Greenpoint
Lorven Pharmacy
Culture on the Cheap
BARC’s Art Auction is Tonight!!!
Filed under: Area 51
Those of you who are interested in attending can get all the details here.
Miss Heather
P.S.: As of 7:00 a.m. this morning a substantial area of Greenpoint lost phone and Internet service. From what I can tell the area affected is north of Greenpoint Avenue and west of Manhattan Avenue. I happen to reside in this area. Those of you who have sent me emails recently and have yet to get a response, please be patient. Verizon gave 6/28 as the date this problem would be resolved. What load of shit.
From Cocaine to Rogaine
As I indicated in the previous post, yesterday I attended the Brooklyn Blogger Meet-up in Flatbush. Afterwards, I decided to take a trip down memory lane and check out where I lived before I moved to Greenpoint. I have not laid eyes on this apartment, much less set foot in this neighborhood, since I left over seven years ago.
This is the house: 211 East 9th Street. The realtor told me the neighborhood my (former) new apartment was located in is “Kensington”. I suppose it is, though I never gave the matter much thought. I still don’t.
One day as I was walking home from the grocery store I discovered two Polaroids in front of a Co-op on East 2nd or 3rd Street. The above photograph (and its companion) were adhered to a piece of cardboard. This in turn was mounted in a cheap metal frame with a light fixture on it. It was kind of frame that usually showcases a three-dimensional rendering of Jesus or The Last Supper. You get the idea.
At the center of this ‘composition’ was a circular ring of moisture. I could tell from the odor it was lubrication. That’s when I figured out that “Blueballs” (as I like to call him) had been mounted to this very piece of cardboard at one time. Someone had seen to mount this frame. (And I am not talking about placing it over one’s couch either).
Naturally I showed my new find to all my friends. The usual response was “Did you do this?” This pissed me off. I may very well be a degenerate but I am a very meticulous craftswoman. There is no way in hell I would make something that looks like that: I would at least put the condom on the RIGHT WAY for fuck’s sake!
Thankfully I was vindicated several months later when I made another discovery so utterly fucked-up and foul that even my own friends had to admit I had no hand in it. What’s more I didn’t have to leave home to find it. One of the (numerous) problems that plagued my apartment was electrical outages. This was due to the ancient circuit breaker located in the basement. After what seemed like an endless wait for the landlord to come by and replace the fuse, I decided to act. I went downstairs.
Flashlight in hand, I slowly made my way down the stairs. Directly in front of me was the kitchen area; clearly this basement had been a studio apartment. I found the breaker box but needed more light, so I opened the front door. When I turned around I beheld the bachelor pad from hell.
The living area was roughly one hundred square feet. It was appointed with a pastel velour love seat and a coffee table. That’s it. Sort of. On top of the coffee table was a large ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. This was flanked by a pair of 40 ounce malt liquor bottles. On the floor there were more bottles, cigarette butts and four empty boxes of Rogaine. The piece de resistance was a solitary condom wrapper on the couch. The brand was Trojan and I got the hell out of dodge.
Several weeks later my buddy Mark came by to visit. Being the most ballsy of my friends, I took him downstairs. I showed him the living area and then we checked out an adjacent room I had previously missed.
It was probably four feet wide by eight feet long. Other than floor-to-ceiling maple paneling it was empty save a cot and a two foot tall stack of printed matter that appeared to be written in Arabic. It could very well have been Farsi, my memory fails me at this point.
The only words that came out of Mark’s mouth were:
It looks like they shot child porn in here.
As time waxed on, my apartment— and the neighborhood in general— wore on my nerves. My bedroom abutted a courtyard that belonged to a home for mentally ill adults. My nights were often rendered sleepless by its residents’ ranting, raving and chain-smoking. A local thug took a shine to me. I became aware of the previous one afternoon when he showed up at my front door with a basket of essential oils and offered to give me a massage. I declined.
Shortly thereafter I gave notice. The final few months I lived there were terrible. By this time I had grown to thoroughly despise this neighborhood and everyone in it. Even staying home was rendered hellish by the din of contractors gutting the rape shack cum Hair Club for Men under my very own feet.
One afternoon a contractor who was working in the basement knocked on my door and asked me to come downstairs. They found something while removing some appliances, he said. It was a condom.
And yes, it had been used.
Miss Heather
Adult Entertainment
Last Saturday I attended the Mermaid Parade. My journey to Coney Island (via rapid transit) was as follows:
- I took the Smith and 9th-bound G to Bedford-Nostrand.
- Then I had to cross the platform and get on yet another Smith and 9th-bound G train.
- At Hoyt-Schermerhorn I tranferred to the Manhattan-bound A train.
- Took that one stop and finally got on board the Coney Island-bound F train.
It took me 1 1/2 hours to get to there. Ridiculous.
Yesterday I attended the Brooklyn Blogger Meet-up in Flatbush. This required:
- Taking the Smith and 9th Bound G to Bedford Nostrand. Again.
- Crossing the platform and get on yet another south-bound G train. Again.
- Going above ground at Fulton Street, walking to the Atlantic Terminal and hopping on the Q train.
This trek took me approximately one hour. If you do the math, I spent approximately five hours of my precious life on the subway this weekend. That’s almost as much time as I spent at the Mermaid Parade. At least I got my money’s worth, I suppose.
Fortunately the venue where yesterday’s meet-up was held, Vox Populi, provided me some inexpensive entertainment for the ride home. This coffeehouse happens to sell books and I scored a copy of “How to Make Love Like a Porn Star” for a paltry six bucks. I whiled away my journey home looking at boobies. BIG BOOBIES. I would occasionally point out a select set to my husband for his edification, much to the confusion of my fellow subway patrons. The time flew by!
Unlike many people, pornography doesn’t faze me. When I see a woman who is approximately my size sporting a pair of breasts that weigh ten pounds a pop, the only response elicited from my person is one of amusement. In fact, when I was an undergraduate (studying for my BFA in fine art) I did a series of hilariously wicked collages using images culled from the Cadillac of all big boob magazines: “Busty”. I am not too sure what criteria Mr. Flynt uses to determine who gets featured in this magazine, but I suspect having breasts approximately the same size as one’s head is one of them.
Anyhoo, one collage I created using Mr. Flynt’s magnum opus featured an image of “Pandora Peaks”. It was a real masteurpiece too. She was laid upon on her back, legs akimbo; her gargantuan breasts slung to her sides. Next, I located a picture of a taco which happened to conceal Ms. Peak’s naughty bits seamlessly. In fact, the copious amounts of shredded lettuce contained on this photograph foodstuff bore a striking resemblance to pubic hair. If one was to casually glance at this subtle addition he (or she) would not notice that anything was amiss. But if (or when) he or she did notice, the message I was trying to convey became quite clear: eat me.
I was so proud of this creation I placed it in a joint show I had at the University of North TEXAS Student Union Art Gallery. Heh. Despite being the least revealing image (of a nude woman) of the lot, it got pulled after about a week or so. Some do-gooder said it was pornographic. It just goes to show you that an image in and of itself has no meaning until the viewer imbues it with one. And when it comes to the minds of those who seek protect us from the evils of lascivious literature, well, they have the dirtiest fucking ones of all!
This brings me to today’s selection of Greenpoint crime blotter fun. It is a little piece (of ass) from the December 7, 1896 edition of the Brooklyn Daily Eagle entitled “Rosa Will Not Pose.” Enjoy!
ROSA WILL NOT POSE.
WANTS TO FORGET THAT SHE WAS A MODEL
Many Letters Asking Her to Go on the Stage— Her Father Says She Won’t Work.
The Lee Avenue police court was crowded this morning with police officials, lawyers and men about town, all of whom were present to get a glimpse of Rosa Blumfeld, the young woman who has gained considerable undesireable notoriety since she posed in “the altogether” in Kwiek and Schaffner’s studio at 39 Greenpoint Avenue. Kwiek and Schaffner were recently arrested at the instigation of Anthony Comstock. The case was tried in the Adams Street police court last Saturday and the testimony taken at that time has already been published in the Eagle. Justice Walsh has reserved his decision in the case.
Soon after artists Kwiek and Schaffner were arrested, Isaac Blumfeld of 13 Orient Avenue, Rosa’s father, went to the Lee Avenue police court and secured a warrant for his daughter’s arrest on a charge of disorderly conduct. Blumfeld alleged in his complaint that Rosa posed for pictures in the nude and that objectionable photographs were made of his daughter. Rosa when first arraigned in court pleaded not guilty and was paroled for trial.
This morning, when Justice Goetting called the case, Rosa stepped hurriedly up to the bar and stated that she was ready for trial.
“Your father tells me that you have not been a very good girl since you were first here,” said Justice Goetting. “What have you got to say to that?”
“I think he must be mistaken,” replied Miss Blumfeld.
“But he claims that you remain out late nights and that you won’t work,” continued the magistrate.
“Why, I don’t see how that can be,” said Rosa, “for I have only been out after 12 o’clock one night and that was when I went to the theater.”
“There is no reason why she should not work,” interrupted Mr. Blumfeld, who thus far had been an attentive listener.” At present she lives a life of luxury and ease. She remains in bed until nearly 9 o’clock in the morning. Then she has her coffee. After breakfast she reads until 12 o’clock and then dresses herself up and that is the last we see of her until late at night. I want her to work and at some respectable business.”
“I am willing to work,” concluded Miss Blumfeld, “but as yet I haven’t had an opportunity to do so. I had to go to court three times last week.”
Justice Goetting then adjourned the case for one week.
To a reporter Miss Blumfeld said that since the stories had appeared about her in the newspapers she had received letters from all over the country. “Some write that I ought to go on the stage,” she added, “while others are anxious to have me pose for them. One man offered me a place in a museum at a guaranteed salary. I have torn up all the letters as I want to forget the past. I am going to try and be good in the future. It is true that I posed once, but I will never do it again.”
I have tried to find out what became of Ms. Blumfeld, but to no avail. I imagine she was released to the custody of her father and went on to do “respectable work” such as being a laundress, maid, or some other back-breaking and poorly compensated job. Given the dearth of career opportunities presented to her, can you honestly blame Rosa for showing a little skin? Stories such as hers (and there are many of them, I assure you) make me thank the heavens each and every day I was born a hundred years later.
Miss Heather
Love Letter
Shove this pencil up your self-involved hipster ass.
The above phrase is emblazoned on (what else?) pencils for sale at the Front Room Gallery. While a little mean-spirited for my taste, I outlaid $10.00 and bought me one because it brought back memories. Or at least one helluva memory, anyway.
Although I have always had the presence of mind not to shove a pencil (eraser OR business-end first) up my ass, I once knew someone who did. Involuntarily being made privy to the aberrant sexual practices of others is one of the manifold reasons I am the Dog Shit Queen of Greenpoint and you aren’t. It’s no picnic, I assure you.
Just over twelve years ago I worked as a helper for a gentleman who had cerebral palsy— we’ll call him “Juan”. He was a fellow college student whose motor skills were impaired to such a degree that he required help with even the most basic tasks. I would do his laundry, run errands for him, feed him, etc. Over the course of the summer I got to know him fairly well; not only did he have a mind that was sharp as a tack, but it was also a pretty damned dirty one at that. I returned his porno rentals back to the local video store on a number of occasions.
I was not the only “attendant” Juan had; there were three. We each had our respective days. Mine were Saturday and Sunday. Late one Sunday morning I got a phone call from one of Juan’s friends, “Mike”. “You need to come over immediately, Juan is in the hospital.” I hurried over immediately, met Mike, collected a number of Juan’s other friends and we drove to the hospital. En route, I learned what happened.
“Juan got a pencil stuck up his butt and then took a lot of laxatives thinking it would push it out,” said Mike. “HOW THE FUCK DID HE MANAGE TO DO THAT?” I thought to myself. I bet he made one hell of a mess. At the hospital I had the pleasure of being present when the E.R. doctor (who treated Juan) asked him the very same question. Juan replied:
I fell on it.
Uh-HUH.
Before any of you dear readers go off on me for being mean because I am picking on someone who is “handicapped”, let me tell you something. It would have taken a LOT of concerted effort for Juan to “fall” on a pencil in such a manner that it would find itself lodged in his “nether eye”. In a strange way this (very misguided) act was a testament to how tenacious he was: despite a very substantial challenge he doggedly persevered in every aspect of his life. The previous having been said, no matter how “abled ” a person is, he (or she) shouldn’t stick a pencil up his (or anyone else’s) ass. Much less lie to an ER surgeon about how it got there.
This brings me to the photo featured at the beginning of this post. It is a gift I received recently from my buddy Rachael. She found it on Nassau Avenue near the Evergreen Funeral Home. Let’s go in for a closer look!
Hmm… looks sort of like Paris Hilton. Like the body glitter.
Tortilla the cat likes Miss Heather’s new Greenpoint Barbie.
Um, that’s sort of disturbing. Then again, as long as the person who made this sticks to the attempted pencil penetration of inanimate objects, we’re probably safe.
Miss Heather
Garbology
Filed under: Area 51
A friend of mine recently started a blog for his thrift store: The Vortex. Although it only has four entries (as of today), his musings about being a life-long junk dealer are tremendously entertaining. My favorite story thus far is about “Sonny” cashing out $20,000 worth of coins at the local grocery store. Here’s an excerpt:
…It took us all day to shovel the coins into the machine. The machine would conk out from exhaustion every couple of hours too. Kids trying to exchange their piggy bank pennies were turned away by Sonny, “Come back tomorrow when we aren’t so busy,” he would say as if we worked at the joint. He did buy one kid’s change for ten bucks because he was sure that it was at least twenty five bucks, “Stupid kid doesn’t know the value of a penny.”
Do read this story. It is hilarious.
Miss Heather
Shmoo Tits
Filed under: Area 51
Those of you who have ever wondered if female shmoos have tits (and you know who you are), the answer is “yes”. One tit, to be exact.
Rebecca11222 (who submitted this priceless photo) writes:
Am I supposed to be aroused by that? Like I really should rest my sexy but then that shmoo uni-boob made me wet?
To wit, I replied:
Maybe it would pump a male shmoo’s ‘nads. If male shmoos have ‘nads.
After recently learning that an online dominitrix used one of my poop pictures to torment her “slave”, I have ceased to discount any form of sexual activity as being too perverse to be plausible. If I find out that this woman received compensation for her services and saw fit not to compensate me for the use of one of my photographs, I’m gonna get HELLA PISSED. But I digress.
Anyone into single-titted shmoos, go on down to Union Square and knock yourself out*. Don’t mistake the previous tip as an indication that I want to hear about your tryst: I don’t.
Miss Heather
*Come to think of it, maybe Mel Gibson didn’t call the female police officer “sugar tits” after all. Maybe he wanted him some shmoo tits and (being drunk) it just came out wrong.
Apartment for Rent
Filed under: Area 51
Yesterday afternoon I discovered an apartment for rent in Blissville, Queens.
It appears to be a rather sizeable one too.
As any real estate wizard will tell you: location and amenities are everything. And this place delivers, albeit in more ways than one.
Not only is your new home conveniently located next door to a laundromat, but you are also mere steps (or a phone call) away from an establishment called “Foxes”. Of course, man cannot live on compensated companionship alone; a few lap dances (or running a load of laundry after the aforementioned bumps and grinds) can make a man hungry.
Mmmm… titties-n-Taliban toast…
Miss Heather
Sunnyside vs. The Garden Spot
I found the above sign yesterday on Greenpoint Avenue in Sunnyside, Queens. Whoever made this clearly lavished a lot of attention upon the illustration at the top right-hand corner. The raffish little rabbit peeking out from behind the tree is a nice touch. If this sign is any indication, Sunnyside lives up to its name.
Now, for the sake of comparison let’s look at a sign I found right here in “The Garden Spot” the day before.
To: Whoever uprooted all our chillie pepper plants + picked all of our basil leaves
PLEASE DON’T
Its so frustrating to grow something & then have it destroyed.
thanks!
It would appear that someone on Green Street has a taste for basil.
Miss Heather
The Bushwick Four
Filed under: Area 51
I am pleased to announce that The Bushwick Four have all been adopted! “Jenblossom” writes:
Thanks again, everyone – all four kittens have all been adopted out and are adapting well to their new homes!
If anyone is still interested in adopting, I have a friend who is also helping out a pregnant stray. She delivered her babies over the weekend and (they) should be ready for new homes in a month or so.
Of course I would be remiss if I didn’t mention another place where there are plenty of kittens to be had: BARC. I swung by there yesterday to drop off something for their upcoming fundraiser and check in on my man Haile. They have oodles of kittens right now— including a very beautiful and friendly pair of nine month old calicos named “Eva” and “Zsa Zsa”. Don’t let the name of the latter scare one you: she is completely harmless and will not attempt to slap you.
In closing, follows are the details regarding BARC’s upcoming evening of “art appreciation” and here is a sneak peek at what I contributed.
Miss Heather
An evening of art appreciation to benefit BARC!
Each year, local NYC artists generously donate their works to the shelter for display and sale at our annual show.
Join us at an evening reception to view these fabulous art pieces and enjoy wine and h’ors doeuvres at the shelter’s space on North 1st Street.
And if you find a piece you like, you will have an opportunity to purchase artworks at the end of the evening!
All proceeds from the reception and art sales will benefit BARC Shelter. For tickets or more information about participating in the Auction, contact BARC at 718-486-7489.
Reception Tickets: $25
BARC
86 North 1st Street
(between Wythe Ave. & Berry Ave.)
Williamsburg, Brooklyn
7:30 p.m. to 10:30 p.m.
Mediocre New York
Filed under: Area 51
Kevin over at Forgotten-NY recently brought this web site to my attention. And I, in turn, am bringing it to yours: check it out. Be sure to watch their short about a man and his $800 Volvo station wagon. I laughed my ass off at that one.
Miss Heather
NYS Flickr Pool
