Greenpoint
Lorven Pharmacy
Culture on the Cheap
The Perquisites of Poop
The pay sucks but there are many fringe benefits to being the Dog Shit Queen of Greenpoint. The hours are pretty good, as are the working conditions: Chateau de Ghetto has no dress code to speak of, there are no annoying co-workers to contend with and drinking on the job is perfectly acceptable— if not mandatory.
Last week I not only received turd-shaped cookies (with peanuts in them!) from my best friend Rachael, but the following gem made its way to my inbox.
I happened to get a glimpse of the attached scene going on in our backyard. The dialog I overheard is below.
Doo Doo Dan: Ma, I really don’t think your broom can handle this one – it’s huge.
Commando Carl: I think I can lift it.
Moo Moo Ma: Carl, that thang is huge. I have never seen anything like it. Maybe we should call cousin Sam. I heard his wife Heather is an expert on this sort of thang.
Doo Doo Dan: I don’t know. They are more familiar with Greenpoint. This suburban stuff is maybe a lot bigger. In all my trailer poop cleaning days I have never seen anything near this size. What could it have come from?
Commando Carl: Big foot? I did see a yellow mountain moving the other day – perhaps Armageddon is comin.
Moo Moo Ma: Dan – just get on the phone and call cousin Sam and let’s see what Heather thinks about this.
Those Wall Street types can keep their six figure bonuses (and all the stress that goes with it). Just give me a fresh pile of shit (replete with dialogue) to ponder over my morning coffee and I’m happy as clam. It gives my life a sense of purpose.
Miss Heather
Shithead of the Year
Two days ago something remarkable happened at Chateau de Ghetto: actual professionals were spotted on the premises doing plumbing work in my neighbor’s apartment. I even saw them dragging a dysfunctional toilet down the stairway.
Un-be-fucking-lievable.
I am not so naive as to think that my landlord (or the Stupor) was behind this development. I have lived in this building for four years and know better. The overall demeanor of the Stupor (worried) and his toadie (anxious) leads me to believe that someone in this building took matters into his own hands. Good for him.
Not knowing the particulars of the situation, the one thing I can safely assert is that whenever the Stupor gets that ashen expression on his face, it was precipitated by something that will make me quite happy. Getting ripped a new asshole (or being fined by one of the city’s various housing/building code enforcement agencies) is the usual catalyst for his despondent face.
I won’t lie: I derive a great deal of pleasure from his misery. This is because he is a lazy, lying fuckweasel whose ineptitude and bad attitude have made me (and a number of other tenants in this building) very unhappy on a number of occasions.
That said, after seeing a number of online solicitations for “Douchebag of the Year” I have decided to create my very own award for the Stupor: “Shithead of the Year”. What garnered him this prestigious title, you ask? Read on and find out!
Category #1: Distinguished “Workmanship”
Here are a few pictures taken after he replaced our sink (because a pipe broke and flooded our kitchen with raw sewage).
Not surprisingly, after being thoroughly saturated in murky water that area of our kitchen floor sunk. This made installing the new sink a challenge. How did the Stupe make it level, you ask? By throwing a dozen of filthy, old floor tiles under one corner! *DUH*
Where do you start with these two photos? Well for one thing, while our Stupor grasps the concept of a second class lever (see the photo featuring the linoleum tiles above) he is not endowed with much mental mettle when it comes to abstract reasoning. Concepts such as “time”, “space” or “planning” are incomprehensible to him.
To his credit, he did secure a real plumber ASAP to fix our busted pipe. What he did not do, however, was to TAKE MEASUREMENTS so he could purchase a cabinet that would accommodate the new plumbing. His attempt to “bring the mountain to Mohammed” netted us:
1. another water leak and
2. no hot water in our kitchen for 24 hours because he torqued the spigot so tight that even a pair of vise grips couldn’t make it budge. BRAVO!
Category #2: Rousing Rhetoric and Fuzzy Logic
Management? WHAT MANAGEMENT?!?
On second thought… I suppose if one were to apply the kind of ‘logic’ (sophistry?) that proves that Iraq and Afghanistan are functioning democracies, this building is, indeed, ‘managed’. BADLY.
Category #3: Words Fail Me
Thus far we have reviewed the Stupor’s lack of abstract reasoning, ghetto-fabulous work and lack of proficiency in written English. While annoying, none of the previous (individually or combined) are enough to earn him the title “Shithead of the Year”. The following narrative (which I posted in the public area of our building a month ago for everyone’s edification) describes the crowning achievement which, in my humble opinion, makes the Stupor a shithead par excellance. Enjoy!
***READ THIS***
As my last tale (regarding having to turn away KeySpan 11/5/06) indicated, the Superintendent claimed not to have a cell phone. Today I discovered that nothing can be further from the truth.
You see, several months ago (July?) the landlord (Dumb) gave me a phone number to contact the Super (Dumber) so we could coordinate a time for him to work in our kitchen. The number I was given is 718-669-WXYZ.
Jump forward to September of this year.
I needed to contact Dumber, so I called this number. I got no answer, so I left a voicemail. I got no call back.
The next day I asked Dumber if he got my message. He said no. I asked him if 718-669-WXYZ was his cell phone number.
HE SAID HE DID NOT HAVE A CELL PHONE!!!
Jump forward to today, November 9, 2006. At 7:55 a.m. We got a call from Dumber. The caller i.d. indicated that this call came from, you guessed it:
718 669 WXYZ!!!Frankly, I do not know which bothers me more:
1. The fact that he lied to me.
2. The fact that I fell for it.
3. He thought I would/could not get his phone number off our caller i.d…-Sick of this bullshit
Way to go, Stupor! Your inability to even LIE competently (and your unawareness of caller i.d. which has been around for ages) have netted you the title “Shithead of the Year”!
You can rest assured that you are NOT getting a tip this Christmas. And although this title doesn’t have a trophy per se, I don’t want you to go away empty-handed.
Mazel tov!
Miss Heather
Come to Brooklyn
I had an exceptionally difficult time writing yesterday’s post. This was not due to a mental block or anything of that nature, mind you; my Internet connection was very, very sluggish. I cannot count the number of times I lost copy-edits because my connection timed out. This was more than a little infuriating.
Is it just me or does it seem like every time some politician or self-proclaimed pundit wants to create a “hot button” issue it invariably involves the Internet. As Larry Flynt put it:
Opinions are like assholes, everybody has one.
Very true.
In fact, I’d even go a step further and assert that the majority of opinions I read regarding the Internet are tendered by assholes, but I digress. Be it privacy, spyware, pornography, spam, blogs or online predators I have heard a litany of ‘experts’ pontificate about them all. Often.
Honestly, none of the previous subjects really move me. I do not like having to clean out my inbox several times each day because an army of online assholes is trying to sell me medications designed to pump up a pecker I do not possess (among many other things), but I have grown to accept it as an occupational hazard. What does disturb the living shit out of me, rather, is the fact that every fuckwit, half-wit and their damned dog has Internet access and has seen fit to block the information highway’s colon with semi-literate offal.
These people should not be allowed to have computers. Come to think of it, they should not be allowed to have telephones either. The only means of communication that should be made available to such people is either the U.S. Mail (so their 2nd Grade handwriting can be enjoyed by all) or the Jerry Springer Show. At least on the Jerry Springer show you get a couple of cat fights or a boob shot to wash down the pieces of human debris parading before you.
Case in point: the following is an actual email exchange between one of my friend’s neighbors (here in Greenpoint) and some other e-tard with one extra chromosome and way too much time on her hands. Apparently the woman was very proud of her repartee and wished to share this accomplishment with my friend. Uh-huh. Being the proud author of this turd is sort of like going to a battered women’s shelter to pick up chicks: both are more than a little pathetic.
Ghetto Trash: listen you ugly fat bitch stop talking to my boyfriend just b/c your man beats you doesn’t mean you have to talk to mine!!! peace
Greenpoint Trash: hahahahahahahahahah u are one crazy ass girl! dont hate the palyer hate the game hahahah your crazy!! oh and by the way i aint fat hahahahaha!! i look the bomb you got issues!!! hahahahahahahahahah
GT: actually you are fat… stay the fuck away from him, fattie peace out
GPT: listen mamacita, dont hate on me cause he was my man b4 he was yours!! hahaha i don’t want him, and im a grown ass woman, and he is a grown ass man and i will talk to whoever the fuck i wanna talk to, if you see me as such a threat come out to BROOKLYN where we kept it fucken gully and i could pound your ass out hahahahahaha your so corney! grown the fuck up!
GT: he even said you were fat and he felt bad 4 u b/c u liked him so he’d throw u the bone every once in awhile then he dumped your fat ass for someone who was actually hot so i really wouldn’t call him “your man” and talk to whoever the fuck u want just not him and bitch i would u up so fuckin bad
GPT: hahaha yooooooooo your really fucken psyco! take some medication! your like 4 feet shorter then me you little leprichaun!! ahaha i could step on you! and im not gonna say anything to incriminate saul because im smarter then you and what we talk about is between us! and what we had is between us!! thats why we were together for 4 1/2 years you dumb cunt rag! you need to check yourself! and yes i will keep talking to him just to piss your little leprichaun ass off! so fuck off!! come to brooklyn!!!!!!! come out here if your sooo rough and tough! hahah i will stomp you out! i dare you! your too pussy to come out here!
GT: have fun trying to talk to him when he blocked you.. listen stop talking to me i don’t associate with ugly people
“Come to Brooklyn” I like the ring of it!
The powers that be should integrate this masterpiece into the Brooklyn tourism ad campaign. I can see it now: an actor dressed like Walt Whitman recites the previous verse stoically while a video montage of cat fights and topless shots (featuring some of Kings County’s finest ladies, naturally) runs in the background. I can’t guarantee this will increase tourism, but you can rest assured you will have the viewer’s undivided attention.
Miss Heather
Photo Credit: Miss Heather
Ghetto-ass Credit: The Stuporintendent of Miss Heather’s apartment building
Attilla the Hun(garian)
Filed under: Area 51
Not unlike a chihuahua, I am a diminuative, nervous and noisy creature who has no reluctance whatsoever starting shit with someone twice my size. I have done so often and the “Joe Six-pack” on the receiving end of my verbal wrath usually just stands there like a slack-jawed idiot. Go figure.
The best I can reckon is being born of frontier stock has given me this power. At a mere 4 feet 9 inches, my grandmother was one of the scariest people I have ever met. Come to think of it, my grandmother scared the shit out of a lot of people. This is why a guest minister was brought in to give the sermon at her funeral. (She had called the current pastor at her church a “jackass” over lunch.)
That said, the one group of people I will not fuck with are cabbies. I have encountered my fair share of them: a few of them were really nice, most were indifferent and a couple scared me shitless. Last week I encountered a cabbie who seemed damned intimidating at first, but ended up being quite cool.
My evening started like this…
I went to an office holiday party with my husband. For reasons only known to him, my husband chose to regale the head of his department with a tale I have heard many, many times: the “Miss Heather’s husband gets arrested for operating a bicycle under the influence” story.
Uh-huh. BUI.
My husband likes to tell stories. He does so often. TOO often. But I will recount this tale to you, dear readers, because it is germane to this post. (God only knows I have heard it enough times to know it by rote memory anyway.)
Lawrence, Kansas ca. 1994:
Miss Heather’s husband is riding his bicycle home on the sidewalk. Miss Heather’s husband also happens to be drunk. An officer from the Lawrence Police Department decides to “pull him over”.
The officer observes that Miss Heather’s Husband is intoxicated asks for identification.
Miss Heather’s husband refuses to tender said ID.
The officer persists, pointing out the obvious:
You’re operating a bicycle while intoxicated.
To wit, Miss Heather’s husband went off on some half-baked Marxist-Leninist rant:
No, I am not giving you my ID. This is not Soviet Russia. If it was, at least I’d get decent healthcare. Here you don’t get SHIT!
This extemporaneous speech did not go over well. Miss Heather’s husband went to jail. And in jail Miss Heather’s husband remained— for an entire weekend— because he didn’t want to pay a $40.00 fine. Now jump forward to…
New York, New York December 2006:
My husband and I left the party and had dinner. Afterwards, we hailed a cab to take us home.
Miss Heather’s Husband: We need to go to Greenpoint.
Cabbie: You’re KILLING ME.
(Thereafter the Cabbie goes into a tirade about how it took him one whole hour getting into Manhattan from Long Island City. He eventually regains composure and becomes very chatty.)
Cabbie: Those Po–LACKS over there have it good. They bought those houses back in the 80’s and look at what they’re worth now.
MHH: (chimes in)
Cabbie: When I moved to the United States I got an apartment on the East Side for $75.00 a month. Look at the prices now, you can’t afford anything. The other day I had a fare who was talking on his cellphone about a deal he made worth $200,000,000. He got the deal because the other guy was having an affair with his secretary. Can you imagine that?
MHH: (chimes in and a discussion about the disproportionate distribution of wealth ensues)
Me (to self): SHIT, here we go…
Cabbie (raising his voice): …It’s not real! None of it is real!
MHH: Of course it isn’t real; our currency is worth little more than the paper it is printed on.
Cabbie (louder still, nodding approvingly): YESSSS! I LIKE you!
ASIDE: Those of you who are old enough may remember the movie “Back to School”. One of the more memorable parts of this movie is when Thorton Melon (played by Rodney Dangerfield) gets into an exchange with his history professor (played by Sam Kinison) about the Korean War.
Now imagine you are Thorton Melon but you are not in a classroom. You are inside two+ tons of Detroit steel negotiating Manhattan gridlock with Sam Kinison behind the wheel. Scary indeed.
MHH (to Cabbie): Where do you come from?
Cabbie: Hungary— and I’m never going back!
I glanced over at the hack’s license. His name is Attilla. Only fear kept me from laughing my ass off.
Cabbie: There’s no difference between the Soviet Army and SS Officers. They both used big German Shepherd dogs to scare people. Those dogs are smart, I tell you. There is nothing wrong with Communism; the Russians just didn’t know how to do it. After Lenin died they kicked out all the Jews and became a bunch of thieves…
Me (thinking to self): We’re crossing the Queensboro Bridge, only 10 minutes to go…
Cabbie: …one time three Russian soldiers boarded at my grandparent’s house. They got drunk and one shot the other two dead over a game of cards. Can you imagine THAT?!? The officer tried to blame my grandparents. He called them partisans. I’m getting out of here. When I retire I’m going to move to Brazil where I can eat fish for a dollar a day.
Me (looking at husband): ?
Cabbie (crossing the Pulaski Bridge): Those Po-LACKS sure have it good. Do you know what this real estate is worth now?
Me (finally mustering the gumption to join the rant): Yeah, but the old-timers can no longer afford the real estate taxes. They’re getting pushed out. Especially the elderly. It’s not right. But you want to know what really pisses me off?
Cabbie and MHH: What?
Me (pointing): There’s a retirement home over there on Eagle Street…
Cabbie and MHH: Yes, and?
Me: …the dog owners around here walk their dogs behind it and let them shit all over the place. They don’t even bother to pick it up. The people who live in that nursing home have to look at THAT SHIT EVERY DAY! It pisses my ass OFF!
Cabbie and MHH nod in agreement.
Then it came time for Attilla and us to part ways. We were home. Greenpoint: Po-LACKS, blue-chip real estate, dog shit and all.
As I was getting out of the cab, my husband asked what the fare was. It was $11.00. We gave Attilla $20.00 and told him to keep the change.
Dear Attilla, wherever you may be today…
I like the way you think. I’m going to be watching you.
Miss Heather
A Very Greenpoint Christmas
After seeing all the lovely pictures of Christmas decorations featured on The Gowanus Lounge, I felt KNEW Greenpoint needed to represent. The ‘nabe with the short train should, in my opinion, have Christmas decor that looks like it was made by someone who rides the short bus. And it does.
Don’t get me wrong readers: I like it! This Christmas tree has an overall lack of pretense to it I find endearing. You can tell someone worked on this very diligently until:
1. he (or she) ran out of tinsel
2. he toiled with tinsel for five minutes and said “Fuck this shit, I want a beer.”
Or, most likely, a combination of “1” and “2”:
Perhaps he had to make a decision to spend the remaining money he had left on either beer or more tinsel. He opted for the obvious choice (as any Greenpointer worth his/her salt will tell you): booze.
Miss Heather
Shout-out to Marty Markowitz
I am in a curiously beatific (and seriously lazy) mood today. While my time could be better spent doing other things, I am going to take a little time out to give a long overdue shout-out to Marty Markowitz’s office.
There are very few things he and I see eye-to-eye on, but I gotta give the man credit: his constituent services are unbelieveable. As many of you are aware, I have experienced a number of housing problems of late. Easily the most ridiculous (and inexcusable) of them was being without heat and hot water for a week. Out of all the public officials, etc., I contacted it was a woman from his office who got a housing inspector to come over here. THE SAME DAY. As a result, our landlord got hit with a fine and a number of other (well-deserved) citations.
I wrote a thank you email to Marty Markowitz’s office (copying the employee in question), and lo, I got a call from the man himself the next day. I was a bit surprised by this. I was waiting/hoping for a job offer (that is the only reason I will run to the phone if I’m on the toilet), but his going to the trouble to thank me for thanking his office made my day. As “Chip” would say to “Dale”:
No Marty, Thank you!
That said, my problems here are far from over. Honestly, I believe the only way the nefarious activity going on here (which all stem from our landlord trying to kick everyone out of this building so he can raise the rent or sell the building) will only be stopped is via housing court and/or him being prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. I for one hope it’s the latter (carbon monoxide was being belched into my apartment for chrissakes!) but I digress…
At least I can safely say Mr. Markowitz and I agree wholeheartedly on one thing…
HELL YEAH!
In closing, what would a big shout-out of gratitude be without a big “Dung of the Day” to go with it? It wouldn’t be New York Shitty, that’s for certain. I found this pile ‘o’ poop in front of 214 Franklin Street.
Miss Heather
Winnie the Poofter
Filed under: Area 51
I was raised to believe that Winnie the Pooh was into hunny pots. I didn’t know he was a ‘switch-hitter’ (and a size-queen at that).
Then again, just about anything goes in Williamsburg anymore. I wonder if he practiced on Eyeore first? Alas poor Winnie, I knew him well…
Miss Heather
Mark
Filed under: Area 51
I have some damned cool friends, I just wish they were NOT born in December. I hate cold weather. This is ironic given that I was born in January, but I digress…
My buddy Mark celebrated his 35th birthday party on Monday. I attended the celebration and was not disappointed: Mark and his wife Heather (the only woman I will defer to as being “Heather #1”) were gracious hosts.
Mark is by far the most talented painter I have ever met. People like him are the reason I chucked my paint brushes and went to other means of provocation. Seriously. If you do not believe me, check this out:
A boxing clown. On a lifeboat. Need I say anything else?
But I will (say something else).
This image reminds me of my husband’s workplace tormentor: a socially-inept/surly person who, by forces unknown and evil (READ: bureaucracy), was given a Management position (not unlike George Bush II). My husband’s moodswings are tied to this man’s caprices like my ‘Aunt Flo’ is connected to the lunar cycle.
Tonight we had double hitter. My pants don’t fit right and this jackass pre-empting my blogging time made me mad. MEAN mad. This is my blog after all, and as Britney would say (regarding the previous) it is “My Prerogative” to say such things. What are they gonna do, fire me? I think not.
On that note, I leave you with the following passage (gleaned from a clown manual in Mark’s ownership):
WILL I GET ANY WORK?
After giving a lot of thought to make up, wardrobe and character, the sensible person wonders if anything will come of it. Fortunately, a clown can get many types of jobs. There is more work for clowns than any other type of entertainer— not on the top money level, of course, but with plenty of work one need not worry too much about what is paid for each show.
Miss Heather
Act fast! This apartment will not stay on the market long!
As many of you know already, I was once a real estate agent. In this capacity I previewed a number of apartments: some were nice, others not so nice. Contrary to what less ethical real estate agents may tell you, a decent studio apartment can be had in New York City (Manhattan) for $1,200-$1,300 a month. I saw a number of them with my own eyes. The one thing I never saw, however, was a $1,200/month studio located in Greenpoint. Until this weekend, anyway.
Miss Heather has experienced much drama of late. My apartment woes have taken upon a life of their own. The latest manifestion of this phenomenon involves a cat. Yes, A CAT.
You see, a neighbor of ours (apartment 6) was hauled out of here by EMDs about three weeks ago. Given that she was paid numerous visits by ACS, it is probably safe to assume her child was removed from her custody. Her cat, however, proved to be another matter.
This woman gave her apartment keys to a man named George THREE WEEKS AGO with the understanding that he would feed her cat until she came back. After repeatedly trying to contact her, George gave up. She had clearly abandoned the apartment, so he gave the keys to me so I could tend to the cat and (hopefully) find her a new home.
What I discovered upon entering apartment 6 was truly appalling. Aside from some serious maintenance and health hazards, it was just plain FILTHY. Mind you, the following pictures were taken AFTER George had done some cleaning. UNBELIEVEABLE.
George filled six garbage bags with trash before quitting.
This is just plain gross.
WTF?!?
And of course, here’s the sweet kitty* who had lived in this shitheap for weeks (months?)…
Mind you, I am not placing ANY blame with George regarding this situation. He did the best he could given the circumstances. Rather, I was horrified by the general condition of the apartment. You could tell it had been like this for a long, long time.
Gross.
I think the term for this caliber of work is “Ghetto Fabulous”.
Water and electricity do not mix.
I just about pissed my pants laughing at this one. I can recollect at least four different types of flooring material put to use in this apartment.
And last, but not least, here’s a picture from the child’s room…
I am certain the more cynical among you are saying “I’ve seen worse”.
Perhaps this is so, but be advised that the previous defects were the only ones I could document because the place was filled to the gills in REFUSE.
The more observant of you are surely asking “What does this have to do with a $1,200/month studio apartment in Greenpoint?”
My answer is this: You just saw one.
Miss Heather
*For those of you who are wondering, she is currently testing out a new foster home and it looks encouraging. But if anyone is interested in adopting her lest this arrangement falls through, shoot me an email: missheather (at) Newyorkshitty (dot) com.
Yo Mama
Filed under: Area 51
One thing I really like about New Yorkers (and New York City), is that they will tell you exactly where they stand on things. When you ask someone a question, you will not get a simple, thoughtless answer in return. The people here lavish a lot of attention to the human condition and are not the least bit reluctant to offer their two cents. Usually to total strangers and employing the most stark and vivid terminology available.
To put it another way, the average New Yorker’s opining is conveyed in a manner that is substantially more colorful than anywhere else. Case in point:
I found this gem at the 53rd Street stop of the E/V in Manhattan recently.
I give it two (enthusiastic) thumbs up.
Miss Heather
NYS Flickr Pool
