weekend when I was inspecting latest salvo of piss that Clarence, the local tom cat, saw fit to discharge there. I immediately showed my new find to my husband and told him I was going to tape it to the headboard of our bed. This has yet to happen.
Be advised that this fine example of misguided masculinity has been added to my “Backdoor Crapstavaganza“. I’m not even going to bother deconstructing it because, quite honestly, it is 7:00 in the morning as I write this and it is too painful a task.
Maybe it’s the coffee speaking, but this image makes me feel the need to take a shit.
Gotta run…
Miss Heather
Skidmark Row
Last Sunday I rooked my husband into accompanying me as I went on another (albeit smallish) fact-finding mission*. Our route was as follows.
West Street has never failed to deliver (large quantities of dog shit) before and this occasion proved to be no different. Here are a few of my favorite shits.
65 Green Street
SHIT Tac Toe! I won! I won!
79 Green Street
This is just plain scary. And last but not least, my personal favorite from…
150 West Street!
It was a very fruitful trip— and the dog shit I found was only the tip of the proverbial iceberg, if you know what I mean.
When I reached Kent Street I noticed yet another group of older buildings that seemed to be awaiting a date with the wrecking ball. I went in for a closer look. And when I did, I found this. I walked another 5-6 feet and found these.
It would appear that had stumbled upon a trail, a Skidmark Row if you will, of grannie panties that spanned 59 Kent Street. Fascinating.
So if any of you:
- woke up last Sunday morning (after several rousing trysts at Mary D’s the night before) and found yourself wondering “Gee, where’s my underwear?”
- have fantasies involving Estelle Getty, The Golden Girls, getting golden showers from golden girls— or all of the above
- find the “I’ve fallen and can’t get up” lady strangely arousing
- have a thing for underwear resembling Depends undergarments
today’s your lucky day! Go on down to Kent Street (I have indicated the location on the above map with a red dot) and dig in. And when you’re done, why not swing by Brooklyn Bridge Marriott tomorrow afternoon for this?
Happy hunting!
Miss Heather
*After what transpired earlier that day, I felt my husband owed it to me.
I woke up on Sunday about 30 minutes after my husband. I got out of bed, put on my pajama bottoms (which were exactly where I had left them the night before: at the foot of the bed) and wandered into the kitchen. After I had managed to plow through two cups of coffee, my husband charged into the living room babbling “You aren’t wearing the striped pants, are you?”
“Striped pants?” I thought to myself.
Husband: Yeah, the ones you are wearing. I found those wadded up in the cat box this morning.
I must had worn these soiled ‘striped pants’ for at least 20 minutes before my husband saw fit to notice and/or tell me. I am still trying to figure out why the hell he didn’t simply put them in the dirty laundry hamper instead of putting them back on the floor. Gross.
Another day in Happy Valley…
Thus far today I:
- have been awakened by the moron next door slathering more asphalt on his ghetto-ass roof.
- witnessed a number of fire trucks and police vehicles descending upon the mega-demolition site on my block.
- had to climb over a massive pile of shit our resident hipsters have seen fit to store in the stairwell so I could gain access to the roof and photograph said fire trucks and police vehicles.
- learned from my Section 8 neighbors that our landlord threatened to turn off the heat and hot water FOR THE ENTIRE BUILDING at their latest court-ordered arbitration hearing. The only response I could muster to this bombshell was “That’s really fucking stupid”. (Because it is.)
- have been preparing to slog through a fucking snow storm tomorrow because I have been selected for jury duty.
Suffice it to say that my current mood is less than stellar. But strangely enough, none of the above-listed bullshit is to blame. Nosirree. This, dear readers, was (and still is) the crowning turd of my day.
Off the top of my head, I can think of at least six coffeehouses (seven if you include Duncan Donuts) in this ‘hood. This is a less-than-original concept. I’d love to meet the rocket scientist who, in his infinite wisdom, decided that yet another coffee shop (and an overpriced one at that) is exactly what Greenpoint needs. Why doesn’t he toss in a couple of banks and another fucking Thai restaurant while he’s at it?
Idiot.
Miss Heather
Holiday Special
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
Anyone who has lived in Greenpoint long enough will tell you that acknowledging the passage of time is strictly optional. Most of the residents here don’t. This is hardly surprising given:
- the retinue of old drunks who grace the intersection of Manhattan Avenue and Greenpoint Avenue on any given day. These men probably haven’t had a sober moment since Perestroika and they would just as well keep it that way. They’re going to keep on partying like it’s 1989.
- the seriously ‘retro’ fashion sensibility the Polish ladies espouse (and the boutiques that service their needs). Just like Jackie O, there is a certain timeless quality to the Polish woman: her clothes were just as unfashionable in 1985 (when they were undoubtedly manufacturered) as they are today. I do not want to give the impression that I take issue with this, dear readers. I rather like it.
Speaking as a woman whose UNcoolness and advanced age (and by ‘advanced age’, I mean over 30) is it made clear to her on a regular basis, I find Polish women (such as the one shown above), rather comforting. You can rest assured the rear view of this woman is a mere crumb compared to glory to be beheld from the front. Among other things, her jacket was left open so as to showcase two Miss Krakow ca. 1967 snack trays lovingly swaddled in Lycra.
Contrary to what some Bedford Avenue hipsturd will tell you, getting older is not a crime. Wearing shitty fashion dating around the time of your own birth (and thinking it is cool) is. That’s why I like this woman; she is a walking, talking “Fuck You” in the face of youth. And if you 20-something year old nubiles don’t want to look at some fierce AARP cleavage— move!
- The fact that most of the holiday paraphernalia here has yet to be taken down —and I doubt it ever will be. In Greenpoint the party never stops.
And if that means I will continue finding stuff like this well into next fall, it’ll be one very happy New Year for me indeed!
I didn’t know Santa’s workshop made such toys. Needless to say I am going to be a lot more adventurous when I sit on his lap this year. No wonder Mrs. Claus is so damned happy: she doesn’t live at the North Pole: she sits on it!
Miss Heather
Don’t Put Strawberry Jelly on my Bagel
(…if I have jam in my pants)
After tossing and turning all night, I attempted to operate on four hours sleep (and two cups of coffee) today. My morning consisted of doing two loads of laundry and scouting the far north end of Manhattan Avenue for dog shit. Between the two previous tasks I ordered a toasted bagel from New Tulcingo.
I said I wanted a bagel with just a little cream cheese. And I got just that— with a fat glob of gelatinous sweet red slime to boot! I discovered this at the intersection of Freeman Street and Manhattan Avenue and got enraged. Instead of doing the rational thing (returning it and asking for another one) I flung the jelly off and cursed with total abandon.
For reasons unknown, a cabbie on Freeman Street found my spasmic fits of profanity interesting. Maybe he thought I was trying to hail him, as incomprehensible as that may seem; I was shouting, shaking a bagel and flinging jelly for chrissakes!
He pulled over on Manhattan Avenue and stared at me.
Me (shaking the offending bagel): Do you have a fucking problem!?!
Nothing. He kept staring.
The cabbie finally got the message when I started flinging jelly at his car.
In the clarity that is 20/20 hindsight, I suspect my menstrual anti-jelly demonstration is penny ante shit compared to what this man sees in Williamsburg, Chelsea or the East Village on any given day night. Except I wasn’t a kinked-up/coked-up nympho looking for a ride home: I was one very PISSED-OFF Greenpoint Gal trying to get that jelly THE FUCK off her BAGEL!
Please accept my sincerest apologies, cabbie. I meant no harm: you just happened to offer your services to the wrong person, at the wrong place and at the WORST possible time. You guys (and gals) have it hard enough as is. I am sorry if my mixed signals confused you.
When I got home I noticed my little friend surprised me (yet) again. I’l be serving up red jam toast for the next 3-4 days. Yummy. My husband will be delighted.
Miss Heather
Miscellaneous Chunks: Polski Gak
This morning my cup-o-coffee ritual was interrupted by a salvo of feline vomit that had to be experienced to be believed. One minute I am rubbing my eyes trying to wake up, the next I was running for cover. It was like something out of a bad war movie: INCOMING ORDNANCE! Ka-BOOM!
Our youngest cat, Bodhi, was standing on the counter top when he started to jerk violently. Then he made a face like this and I got the FUCK OUTTA Dodge. When I went back into the kitchen later it looked like “The Exorcist” had been filmed in there. How such a small cat could generate that much puke is both disquieting and amazing.
Shortly thereafter, a fire truck filled with New York’s Bravest pulled up in front of our apartment building. After hitting every goddamned buzzer this building has (and freaking out all the tenants contained therein, myself included), they figured out that the building across the street was the source of the problem. Perhaps if ‘management’ would to outlay the OUTRAGEOUS sum of 99 cents per numeric character (instead of Sharpie Marker) to label the front door of my building, this disturbing inconvenience could have been avoided. Fires freak people out here. BIG TIME. Especially after the Green Terminal Warehouse fire.
My day has been fucked up ever since. That said.
- The results from my latest “fact-finding mission” will be posted by Monday.
- I have (somewhat) organized my outgoing links. Among the newer additions are “Rev. Spyro’s Snakeoil Emporium” and (for the sake of shameless self-promotion) my online store: Chateau de Ghetto. The former features piquant (and hilarious) rants from the taller-half of my pal, Judy McGuire; the latter features an array of lovely (and NON dogshit-related) dry goods made by yours truly.
- Even though I could not muster the proper attire (and chutzpah) to check out my man
CloroxBoraxBorixon last night, I did find this choice video on You Tube. Be it borscht, bling, booze, blunts or fine-ass bitches— Borixon has you covered. Enjoy! - For reasons one can only imagine, I have had to moderate a lot of comments recently. (For my little pissant blog, anyway.) Maybe I am on my way to becoming an Art Star/Dog Shit Czar(ina), who knows? What I do know is one commentor wrote something profound enough to merit mention.
The difference between walking dogs and working in an office: if the dog shits in the middle of the room, he doesn’t blame you.
Very true.
Miss Heather
Green Street Shouter
Last weekend my husband and I took a day trip to Long Island. Not only was our destination eerily bereft of dog shit (or any kind of shit, for that matter), but it did not have the bountiful array of exotic (and noxious) aromas and sounds I have grown to savor. In other words: it was nice. A little too nice.
This sentiment was later confirmed when I read the local newspaper. It is my belief that:
- Most people need to be kept occupied at all times, otherwise they will find the least constructive means possible to busy themselves and
- having no greater problems to tackle, most people will become pathologically fixated some bit of minutiae which (for some god-forsaken reason) they feel compelled to share with others via the local media.
The end product (to an outsider like me) is downright hilarious by virtue of its sincerity, hyperbole and syntactical fuzziness. Case in point:
I have found things much more disturbing than “a strange dog” outside my back door. In fact, most creatures that scare the piss out of me have two legs, not four. Perhaps it is New York City’s failing school system, but I was under the impression that dogs can’t read. Therefore, a sign admonishing them to stay off school property is useless.
The “Crime Blotter” section offered up this choice morsel.
Render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar’s, and unto God the things that are God’s.
But if you want the son of God gracing your front yard it will cost you $100. Master Card and Visa accepted. No checks.
And as with any society you get malcontents: brave and inbalanced souls who persist against overwhelming odds in ripping the man (and his bullshit sense of propriety) a new asshole. My kind of people, like this fine gentleman.
I think Mr. Greenwald needs to find his way to Greenpoint. We have numerous yellers here (Spanish-speaking, Polish-speaking and English-speaking) he can exchange yelling tips with or talk shouting shop. Perhaps he can apprentice to become a bi-(or tri-)lingual yeller? This would expand his aural abuse potential tremendously. Who knows, he might even find a nice yelling woman to settle down with, have a few l’il yellers and they’ll shout away into (at?) the sunset together. (And husband says I am not the romantic type. PAW!)
As it happens, my very own block (Green Street) has a yeller-in-residence. He makes his presence known about once a month. What this man is so worked-up about is anyone’s guess; his oratory sounds like something belched out by the “Walrus Man” in the movie “Star Wars”. Completely unintelligible, but laden with heart-felt emotion.
Last week “Walrus Man” demonstrated his newfound command of pronouns. At 11:00 p.m…
Fuck you! (loud crash) Fuck this!
and 12:15 a.m.
Fuck it! (loud banging) Fuck you!
I craned my head out the window, but couldn’t see him. The next morning, however, I found this next door to our building. This man is such a BAD ASS that even his imaginary friends draw blood.
Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, Long Island!
Miss Heather
Everyone Mark Your Calendar!
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
I saw this poster on the way to the post office this morning. After laughing my ass off (for too many reasons to list here) I thought to myself: I bet this ‘festival’ testosterone-a-thon would be fucking hilarious to check out.
I can already smell the gallons of Axe cologne not-so-effectively concealing the fruity vanilla undertones of B.O., stale beer and illegal steriods. Perhaps it’ll be ladies’ night? And by “Ladies’ Night” I mean the bartender will give women GHB gratis so they can spike their own drinks. This would cut out the ‘middle-man’ and save precious time often wasted on chit-chat or learning someone’s name.
“Borixon” particularly intrigues me. I imagine this word (phrase?) probably means something especially tough in Polish, but to my virgin ears it sounds like something you’d slather on a rash or use to clean your toilet. Seriously. He might as well call himself “MC Milky Discharge” (and his “Klymidia Kru”), “DJ CLo-ROXXX” or “MC Scrubbing Bubble”.
Say— I like the ring of that last one! I wonder if I can find a jeweler around here who can knock out a blinged-out gold medallion with my new ‘street name’ on it before the 19th? I best start looking now, time is running out!
WORD.
Miss Heather (AKA “MC Scrubbing Bubble”)
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