Greenpoint
Lorven Pharmacy
Culture on the Cheap
Decisions, decisions (and thanks)
Filed under: Area 51
Not since I worked as a Receptionist at a state agency (that provided money to victims of violent crime) have I experienced the level of stress that finding a new home for Julie has given me. This task (and that fucking smoke detector that STILL continues to beep as I write this— FUCK YOU Energizer Bunny!) has literally kept me up at night worrying and second-guessing my own decision. I am exhausted. But I have picked a new home for Julie and hope my instincts prove to be correct. Only time will tell.
That said, I want like to thank the following peeps for getting the word out about Julie. If it wasn’t for you, this already difficult task would have been damned near to impossible…
Gothamist (especially Jen Chung)
Eva101 (a buddy of mine on Flickr)
Tomorrow morning Julie’s prospective new family are coming by to meet her face to face and make a final decision. If everything goes as planned she will headed to her new (and hopefully permanent) home as early as 10:00 a.m. In the meantime, I have selected an alternate home lest these folks get cold feet. When everything is finalized I will knock out a smallish post telling you more about who I chose and why.
Thanks again to everyone: the very kind people who contacted me about Julie and especially anyone I may have forgotten to mention. Please be merciful: 36+ hours continuous beeping can make a person a bit flaky.
Miss Heather
Julie needs a(nother) new home
Filed under: Area 51
I don’t expect many of you to recall who Julie is, so I will tell you. She is an extremely good natured (and husky) cat I rescued from a neighbor’s apartment after being abandoned for three weeks. You can read about how fucking awful her living conditions were here.
Well, her temporary home (a local bodega) ended up being just that: temporary. Although the owners of this store (and their landlord) love her dearly, the decision to let her go was not theirs to make: someone saw fit to call the Department of Consumer Affairs and complain about her. The result was a whopping $300 fine from the Department of Health and a warning that the store will be shuttered if Julie remains there. It just goes to show you that no good deed goes unpunished. By New York Shitty officials.
I find it strangely ironic that after being embarrassed by the now-infamous West Village Rat Cavalcade, the DOH has seen fit to save face by going after the very creature that keeps such vermin at bay. Come to think of it, Julie doesn’t just keep them at bay: she enthusiastically disembowels them in the most gruesome fashion imaginable. To the amazement and revulsion of her keepers, though one of them was genuinely touched when she left one of her kills at his feet as tribute.
The fact of the matter is this:
- Julie needs a good home and
- she needs it ASAP
Here are the facts (as best as I can tell them):
- Julie is a spayed grey tabby female.
- She is probably around 9 years old.
- She is not declawed, but appears to use her claws sparingly.
- I have no idea what her FIV or Feline Leukemia status is, but she appears to be pretty robust. And by “robust” I mean active (for an older cat) and built like a brick shithouse.
- Despite her stature, she has a very sweet melodic voice. Not unlike Mama Cass.
- The household she came from was AWFUL. Although my neighbor was always nice to me, when I took Julie out of there it was clear that this woman had some serious problems. Substance abuse problems. Whatever money she had was not spent on food for her foster child. Or cleaning products and cat litter for that matter. But being the trouper she is, Julie continued to use the cat box as thoroughly disgusting as it was.
- Unlike a number of cats who have been in such a living situation, Julie is incredibly mellow and gentle. She would probably do well in a household with a small child. Constant manhandling and lovins’ makes her happy. I know this because I do both of the previous to her every time I visit her.
- I have no idea how she would take to being around other cats or dogs.
- While affectionate, Julie is A-OK with being alone on occasion. I suspect her upbringing has something to do with this.
- My husband and I are in no position to take her in. We already have 5 cats.
Perhaps one of you out there knows someone who recently lost a cat. Or someone who wants a cat who will be low maintanence and has a proven track record of being OK with children. Or simply someone who likes having a big lovey chunk-a-lump to protect the apartment (and sing for her supper). If you do know of such a person, please email me at missheather (at) newyorkshitty (dot) com.
In closing, I will leave you with two more pix of Miss Julie…
Julie was starting to drool when I took this one.
She is not above acts of exhibitionism on occasion either.
Miss Heather
UPDATE: I have to run to work this morning (5/4), but I am continuing to get offers to take Miss Julie. (Thanks everyone!) If you are interested in Julie, please tell me a little about yourself as it will help me make a decision. I want her next home to be her last. Thanks!
Out of state, Out of mind
Filed under: Area 51
Unlike my buddy Bob, I actually enjoy reading the comments posted on Curbed. This is probably because I make it a point to troll the depths of human stupidity, arrogance and avarice whenever the time affords itself. By far my favorite type of comment to be found there is of the (ubiquitous) “if you don’t like it, go back to hell where you came from” variety.
There is something grimly ironic about living in the city of immigrants and being told if you are not from Brooklyn you are not entitled to any say regarding events happening there. It makes me wish I could teleport these assholes to 1855 when ONE THIRD of the ENTIRE FUCKING BOROUGH was Irish born. I’d love to see how one of my Celtic homeboys would respond to such a crass and nativist statement, although two words do immediately come to mind: WHOOP ASS (or BEAT DOWN— take your pick).
My usual response to being told to go home is this: I AM HOME. Greenpoint is my home. Has been for some time. Although inconceivable to many, I cannot honestly imagine living anywhere else. I love it here and am genuinely worried about the events that are (sadly) reshaping this ‘hood for generations to come. Being awakened every morning by a pile driver doesn’t help much either.
That said, I was recently in the position of considering what it would be like to live somewhere else. This is because some real estate snake oil salesman (please excuse the previous redundancy) SOMEHOW got my husband’s contact information and had the temerity to mail us an offer (he thought) we couldn’t refuse…
Dear Friend,
Ocala’s unique environment is one of the major reasons why people come here to visit, and then live. According to Ocala tourism officials, those of us who live in Ocala have a number of special benefits. All the things that make our wonderful state so attractive to millions of visitors from all over the world are right here in our own backyard.
That statement is no more true about Ocala/Marion county than almost any other place in the state. Our own backyard includes Silver Springs-Nature’s Theme Park. The Ocala National Forest, the rolling green fields of horse farms, historic districts and city streets canopied by 100 year old trees, outstanding golf courses, friendly communities, crystal clear rivers and fresh water springs. Also, the sub-tropical climate makes Marion County a vacation land year round. Little wonder that residents spend as much times as possible outdoors.
Much of the region’s natural beauty remains unspoiled, and the residents enjoy a quality of life that has little equal. Here the pace of life is moderated by the tranquility of the setting. With nearly perfect weather year-round, the outdoors offers an endless panorama of natural beauty, historic landmarks, and both natural and man-made recreational activities.
The Ocala/Marion County area won national distinction when Ocala was named an “All American City” by the National Civic League, and the area was named fifth most desirable place to live by Money Magazine. Ocala offers virtually every shopping convenience with major malls and national known stores and restaurants. Yet the city is comfortable sized and easy to get around in, having maintained much of its historic charm.
In conclusion, in Ocala/Marion County there is no state taxes. This is where you can get affordable housing starting at $138,500 with little or no money out of your pocket if you qualify. Whether you are interested making Ocala/Marion County your home or a place to invest, please do not hesitate to call me now. Cell: 555-1212 or call (name excised), (name excised) or (name excised) @ 555-1313.
Please share this information-Its a great place for business.
Respectfully,
(name excised)
The first thought that crossed my mind upon reading the above ‘teaser’ was “Where the hell is Ocala, Florida?” After a little ‘Googling’, the second one was “Why the hell would I want to move there?!?” I am guessing the logic here (if there us any) is that if my husband and I pay so much money in rent to live in nasty old Greenpoint, we would be absolutely delighted to have very our own piece of the American (D)ream in Florida.
If this was the assumption, it was a faulty one; I hate Florida. The reasons are WAY too numerous to go into on this post, but the 2004 2000 Presidential Election is one of them. What’s more, I FUCKING DESPISE tract homes. The same goes for shoddy grammar. But let’s get back to my new dream home…
There’s something mildly disquieting about naming a line of tract homes after a water filtration system. Perhaps they seek to preserve my precious bodily fluids (so they can extract them later in lieu of a ginormous balloon payment)? Then again, maybe I am being too harsh? So let’s learn a little bit more about the paradise that is Ocala, Florida.
Per this site Ocala sports:
- …tornado activity is slightly above Florida state average. It is 60% greater than the overall U.S. average. (No wonder they have so many ‘outdoor activities’ down there. —Ed. Note.)
- 297 registered sex offenders (against an overall population of ~46,000). That’s kind of scary, but don’t worry…
- when my turn comes I can take solace in the fact that my attacker will probably be a married white male:
- 69% of the population is white
- 48% of the population is married
- Whew! I feel A LOT better— how about you? It gives me peace of mind to know that my odds are 1:167 for bumping into a registered sex offender when I go to the Super Walmart to buy my Ho-Hos, Pall Malls and econo-packs of YooHoo. As long as I don’t have expose my lily white soul to ‘dem godless homos (which constitute a whopping .5% of the population), I’m satisfied. (And I’m certain the only reason these sodomites are left is because
theyGOD ran out of kindling.) - My career prospects (as a female) include:
- Preschool, kindergarten, elementary and middle school teachers (6%)
- Secretaries and administrative assistants (6%)
- Other office and administrative support workers including supervisors (5%)
- Registered nurses (4%)
- Cashiers (4%)
- Other sales and related workers including supervisors (4%)
Wow, this is an awful lot of of material for my wee widdle (underpaid wiper of other peoples’ bottoms) brain to process! Maybe a checklist would help…
…and Greenpoint wins by a NOSE!
Miss Heather
Brooklyn Blogfest
Filed under: Area 51
I came across the above item yesterday via The Gowanus Lounge. My curiosity aroused, I read more about this event on their web site and, after some careful consideration, decided to check this thing out. “Miss Heather… going to Park Slope?!?“, you exclaim? Well, the following dialogue between my husband and I should lend a little insight as to what the deciding factor was for this momentous decision.
Me: Dude, the sponsor of this event is a tequila maker. They’re serving margaritas at this shindig.
Husband: So when is it?
Me: I don’t know. I just RSVP-ed for it.
So there have you. Miss Heather may dislike the ‘Slope, but I also believe Greenpoint needs to represent. And being the fine-ass Dog Shit Queen I am, it is my responsibility to do the representing the best way I know how by:
- swilling free booze and
- acting like a drunken asshole the entire ride home (on the G train) afterwards.
Miss Heather
Crotchling Caper: Take Back the Night
Filed under: Area 51
Or (to be semantically correct): mothers who bear fruit from being fucked.
My husband and I found this delightfully misanthropic bit ‘o’ vandalism Saturday night on the Brooklyn bound platform of the G at Metropolitan Avenue. After working overtime two days in a row I was beyond being tired; I was fucking exhausted. But mere fatigue was not about to keep me from attending my (insanely talented and very sweet) buddy Mark’s opening at Gitana Rosa this particular evening and having dinner with a(nother) friend afterward. Unfortunately my dining experience was blighted by:
- my husband throwing a tantrum because his cocktail was not up to his satisfaction and (ironically enough)…
- my having the misfortune of sitting next to a(nother) screaming baby.
To the parents’ credit, they did take the child outside to quiet him (in hindsight, perhaps I should have done the same thing with mine?). But I cannot help wondering why a baby should be at Black Betty at 8:30-9:30 ON A SATURDAY NIGHT in the first place. Seriously.
Unlike most people I actually enjoy my job. A lot. But it can be a very physically and mentally demanding one on occasion. This was the case yesterday and I did not appreciate spending my (long anticipated and much needed) ‘down time’ listening to some crotchling scream like banshee. I shit you not, at one point that little bastard’s bellowing made my ears ring.
Bearing the previous in mind, I would like to propose a revised “Take Back the Night” campaign. One whose purpose is not to deter sexual offenders (though this is very laudable and necessary thing), but rather, to retake the evening on behalf of the big kids, e.g.; you must be this tall to ride this ride, snot-monger! And if all you ‘hip’ parents out there don’t like it, too fucking bad! You should have thought about that before you decided to unleash your little busted rubbers on the rest of us (who would just as well not have them).
The way I see it, being a disruptive noisy fuck on a Saturday night is the one (and perhaps only) solace we adults have. This is not just our prerogative, it is OUR RIGHT— and I am not about to let some simpering little shit partake of it prematurely. Little Cooper or Kaitlin will have to wait until they are 21— and their (grand)parents buy them their own goddamn condos— before their entitled caterwauls can/will reach my (hopefully deaf) ears. If I’m not deaf by then I’ll just drink myself into a stupor so as to render the sob stories about some McCarren Park Princess’s mommy forcing her to buy a new couch (to match her one million dollar condo) incomprehensible.
In the meantime I have made it a point to channel my assholic behavior at venues that encourage (or don’t discourage) the presence of screaming little houseapes. This isn’t a threat; it’s a promise. After carefully cultivating 30-odd years of bottled-up rage, I have near endless supply of sordid grist for my mill. Just ask one of my fellow diners at Cafe Mexicano II about the time I feigned crying and wailed:
I lost my virginity to this song!
…when the management (unwisely) chose to play “Rosanna” by Toto one Friday night*. You could hear a pin drop after I dropped that turd— but what really creeped them out was my husband laughing his ass off immediately afterwards. Go figure.
Miss Heather
*This is not true, by the way. Although my personal life is my own business, I will point out that if this had happened I would have been in elementary school at the time— and that kind of shit doesn’t fly where I grew up: Texas. We always left that kind of sick shit to our neighbors to the east (READ: the ‘deep south’).
Happy Birthday, Gowanus Lounge!
The above image is how I started my morning today. After two days of getting little-to-no sleep (because my cat Bodhi is being a SHIT), I woke up today refreshed, energized and— dare I say it— MOTIVATED. The lattermost is a good thing given I have to go work in an hour.
Anyhoo, I got a cup of coffee, trudged into the living room and, not knowing what to write, sauntered over to The Gowanus Lounge to see what’s shaking. This is where I learned that the Gowanus Canal may be lethal to whales, but the Coney Island Whitefish population is thriving.
Unlike most people who would say Ewwww and scroll down to the next story, I laughed my ass off and thought to myself:
Now THAT’S journalism!
If this is a taste of what the second year of GL holds, I can hardly wait to see what comes next. My buddy Bob is entering some (not so) virgin territory that I (The Dog Shit Queen of Greenpoint) enjoy savoring over my morning coffee. I always considered him to be the Pontiff of Pollution, but I may have to rethink this title and start calling him the Coney Island Whitefish King instead.
The way I see it, the presence of discarded rubbers is a good thing because it indicates that the local population might actually be practicing safe sex. Mazel tov! Regrettably, the same cannot be said of my homeboys (and girls) up here in Greenpoint.
The aquatic life in Gowanus may be all but gone, but on Diamond Street the crabs are faring quite well, thank you very much!
Miss Heather
P.S.: Maybe the reason behind the recent Coney Island Whitefish migration (to Gowanus) is that Thor Equities evicted them? Sure, I could have made a joke about rubbers and “gag orders”, but that would have been too damned easy.
(Condom photo credit: The Brooklyn Paper)
110 Green Street Litigation Update
Filed under: Area 51
Per Larry Schwab, the court hearing mentioned in this post has been postponed to May 18th.
This doesn’t mean, however, that those of us who are (already) sick of this project can’t make our discontentment known in the meantime. As it happens, Magic Johnson will be speaking at Medgar Evans College tonight. The invite reads:
Join me in Brooklyn, together we can make a difference.
Certainly I am not the only person who finds the above statement darkly amusing (and very tempting). I think someone should go down there and give him a big ol’ Greenpoint welcome! And why not stay for the free food and drinks afterwards? Freeloading (and shit throwing) is our god-given way of life, after all.
Miss Heather
Give me sangria or give me death!
The last evening of my mother’s visit my husband and I took her to Casa Mon Amour for dinner. Not only can I say that this was the first time in many, many years that I have seen my mother clean her plate, but the sangria was to die for. Seriously, that shit was like crack— albeit in legal, liquid form.
I queried Beatrice (the beatific proprietress of said restaurant) as to how she made it. Understandably, she was a wee bit vague— and I’m not the kind of girl that swills and tells anyway. All I’m saying is that I savored the little bit of vanilla bean I found in my beverage.
Anyhoo, we struck up a conversation and as I suspected, she has a background as colorful as her sangria. And the sangria having done its work all too effectively, I emailed her later to tell me more (about herself). Again. Beatrice writes:
I was born outside of Paris and moved to Douala, Cameroon when I was 15 days old (pity frequent flyers did not exist in those days). My grandparents started the trend of living in Western Africa in 1950 and all their children followed in one way or the other. By the time I was 6, we moved to Dakar, Senegal for a couple of years. Then it was off to Abidjan, Ivory Coast to spend a year with my grandparents when I was 7 (because my father had gotten a job in Akjoujt, Mauritania where there was no schooling, or hospital or much else for that matter).
My sister and I joined them months later to enjoy living in the Sahara Desert for the following couple of years. My father passed away in 1973, forcing the family to return to France. That was quite traumatic. I had already spent a couple of month’s vacation each year visiting my family in Brittany and in the immediate region of Paris, but at the age of 10 I was not quite ready for my first sight of snow, wearing heavy clothing or dealing with French life in general. I did adapt eventually and took full advantage of being a teenaged college student in Paris. For the following 9 years I visited most of my own country and love the differences from one region to the other. My heart still belongs to Brittany… although I have also traveled some in Europe and to this day wish I would have the time to do more of that.
My first trip to the USA was a mixed bag of results, I went there with my French fianceé who wanted to move to Los Angeles; I hated the place. I can’t live somewhere where I need a car to get a pack of cigarettes. (Hee Hee! — Ed. Note). Thinking it was my first and last trip to the US before returning to Paris, I stopped in New York to visit some friends. I met my daughter’s future father on the last week, fell in love and within a year I had crossed the Atlantic to get married. I have spent the following 15 years between New York and my house in rural Pennsylvania, traveling once or twice a year to Paris or the Carribean. It was the beginning of a true love story with the region and its different culture. I realized that I now longer would feel comfortable in Europe but would never quite fit in the Anglo-Saxon culture either.
After my divorce, I spent 8 years with a Salvadoran man, and travelled all over the Caribbean, Central and South America. I was at the time running a Xmas decoration factory in Greenpoint. Unfortunately, we lost our production to the gigantic machine that is China, and that is how I ended up buying, renovating and making Casa Mon Amour the center of my life.
I don’t know what the future has in store for me, but I have always known that despite of my love for New York City, I will not grow old in such an harsh climatic environment. I fantasize that one day they will be a Casa Mon Amour Bed & Breakfast somewhere in the Dominican Republic or Central America. But time will tell… The only thing that is inside of me at all times, for have always lived like a wanderer, is that I don’t belong anywhere but feel happy everywhere.
The last sentence pretty much sums up Casa Mon Amour; the vittles (and most importantly, the sangria) there will make you feel happy everywhere too. Be sure to ask for the salsa, as it some of the tastiest I have ever had (other than my own, obviously). The fact that it is all very, very inexpensive doesn’t hurt either. Check it out.
Casa Mon Amour
162 Franklin Street
Brooklyn, NY 11222
(718) 349 1529
Miss Heather
P.S.: Oh yeah, once a month she hosts an evening of French cuisine. Word has it (because she told me) food from southern France (my favorite) is slated for June. Gotta remember to make reservations for that one!
The mother of excess…
Filed under: Area 51
is misery. Or so I read somewhere. I think it was in a fortune cookie.
I do not question the veracity of the truisms tucked away these cookies— especially after my last visit to The Chinese Musician Restaurant about a month ago. Follows is my husband’s fortune:
The greatest danger could be your stupidity.
And here is mine:
Do you want to be a power in the world? Then be yourself.
Correct-a-mundo on both counts!
In the noise-riven hellhole that was my apartment today I put my mother(fucking) misery to work. Somewhere among the metronome-esque pounding of Mr. Johnson’s tool, a couple of medicinal brewski’s, one hot glue gun and my own obstinate(ly persistent) nature a mighty crucible was formed. And thus, out of my personal hell came forth two bad-ASSSSS clocks:
Check out Ganesh’s grill! The mother of excess may be misery, but the fruits of excess (READ: glitter, glam and rhinestones) are fucking FABULOUS!
Although (obviously) incomplete, I felt this one also merited sharing. After a good 2-3 hours of near non-stop pile-driving, this really brightened my day. I hope it does the same for you. The peeps down the block can make my ‘nabe 130 condo units uglier, but that won’t stop me from trying to make it beautiful.
One clock at a time.
Miss Heather
Greenpoint just got a little bit bigger…
Filed under: Area 51
I am happy to announce that Larry Fisher and Dawn Babbush (the husband and wife co-proprietors of The Vortex) had a healthy baby boy this morning. Not only did he arrive on the exact date the doctor projected, but labor lasted was only 10 minutes. If my mood today was any indication, I bet this little fella was jonesing to get out and enjoy some (long awaited) New York City sunshine.
On a related note, Larry and Dawn did not close the The Vortex (which was located on Manhattan Avenue between Eagle and Dupont Streets), they simply relocated (because their landlord got a wee bit too greedy and doubled their rent). You can get your fix for fine vintage goods, knick-knacks, records, Fatty and Champ at:
The Vortex
222 Montrose Avenue (just off the Montrose stop of the L)
Brooklyn, NY 11206
Greenpoint vinyl fetishists, don’t despair: The Thing (at 1009 Manhattan Avenue) is alive and well. And some competition has just moved in a block away at 181 Franklin Street.
Looks like it will be a little while before these guys are ready to open, but it makes me happy to see that Franklin Street is thriving… AT LAST! Believe it or not, there was a time (not too terribly long ago) when Franklin Street was the main shopping district hereabouts, not Manhattan Avenue. I thought it would be fun to throw out a bit of trivia for youse guys to banter about at cocktail parties (or use as a ‘ringer’ for bar bets— my personal favorite).
Speaking for myself, tonight I will be busy calibrating a new set of KICKASS clocks I am:
- going to place for sale on Etsy (provided their ‘thought police’ does not take offense at them) and
- cooking up a little something extra special for BARC’s upcoming sidewalk sale.
Miss Heather
NYS Flickr Pool
