Greenpoint
Lorven Pharmacy
Culture on the Cheap
Best story idea EVER
Today at work Larry and I knocked around story ideas. After discussing auto-erotic asphyxiation for about five minutes, Larry told me about a short story he is composing. I am not going to divulge what it is, as it his intellectual property and I respect that. It doesn’t really matter anyway because I came up with a doozy. In fact, it might be the greatest tale ever told.
The premise is this: a man calls phone sex line and dies while servicing himself. The phone sex operator doesn’t realize her client is deceased and continues to talk salaciously. Hours turn to days. Days turn to weeks. Weeks turn to months; the whole time the stiff (with a stiffy) is mutely listening to the sweet nothings these women are moaning into his receiver. A fly wistfully grazes his shaven balls.
The women at the phone bank end up filing a class action law suit against their employer for the carpal tunnel syndrome they got from playing with their bits for months on end. They are victorious and go on to become the most powerful labor union activists in history.
THE END
Postscript: Jump forward to 2300 A.D. An archeologist unearths a rundown studio apartment in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. Inside they discover the petrified remains of a man in a Barcalounger. He is surrounded by numerous issues of Juggs Magazine and empty bottles of Night Train. The numerous cum stains around him have become small sedimentary rock formations. A lonely cockroach has been caught in his semen and is now it is preserved for all eternity. After some dusting, the worker notices that the homo erectus she is unearthing is clad only in a stained wifebeater, nothing else.
This is when the significance of her find hits her. She calls her supervisor over to see what she discovered: the man has his dick in one hand, telephone receiver in the other.
Miss Heather
Postscript
If you’ve read this you might be interested to know what happened later. Here it is.
May 9, 2007
At 2:15 p.m. the pile driver fired back up, albeit 6 doors down from where it was stationed this morning (148 Green Street, the far eastern section of the lot). This lasted maybe 5 minutes, until…
I spied a police car going down Huron. It stopped in front of 131. I walked down there. There were 4-5 people standing out front talking. I went over and asked if this has to do with the earlier fiasco. A middle-aged gentleman wearing a pair of Bermuda shorts and a wifebeater asked me if I was Heather. I said yes. Then he introduced himself and shook my hand. It was the owner of 131 Huron, Larry Schwab. He then proceeded to introduce me to the other people present: the onsite engineer, a woman from 121 Huron, the owner/site manager of 110 Green and “the inspectorâ€.
I immediately asked, “An inspector from the Department of Buildings?”
Larry: Yes.
Me (to the DOB inspector): it’s so nice to have you here.
(Sometimes my natural talent for being a raging cunt even amazes me.)
Then the DOB inspector and the owner of 110 Green wandered next door to talk business. Larry and the engineered dialogued. Nothing was overtly said about building damage, but the engineer offered to place some device on Mr. Schwab’s property. From what I could deduce it would monitor noise levels. Mr. Schwab declined, stating that he didn’t need a machine to know that the noise was excessive; tenants have been calling him repeatedly complaining about it.
The engineer left, leaving me, Larry and the woman from 121 Huron. After a little bantering I learned that she too, had her issues. She had a strong Polish accent (very surprising, I know) so it was hard to for me to determine if she said that 110 Green has taken out a window at 121 OR if they had scattered cherds of glass (from an adjacent warehouse they are demolishing) ON 121 Huron. Not that either one is particularly desirable, mind you.*
Before I left the owner of 121 Huron had arrived. He went over and talked to the owner of 110 Green.
Here’s what I know:
The owner of 131 is at the end of his rope. He is not concerned about the project as he is about his tenants. He is angry at the DOB and is tired of all the noise complaints he has been getting from his tenants.
The woman from 121 Huron and Mr. Schwab told me that a number of residents along construction site are PISSED. As are several of the landlords. This is funny given that the owner/developer (of 110 Green) told the DOB inspector that everyone liked what he was doing.
May 10, 2007
Well, it looks like someone didn’t like what he was doing. A judge, no less. As I learned from the New York Daily News this morning. After being awakened by 110 Green Street’s pile driver at SEVEN IN THE MORNING, mind you.
Miss Heather
*And let’s not forget my favorite bit of Magic mischief: poking a 2′ x 2′ hole in an adjacent property the day before the Valentine’s Day Blizzard. BRAVO!
Magic Johnson’s Latest Victim?
Filed under: Area 51
Remember Larry Schwab, the manager of 131 Huron Street? Well, he has a court date next week to explain why 110 Green should not be granted access to his property. Well, he just got one damned good reason today. Per the FDNY, Magic’s minions probably destabilized one his fucking apartment buildings. I say apartment “buildings” because there is a garage apartment located at the far northeastern corner of this lot.
Here’s 131 Huron.
Here is the adjacent property, owned by 110 Green.
Here are some firemen inspecting 110 Green.
Here are some fire trucks.
Even the NYPD has joined the party.
Way to go, Magic! You’re really helping Brooklyn blossom. If “blossom” means yet another piece of much needed rental property has to be vacated because yet another careless developer fucked it up, that is. I am certain the tenant(s) at 131 Huron (who may very well become homeless because of your actions) will mention you in their prayers.
I swear to god, if this doesn’t make the Department of Buildings WAKE THE FUCK UP, nothing will.
Miss Heather
UPDATE: I have contacted Larry Schwab to get the full scoop about what happened and am awaiting his reply.
Another black kitty needs a home
Filed under: Area 51
While it is not the purpose of this blog to place kitty cats in new homes (there are many better qualified organizations that do this, BARC being one of them), I would like to bring Weegee to everyone’s attention. He is a beautiful black cat whose owner simply cannot give him all the nurturing he deserves. If anyone is interested in Weegee, please contact Eva101 via Flickr mail and she’ll give you all the deets.
Thanks!
Miss Heather
Can you take me to Poopytown?
Yesterday the heavens opened up and spewed forth poo manna for Miss Heather. I was (and still am) very grateful, because I had to make a trip to the bank (which is not exactly one of my favorite places) to stop payment on a check that had not been presented in over TWO YEARS. I wasn’t too happy about being charged $15.00 to do this either. There is something very wrong about me spending one hour of my time, much less fifteen dollars to (re)solve a problem I did not cause. Oh well…
My mood brightened significantly on my ride home when I had the pleasure of meeting the V train Poo Man.
This reminds me of that blob thing from the Gigglesnort Hotel. I do not remember much from my early childhood, but I do remember watching this show. Many of my early days were spent in day care gaping at that diarrhea-esque semi-animate blob on the idiot box. Perhaps this sight imprinted itself on my subconsciousness somehow? This would shed some light on my proclivity for poop.
Regardless, that thing freaked me out then and it freaks me out now. Those of you who are old enough may remember the hysteria over LSD laden stickers in the mid-70’s. I do. My mother admonished me not to lick any stickers that had smiley faces on them, no matter how pretty they were. Yet, these same concerned parents let their young ones watch a television show that was the psychoactive eqivalent of a bag of shrooms. Go figure.
Ah the 70’s, gotta love ’em!
Miss Heather
Area 51
At last, photographic evidence confirming what I have suspected all long: Area 51 is located in Greenpoint. Where else would someone see fit to sculpt a graven image of ‘the male anatomy’ using a wad of chewing gum and stick it to a light pole? Stick that in your pipe bong and smoke it, Williamsburg!
Miss Heather
East Village Triple Header
(Or “The Fingered Building”)
Last weekend my husband and I entertained some friends from out of town. Greenpoint style. As the evening wound down, we popped in on my buddy Larry at The Thing. He told a tale I have heard many times before. This was okay because I have yet to get tired of hearing it. Probably never will. It has all the elements of a good story, including:
- public masturbation
- an ice cream cone
- the Achille Lauro
Before moving to Brooklyn, Larry operated a junk shop on 10th Street at Fourth Avenue (Manhattan). Being in close proximity to St. Mark’s Place, he had a constant stream of weirdos, burn-outs, junkies and freaks to savor. Enough so that he became jaded. Until that day. A day that will live in real estate infamy.
ASIDE: Is it just me, or does most real estate jargon/ad copy sound like pornography nowadays? This is probably because a number of real agents are sexist perverts. I will never forget the time (when I was a real estate agent) when one of my more neanderthal compatriots referred to a particular condo he had previewed as being a “hot bitch”. I thought to myself:
If it’s so damned hot, why don’t you fuck it? ASSHOLE.
This agent enjoyed a particularly colorful reputation at the office. This is because an ex-girlfriend of his stormed in one day and had to be physically removed by the police. He said it was because she wasn’t handling the break-up well. I say it was because she wanted (rightfully and understandably) to dispatch this human piece of shit to his maker. But that’s beside the point, back to Larry’s tale…
Larry was hanging out in front of his shop when he saw him. I am certain a number of other people did as well, but they did their best not to show it. I can’t honestly say I blame them; Amy Vanderbilt has yet to set any hard and fast rules about how to graciously handle a man masturbating on the street.
Much less man eating an ice cream while masturbating on the street. Much, much less a man staring up an apartment building (that was once the residence of Leon Klinghoffer as Larry, a native New Yorker, noted) while eating an ice cream cone and masturbating on the street.
Everyone says New York Shitty real estate is hot, but this is the first time I have heard of a building getting of the ‘five knuckle shuffle’ stamp of approval. With an ice cream cone no less. WOW.
Shit like this makes me wish I had a penis. If I did, I would go down to Richardson Street and spank away. Ice cream cone in one hand, my member in the other. Perhaps pulling a ‘Raymond Marble’ a la Pink Flamingos would suffice? I could rig up a cod piece, insert my long vegan schlong of tofurky and go at it. I wonder what would John Waters do?
Miss Heather
Miss Julie becomes a south Brooklyn gal
Filed under: Area 51
This morning my husband and I had the pleasure of meeting Julie’s prospective parents. As soon as I laid eyes on them I knew I had made a good choice. They are youngish married couple with no pets. My biggest concern about placing Julie was how she would manage in a multi-cat household. She has already been moved around quite a bit, has lived alone for the last six months, and I wanted to keep the trauma to a minimum.
This couple had been mulling over getting a cat for some time and once John (the husband) learned about Julie via Gothamist, he contacted his wife. His wife, Nicole, in turn contacted me. After talking a little over the phone, we agreed to meet today so they could meet Miss Julie and make a final decision.
It did not take them long to decide. Julie put on a real show, chatting them up and giving them several choice glimpses of her lusciously tubby tabby tummy. What sealed the deal was Julie loving all over Nicole’s purse.
Getting Julie into the carrier was a bit of a task. She clearly did not want to go and used her bountiful bod to force her way out. This Greenpoint girl was not too keen on moving to Kensington. But after being assured she would not be exposed to any Park Slope stroller moms, Julie calmed down a bit and complied with being lowered into the carrier.
As I write this I wonder how Julie is doing at her new home. I bet she is napping away after having such an adventurous day. Her new family has promised to send me photos once Julie gets settled and I eagerly await them.
Believe it or not, Julie is one lucky cat. She got a new home. Many of her feline brethren don’t have that luxury; they languish in shelters or on the street. Like a little fella I discovered on Bad Advice today.
“Inky” is a CUTE little guy who decided the Roebling Oil Field was not for him. Certainly there is someone (other than me) who melts at the sight of that chunk of wet cat food stuck to his little black nose. Any black cat lovers out there? It’s time to step up to the plate.
Miss Heather
UPDATE: here is a photo of Julie napping at her new digs.
John writes:
Attached are two first photos of Julie comfortably napping on our couch. She’s made herself very much at home in all our most comfortable places. We’re already looking forward to seeing her every time we walk in the door.
And the beep goes on…
In just over two hours my new electronic neighbor will have been beeping for three whole days. I cannot tell a lie: in the last 25 hours my irritation has become fascination. Not only do I want to see how long this appliance will continue chirping away, but after it stops I am going to conduct an autopsy and determine the make and model of the battery. Whatever it is, I will buy nothing else the rest of my life.
Given the previous paragraph, some very thoughtful advice tendered to me recently (by a commenter), thought greatly appreciated, is irrelevant. Not wanting to seem ungrateful, I will share it here. “Jukeboxgraduate”writes:
miss heather – you can’t rig something to pull it across the roof? or scramble across the roof to get it yourself? or leave a note on the front door of the offending building:
TO THE MORONS WHO THREW THE SMOKE DETECTOR ON THE ROOF
THE BEEPING IS DRIVING US NUTS. IF YOU DON’T TAKE IT OFF THE ROOF AND TAKE THE BATTERIES OUT, WE WILL CALL THE POLICE AND REPORT SUSPICIOUS DRUG DEALING ACTIVITY IN YOUR BUILDING.
THANK YOU FOR YOUR CONSIDERATION.
Although the above advice is pretty sensible stuff, yesterday I heard the most diabolical (and effective) means of handling a noisy neighbor problem. EVER.
My buddy, we’ll call him “John”, had some seriously noisy neighbors. They were the dreaded frat boy type who swills beer and blares music at all hours. Wishing to resolve this problem amicably, John spoke to them several times. All to no avail. This is when he got an idea. An excellent idea.
“John” proceeded to draft a terse but civil letter using the best legalese his mind could muster. The phrase “quiet enjoyment” was employed repeatedly. After printing this letter on quality bond and signing it, he added the final fiendish touch: he mailed it in an envelope he had found recently. An envelope whose preprinted return address happened to be a law firm.
The noise stopped.
Miss Heather
Belvedere XXVIII
As my husband and I were passing Java Street this afternoon we noticed a balloon festooned sign with “Open House” emblazoned on it. Not even bothering to read the details, I told my husband:
I betcha this is an advertisement for one of those fucking Belvedere buildings.
I have a perverse fascination with Belvedere. Despite the posh sounding name, these buildings are little more than perfect facsimiles of the pre-fab piles of shit that grace gated apartment communities in suburban Dallas or (insert outer ring suburb here). I am also amazed by how god damned many of them there are. Too damned many, as you will see.
You needn’t pound the pavement in Greenpoint long to deduce how many of these ‘exclusive’ properties scar the local landscape. The developer has saved you (and me) the trouble by numbering them. Including the building my husband and I saw yesterday.
Twenty eight?!? Shit, that means there’s almost as many of Belvederes as there are Super Bowls. And I am not too crazy about the Super Bowl either. Wardrobe malfunctions notwithstanding, obviously.
This sheds light as to why I see these posters all the damned time. I have always interpreted the euphemism “motivated seller” as meaning “desperately trying to unload something nobody wants to buy”. Perhaps I should give my buddies Bridge Realty an Economics 101 refresher course? *a-hem*
Dear Mr. Belvedere,
If you are having trouble selling your existing stock, it is an indicator that your product supply has outstripped consumer demand. Constructing another property exactly like it across the street is not going to change anything. In fact, doing so will only exacerbate the problem.
It does not take a graduate of Harvard Business School to figure this out. I have two degrees in fine art and I easily grasp this defining principle of the free market system. What’s your problem?
In closing, I would like to point out that calling the property (across the street from Belvedere XXVIII) “Belveder XII” makes you look really fucking stupid. Can you count? Oh wait, maybe you can’t. This would explain why you continue to build these crappy condos despite having a dearth of interested buyers.
Sincerely,
Miss Heather
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