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Culture on the Cheap
Great Moments in Greenpoint Real Estate Rhetoric
Some of you may not be know it, but a brave new concept in real estate is being explored at 231 Norman Avenue. The development in question is called the Greenpoint Lofts and their shtick is selling condominiums for commercial use. I have walked by this complex a number of times and aside from the annex in the back looking like a Motel 6 it struck me as decent quality work.
Perhaps their attention to construction will explain the lack of advertising savvy for this facility? I say this because I found the below advert for their “business ready condos” on Manhattan Avenue today and something immediately struck me as being amiss.
Now I do not know much about the German language, but then again I do not really need to. My issue with this ad is very simple: why is a(n incorrect) piece German punctuation being utilized in an advertisement for a development in “Little Poland”? While scarcely an old timer, I have lived in this neighborhood long enough to learn a few things about the local Polish population. They are as follows:
- They are very proud to be Polish. Rightfully so.
- Many of the older residents are not too keen on Germans (or Russians for that matter). Although I have never bothered to ask why, I suspect World War II informs this distaste.
I am certain the team of wizards who came up with this logo thought nothing about the linguistic ramifications of this jaunty piece of punctuation and quite frankly I wouldn’t expect them to. If such folk were interested in the vagaries of history, pogroms and poverty, they would have majored in them. This also explains why using the slogan “Make It Yours” did not strike them as being the least bit ironic: Adolf Hitler once made Poland his.
Miss Heather
Now For Sale At The Thing
Donald Rumsfeld candies.
I am not kidding. We are up to our eyeballs in these fucking tins— Larry da Junkman has been emptying them all morning. I asked if there were any Alberto Gonzales candies, but he said no. Bummer*. I would have liked to have one of those. I’d use it as a candy dish on my coffee table.
It would not serve conventional confections, however. Nope, it would dispense bons bons suitable for an Attorney General of his caliber.
Miss Heather
*I suppose there isn’t any real difference between the two, but in my opinion it takes a raging piece of shit to make John Ashcroft look good.
Ah, The Astral!
It would appear that a real estate broker has seen fit to give his two cents regarding the “situation” at the Astral to one of my readers/tipsters.
Broker: I am going to have to ask you to stop over posting my ad with yours. I PAY for my ads. I am assuming that I have exchanged emails with you before, as I have spoken with someone (who chose to remain anonymous as well) once before. You do not have all the up to date info I have concerning the building and its dealings. Why don’t you provide me with the same info you have on me, like name, phone #, e mail, and who you work for. Seems only fair. You know who I am.
Tipster reply:
This is pretty up to date (12/23— Ed. note):
I had a fun time last night. No heat, no hot water and to top it off NO ELECTRICITY. Good ‘ole Tommy tried to troubleshoot but couldn’t figure it out. Said the power to the furnace and water boiler was out as well. He called the maintenance crew and they assessed the problem. He then told me that it was Con Ed problem and they would be there in about 45 minutes.
So I sat in my cold and pitch black apartment with one candle and a flashlight, hoping that Con Ed would get everything back on. 1 hour, 2 hours, 3 hours,no power. I decided to go to bed in hopes that things would be back on in the morning. NOPE! I got to work and called Pistilli to complain, stating that I had no utilities all night and that it is illegal to not provide them.
They said to talk to the Super, which I replied, “Have you ever met the Super? He is too busy taking pornographic photos to help out any of the tenants.” They said, “No, he doesn’t do that.”To which I replied, “I have proof on the internet if you’d like to see.” They put me on hold and returned to say that the electrician was on his way. I then asked if they were aware of all the other problems that are apparent in the building, mold, BEDBUGS…
They told me if I had any other complaints to put them in the form of writing and mail them in. MOTHER FUCKERS!! I then got the extension to the leasing agent in order to see if I can get out of my lease and have my security deposit back. I have not yet called, basically because I don’t currently have the money to move out of this shithole. Can someone please organize a class action suit against the Pistilli Brothers. This has gone way too far!
Broker: Read that. Thanks. I don’t intend to see any more postings from you undermining my work. I’ll have Craigslist take care of that.You apparently won’t reveal who are and this is growing tiresome. Apart from you and your third party (copy and paste) revelations, I do sympathize with the tenants having issues. Like I said before, I used to live in the building and didn’t have these problems. I’m beginning to think that you’re an agent from another firm who cannot gain access to this building, so you’re attempting to keep me from doing business there. Happy New Year.
Happy New Year to you, Mister Broker Man! I was a broker once and know the law fairly well.
- If this is a rent-stabilized apartment why is the asking rent $1,350? Given the percentage increases outlined by the D.H.C.R., the odds of this apartment commanding a round figure rent-wise are very, very low. Can you say rental overcharge?
- All rent-stabilized apartments include heat and hot water in the rent. It’s required by law— this is not “added value”, which is what you are insinuating.
- If you know this building so well, why do you show pictures of an “identical apartment”?
Pari Passu:
1. with equal pace, progress or rate; side by side. 2. without partiality; equally; fairly
Contrary to your employer’s name you are being quite deceptive. The fact that you have taken the time to pester a person who (might) jeopardize a $1,350 commission (because you think he/she is a competing broker) only makes you more pathetic. Unless my memory fails me, a broker who knowingly rents a property with latent defects, e.g.; BEDBUGS, lead paint, etc, without proper disclosure can lose his license.
Miss Heather
McCarren Park Crapper Gets That “Just Like Home” Feel
Please treat this (insert appliance here) like you would in your own home.
Speaking as a former Office Manager I can assert with 100% certainty that underlying logic for the above piece of rhetoric is among the most flawed I have ever encountered. The presumption being made by the people who pen the above sentiment is simple enough: entreating someone to care for say, the office kitchenette, with the same vigilance as one’s own kitchen will result in a better-kempt place to prepare food. My personal experience, however, says otherwise. The real issue at hand is people treat public facilities like the ones in their own home, that’s why they are so disgusting. Human beings are filthy creatures and any (Biblical) rumors of being us being the better-abled the stewards of this world are greatly exaggerated.
Let me tell you about “Stewie”. My place of employment at the time pandered managed office space and he was one of our “clients”. I’m not too sure how much he and his compatriots paid in the way of rent, but it must have been draconian. This is the only reason I can muster as to why he would steal my lunch. Repeatedly. First I noticed a quarter of my sandwich missing. A week later it had progressed to half my foodstuffs going MIA. A month later I went to the kitchen only to find an empty container in the trash. Going, going… gone!
I was none too happy about this, so I took it up with my boss. I kept my food in his personal refrigerator (which was located inside his LOCKED OFFICE) from then on. Stewie (being the ever-adaptive hominid he was) took this development in stride and began “sampling” the sack lunches of my co-workers. One time my co-worker Mickey opened her Tupperware sandwich container to find a sandwich with a rather large bite taken out of it. I guess her culinary prowess didn’t meet up to his exacting standards— and given that Stewie worked in the catering industry (and would often bring lunch to the receptionists)— I guess it would be safe to say he knew good vittles when he saw ate them. Within a month everyone stopped using the office refrigerator.
Stewie made himself feel right at home. His activities were not limited to the kitchen either, as I learned from a co-worker; he was also prone to giving colored commentary while going to the bathroom. He was a veritable Howard Cosell of crap. Towards the end of my tenure, the powers that be hired a man we’ll call Mike. Mike didn’t last very long, I presume this was due to him coming to work hopped up one form of medication or another. Some days I would look over from my desk to see him so tweaked he could barely hold a pencil. It should also be noted that Mike had some issues regarding germs. To this end he kept hand sanitizer and disinfectant wipes at his desk. He used these with alarming frequency, often to the point of chapping his hands.
One day Mike came back from the bathroom in a more agitated state than usual. Sweat was literally dripping off his forehead. He beckoned for me to keep quiet and promptly closed the office door.
Mike: You know that guy Stewie?
Me: Yes. He’s the guy who was stealing my lunch.
Mike: I just used the bathroom and he was in there…
Me: AND?
Mike: He was breathing really heavily, I mean he was pushing really hard…
Me: (laughing)
Mike: I heard this turd hit the water and he said:
That was a good one.
I waited until Mike left for an appointment to laugh my ass off.
What do the previous anecdotes have to do with the McCarren Park bathroom, you ask? Well, quite frankly: not very much. It is simply a preface for the below sign I found posted in a stall of the women’s bathroom there last weekend.
And, true to my previous prognostication, someone treated it “like their own.”
Piss-a-licious!
Here’s a close up. Judging from the sheer amount of toilet paper, it must have been “a good one”.
Miss Heather
Goys Don’t Want To Have Fun
One of the pleasures of the holiday season is taking the time to catch up with your buddies. Usually this entails mundane chatter like “How’s the job going?”, pet-related banter, etc. Not this year. I thought I would have the biggest bombshell of a story (being detained by the police), but this ended up not being the case. Not by a long shot. The very same day I had my little tete a tete with the police, a good friend of mine had an interaction of a distinctly different caliber. Here is her story:
It was a Wednesday night and I was walking my dog at 11:00. This is NOT a particularly spooky time of night around here, what with all the hipsters and families. True, a few years ago my cell phone was stolen out of my hand in broad daylight, but that was by bored preteens in the summer, and it was entirely non-violent in nature. I no longer try to text people and walk the dog at the same time, nor do I wear girlie sandals to walk the dog anymore.
On this particular fateful night, I looked dumpy because I’m walking my dog and don’t give a shit. Jeans, messy hair, no makeup, big winter coat, e.g; I don’t look like a hooker in any way, shape, or form. I notice a heavyset Hasid standing alone on the corner of Montrose and Leonard next to the softball diamond. There is a park right next to said softball diamond, with swing sets, jungle gyms, benches, picnic tables, and a restroom which I have never investigated. I have often seen fathers bring their kids out here at 11:00 at night. There are often other dog walkers about. Tonight, no one else is out at this precise moment, although a number of cars passed. There are many street lights on.
I hesitate, then go ahead and let the dog lead me across the street so I am within earshot of Hasid. I know he can’t touch me anyway. I am now 3 feet away. This was when Hasid asks me for the time. I say I don’t know and show him I have no watch.
Hasid: Oh ok. Um, you wanna have fun?
Me: No.
Hasid: No, you don’t want to have fun?
Me: NO.
Hasid: Oh, ok. (hesitates, then quickly) You know where I can get some fun?
Me (shrugging): There is a bar up Montrose a few blocks.
Hasid: Oh. I can find some fun there?
Me (corralling dog): Maybe.This is when my dog suddenly looks up from sniffing other dogs’ pee. He notices my potential suitor and takes two steps towards him. Hasid lurches back in reflexive terror. Dog, who thinks everyone must be his friend, looks at Hasid, perplexed. I begin to lead dog away from the scene of potential fun, averting my gaze. Just before I’m out of appropriate communication distance, me makes his final offer:
Not even for money, you don’t want to have fun?
Me: NO.
I begin to lead dog briskly away, head still down. I am not frightened in the least. I am somewhat amused, but would like to end the conversation nonetheless. The Hasid stands a moment alone, puts his head down and then hurries back across Broadway with the urgency one usually has to get out of a cold, driving rain or perhaps as though pursued by invisible harpies. This is the exact opposite direction from the bar I told him about. I continue to walk my dog, chuckling to myself from time to time. I see occasional passersby. The dog is once again lost in checking his peemail, oblivious to the recent affront to his owner’s honor.
I dunno, this is pretty damn funny, but not as funny as the guy who was taking a piss on a tree right out in the open and shouting after me “God bless you, Mommy!” What do you think?
New York Shitty analysis: Ah, “East Williamsburg!”. If this chap wanted to have the kind of fun I think he was seeking he could have easily hopped on the G train, taken it the 21st Street in Long Island City and found him some. Dilettante. Then again, maybe he simply wanted a partner to play miniature golf with at The Bushwick Country Club. Alas, now we’ll never know.
I thought being detained by the police for being “a suspicious person” was pretty shitty. I have never, however, been mistaken for being a “working girl” and I take a certain amount of solace in this fact.
Maybe it was the dog?
Miss Heather
A Tempest Over A Teapot
I have recently learned that there is one serious downside to Mr. Heather having a digital camera: I now have a companion on my picture-taking sorties. This probably sounds touching to some of you— and I suppose if you are not married to Mr. Heather it is. If you are, however, married to Mr. Heather (as I am) you would realize it is but only another facilitator for our (numerous) verbal skirmishes.
Do I hate Mr. Heather? No. Am I going to set the bed on fire one night while he sleeps. Absolutely not. Some couples gaze at each other with starry-eyed expressions. Their more medicated brethren engage in coke-induced foreplay on Bedford Avenue or Berry Street. Still others send cutesy text messages to each other in “LOL” speak. Mr. Heather and I argue: it is the foundation of our relationship.
Verbal altercations are foreplay to us; after cutting our teeth on each other we usually join forces and ridicule the above-listed public displayers of affection. Screw romance. In 10-20 years you’ll just grow to loathe each other anyway, so why not skip the preliminaries? Mr. Heather and I have. We have crammed at least 30 years of acrimony and repressed anger into two years of marriage. This is no small accomplishment. But I digress.
Today Mr. Heather accompanied me on my walk, and true to form, he soon got on my nerves. First it was what to have for lunch: we argued. Then it was which wines to buy: I told him I didn’t care. Lastly (and most crassly) we bickered over a teapot.
This teapot, which now graces our rather filthy stove top.
When my parents asked me what Mr. Heather wanted for Christmas, I told them to get him a gift certificate at The Brooklyn Kitchen. I suggested this because:
- Mr. Heather thinks with his stomach— and given the capacity this organ has, I’d hazard to guess he thinks a lot. Mostly about food.
- When my parents bought him a gift certificate there for his birthday, Mr. Heather left longing for a teapot.
- The peeps who operate The Brooklyn Kitchen are really funny, down-to-earth and helpful people. The previous qualities are good ones to have when dealing with Mr. and Miss Heather. Today was no exception.
When we arrived I was more than a little unnerved. I asked a woman working there if she would be willing to trade Woody (the resident canine) for my my husband. She seemed a little confused by this at first, so I reiterated my offer:
Are you willing to trade him (pointing at Woody) for him (pointing at Mr. Heather)?
Wisely, she declined.
After quibbling over knives, knife holders and a salad mixer (the latter of which, we’d probably never use), Mr. Heather set his sights on the object of his desire: a Le Creuset teapot. He asked me no less than three times if he should get it.
Me: Get it, you clearly want to.
Mr. Heather: (hemming and hawing)
Me (to Taylor, an employee of The Brooklyn Kitchen): Please tell him he wants that teapot.
Taylor: You want that teapot.
Me: Thank you. Get the pink one, it will match our kitchen.
He did. As we were checking out, I quipped:
Nothing says “I have been emasculated” like buying a pink teapot.
To wit, Taylor replied:
No, nothing says “I have been emasculated” like asking your wife if you can buy a pink teapot.
How very true.
I’d like to give a big shout-out of thanks to the folks at The Brooklyn Kitchen for their patience with/tolerance of our Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf shenanigans. I am pleased to report that Mr. Heather has used his new teapot with success. What’s more, that atomizer for salad vinegar we bought works smashingly for spritzing Pernod (to make Sazeracs).
Miss Heather
P.S.: The Brooklyn Kitchen is still accepting canned goods on behalf of the Greenpoint Reformed Church’s food pantry. You can drop off canned goods at:
The Brooklyn Kitchen
616 Lorimer Street
Brooklyn, New York 11211
(718) 389-2982
Feral Cats Get Life in L.A.
Filed under: Area 51
…unlike New York Shitty.
I never thought I would see the day that I would diss New York City and praise Los Angeles. I have lived in many places (including Irvine, California); Greenpoint is the only place I have ever felt at home. That said, we live in desperate times and I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised by anything anymore. While the Port Authority seeks to exterminate feral cats, our friends in the city of angels have found a more humane and pragmatic alternative. Per my left coast tipster:
…felines have been introduced, to great effect, at several stations with rodent problems. Parker Center may get them too.
What is she referring to you ask? Click here and find out!
Miss Heather
Photo Credit: Bob Chamberlin, L.A.Times
To Whomever Maintains the Fraternal Order of Police Call List
Filed under: Area 51
As we established earlier this afternoon, “Mrs. Valle” does not live at the number your phone bank employee dialed. I do. I apologize for rudely hanging up on him. He sounded like a very nice chap, but given recent events it was the most courteous response I could muster. Please accept my sincerest apologies.
And remove my number from your call list.
Sincerely,
Miss Heather
Upcoming Events At The Greenpoint Church
Filed under: Area 51
My buddy over at the Greenpoint (Reformed) Church, Ann Kansfield, writes:
They say the devil is in the details…
Earlier in the month, I eagerly sent off a banner for the front fence of the church announcing our new counseling center. My parents always told me that my poor spelling performance in 3rd grade would come back to hunt me. It may have taken more than 20 years, but they were right. Like a huge zit that you just can’t take your eyes off of, I became fixated on the giant misspelling of “Counselling.” A year or two ago, I would have put up the banner and hoped no one would notice. But now that the Miss Heather spelling and grammar police have descended upon fair Greenpoint I had to think otherwise. Thanks for put fear into the hearts of bad spellers of the ‘hood!
To add insult to injury, we sent out thousands of postcards inviting neighbors to the church on Christmas Eve. This time around, I knew I needed help. I asked the best spellers I knew to proof the card. There were people who made it to the 27th round of the school spelling bee who looked at the card. And I’m proud to say that it’s 100% perfect in the spelling department. This time we missed the fact that Christmas Eve falls on a Monday (NOT a Tuesday like it said on the card).
I’m glad you’ve reported that Greenpoint offers such excellent schools. Perhaps they can offer continuing ed spelling and basic calender reading for those in need, like the local pastor.
If you might be able to help me spread the word that the service is on Monday night, I’d really appreciate it. I know a lot of folks read your blog, especially those who care about important things like…details!
Jesus saves, but he can’t help your spelling.
Anyone who is interested in attending the Greenpoint Church’s Christmas Eve services this upcoming MONDAY can learn more by clicking here.
Otherwise, the food pantry will be open December 26 and they will be serving their regular Wednesday night supper:
4:00 – 7:00 p.m.: Food Pantry (no cost groceries available to all who are in need of food)
6:00 – 7:00 p.m.: Community Dinner (no cost hot meal open to everyone)
I doubt anyone who is reading this post will go hungry this Christmas season, but I suspect some of you know someone who might. Have a heart and refer them to the Greenpoint Church and/or contribute canned goods today.
Greenpoint Church
136 Milton Street
Brooklyn, New York 11222
(718) 383-5941
And, as mentioned in Ann’s incredibly humorous missive above, counseling sessions are also available by appointment.
Miss Heather
Feel Good Comment of the Week
Filed under: Area 51
Some of you might recall that I found the above album at the local Salvation Army a couple months ago. My buddy Noel was gracious enough to burn it onto compact disc and I uploaded it for all to enjoy. Well, yesterday I received a comment from Ray Budzilek’s very own daughter:
THANK YOU! WHAT A TREAT TO COME ACROSS THIS WEBSITE WITH MY DAD’S MUSIC! IT IS SUCH A TRIBUTE TO HIS MUSIC THAT 25 YEARS AFTER HE LEFT THIS EARTH HIS MUSIC CAN STILL MAKE PEOPLE HAPPY!
It does and I hope it continues to do so. Celebrate the holiday season by blaring some blue chip polka my fellow Greenpointers!
Miss Heather
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