Greenpoint
Lorven Pharmacy
Culture on the Cheap
Interior Decoration by Miss Heather
Filed under: Area 51
When I was growing up my parents had a bulldog. “Amos” was blind, mostly deaf and left drool all over the place (as bulldogs are known to do). My parent’s penchant for constantly moving presented Amos with a sizeable challenge: he had to learn to negotiate a new house, year after year. The first week after each new move he’d bang around a bit, but always managed to get things down pat. Damned remarkable.
I make mention of the previous childhood tale because it is very similar to what happens here at Chateau de Ghetto when Miss Heather does a little tidying and redecorating: my husband knocks around a few days as he negotiates the learning curve. Sometimes he hits his foot on stuff and curses, other times he will walk by a new piece of furniture for two or three days before even noticing it. It’s damned funny.
Yesterday I set about finding a new ‘home’ for my four foot tall cardboard replica of the Empire State Building. I was non-plussed with it gracing the top of our refrigerator because it obstructed the New York State flag hanging on the wall behind it. While trying to figure out where else in the apartment I could put this item, I ran into a quandry that I am certain other owners of large Empire State Building standees have run into: low ceilings.
The only space that could accommodate something this tall was the dresser in our bedroom and even then I could not put the “top” on it.
I placed the ‘ESB’ there and had three inches to spare. It was a tight fit and an intimidating one at that: the building literally looms over you when in bed. “How could I mitigate this effect”, I asked myself. Then I had my ‘eureka moment’…
I think it needs more monkies.
Miss Heather
Ho(ly) Shit
I am a recluse. One of the many things I like about Greenpoint is that people leave you alone. I have always been a weirdo. Big time (I document dog shit and make burqas for Hello Kitty dolls, after all). But unlike anywhere else I have ever lived, I can fly my freak flag with pride here without fear of retribution or ridicule. I cannot adequately convey how grateful I am for this privilege.
My interactions with the outside world have also become much more interesting as a result: in Greenpoint people just say “That’s Miss Heather, she’s like that”, everywhere else people say “What the fuck!?!” Or worse. For example, I am thoroughly confounded by the fact that when my (whiter-than-driven-snow) honky highness wears a t-shirt with Angela Davis on it, very little is said. But when I wear this…
I get an earful. And then some.
Of all the things I have made, this jacket is the “Holy of Holies”. I wear it with pride and guard it with a ferocity not unlike how a tiger protects her young. Lest any of you harbor any confusion whatsoever as to who this guy is, click here before you continue reading.
Am I a Maoist? Absolutely not. I like to think that my jacket is a Mao inhibitor that features a shiny happy pink man with a twinkle in his eye. Would this guy start a Cultural Revolution? Probably not— except perhaps if it involved fairies, bunny rabbits and a bubble machine a la Lawrence Welk.
Around here people are pretty used to seeing this jacket. Some are amused by it, a few get confused by it, most simply do not care. This is “Little Poland” after all. It’s not like I am walking around with a jacket with Stalin on it, after all.
Here are some of my favorite questions/comments regarding this article of clothing:
- Middle-eastern store owner: Isn’t he the guy who went crazy and killed a bunch of people? (He’s not that far off the mark— ed. note)
- 50-something year old Chinese food delivery man: (Chinese) MAO ZEDONG! (Chinese) MAO ZEDONG! (Repeat four more times).
- NYC Department of Transportation employee: Is that Reverend Sun Myung Moon (Uh, no— ed. note)
- Two 20-something year old Chinese dudes waiting for the E train at 23rd-Ely Avenue: (laugh their asses off).
- A few people: Is that Chang Kai-sheck (Wrong side, kiddos. If I was Taiwanese I’d probably beat the crap out of you— ed. note)
- Several people: Is that Pol Pot? (Close, but no cigar— ed. note)
- Even more people: Is that Kim Jong Il? (If only. Kim Jong is seriously Illin’ with that Elvis-esque pompadour. Too bad he is a nut job with nuclear technology— ed. note)
- 50-something year old goon smoking a cigarette outside the 53rd Street stop of the E (to his buddy): Looggit DAT! Dat chick has fuggin’ Ho Chi Minh on the back of her jacket!
*A-hem*
No, I do not have Ho Chi Minh on my jacket.
The number of Vietnam-era men (and one can safely assume veterans of this ‘conflict’ are in the group I am talking about) who get Mao confused with Ho is absolutely mind-boggling. Here is a picture of Mao…
and here is a picture of Ho.
Not exactly dead-ringers, huh? I was not old enough to remember any of this shit when it happened; I was too busy toilet-training and shoving crayons up my nose. Perhaps hindsight helps in this respect, then again, maybe the reason the whole this ‘conflict’ got as fucked up as it did was because these dudes had no idea whatsoever who they were after? Anything Asiatic goes.
(Come to think of it, the previous scenario is not dissimilar to our fine country’s current cluster-fuck in the middle east, but I digress…)
Last Friday I had the mother of all Mao jacket incidents. In Greenpoint, of all places. I had just got off the train. I passed by a liquor store, and as I did an older man exited and started walking behind me.
Old Man: HO!
Me (to myself): What the fuck?
Old Man: HO!
Me (to myself): Fucking pervert!
Old Man: HOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Me (getting mighty pissed, I turned around): WHAT?!?
(The old man points at my jacket and asks in broken English if it is Ho Chi Minh.)
Me (please kill me now): No, it’s not Ho Chi Minh.
After a weekend’s worth of reflection I can safely say that the old man wasn’t doing anything wrong. Rather, my vanity got the better of me. Scrawny broads aren’t terribly popular here, much less those who are (clearly) over 30 and married. To skirt-chase me would be like hankering for some man’s leftover potato chips: crumbs. Greenpoint men want the full four-course meal.
If this post (my 101st!) is good for nothing else, consider it a public service announcement. All the previous dudes are dead now save two: Rev. Moon and Kim Jong Il.
- Reverend Moon fancies himself a savior and fancies money-laundering and tax evasion (among other things).
- Kim Jong Il has the atomic bomb. He tested it today.
Take your pick.
Miss Heather
The Algonquin Roundtable, Bushwick Style
Filed under: Area 51
Here is a delightful exchange a friend of mine heard in Bushwick last night.
Miss Heather
This is funny.
At midnight I went to the deli to get some beer
because I was wrapping up a paper and felt I deserved
it.There were a bunch of hoody-macs all around the
deli. Tough young hispanic and black dudes hanging
around being cool. They were actually very tall
strapping young men–most of them 6 foot tall.
Which is not common in this neighborhood.Anyway one of them was ordering a sandwich and the
others were just standing around being in the way.
I got my beer came back and they were oblivious to
being in my way. So I said, “Hey you all in line?”Not yet, sweety, said one of them.
They let me in line.
They guy got his sandwich and looked at me. His
friends said, “Damn how many layers you need on that
thing, dawg.”And he said “I’m a growing boy. At least my meat
is.”I was just trying with all my might to keep a
straight face because, I’m sorry, his comic timing
was impeccable.One of his friends goes, “dude, I didn’t need to
hear that.”And he goes “it wasn’t meant for you to hear, but it
sounds like you be listening”I am impressed by the subtlety by that last quip.
He didn’t have to say “fag” he just let it be implied.
Jihadi Kitty
When not documenting dog shit, I set aside time to tackle some of life’s more vexatious questions. The list of questions laid before me is quite long and includes:
- Where is the goddamn remote?
- Why can’t my husband put his used panties in the dirty laundry hamper?
- What did I do to deserve this?
- Why doesn’t Sanrio make a Islamic fundamentalist Hello Kitty doll? I have seen French Hello Kitties, Brazilian Hello Kitties, even Hello Kitties dressed up like The Statue of Liberty, but alas, there was no gun-toting, Koran-quoting, burqa-wearing Hello Kitty to be found anywhere…
Until today.
I decided that if such a doll didn’t exist, it should, and set forth with my 20+ years sewing experience to make this happen.
In case you are wondering: yes, she does have a gun.
Miss Heather
Pulaski Day Mischief
I am surprised that the creations I featured in this post got any attention, much less an edit mention by The Gowanus Lounge and some nice words from Judy McGuire. Moving forward, I will showcase more of my OJAY-DE-ARTAY when the mood suits me. That said…
I woke up today in a strange mental state. My husband can attest that I have been in a decidely agitated, drinkin’, fightin’, ‘fuck authority’ kind of mood. ALL DAY. I had almost forgotten that October 1 is Pulaski Day; thankfully my ‘inner-Pole’ always manages to remind me just in time.
I will not suffer 30+ years of listening to my Polish/Lithuanian last name being butchered by mere simpletons quietly. Today is my DAY and goddammit I will celebrate!
In keeping with my “fuck you imperial tyrants” spirit, I offer this link to my online store. Be sure to read the product description, as it is rather piquant.
Enjoy!
Miss Heather
Babies
Those of you who reside in or around my ‘hood have probably noticed the recent proliferation of procreation lately. If you do not believe me, go to The Garden (our local grocery store) on any given Saturday or Sunday morning and negotiate the gridlock of SUV-sized baby strollers yourself. It is more than a little annoying.
I do not have anything against babies. While waiting to check out from the grocery store I actually enjoy watching little Timmy suck on a ring pop and then proceed to shove it all the way up his nose. This not only makes the time go by faster, but it gives me the kind of cheap thrill that makes my life bearable. (Both of the the previous points are probably one and the same, but I digress…)
Parents are usually the ones who piss me off. A number of my friends have recently become or will soon be parents. I’m happy for them; they are cool people and will undoubtedly raise cool kids. The world needs good kids raised by parents who love them. On the other hand, the world does not need sappy birth announcements like the one that blighted my mailbox last week:
Our hearts whispered
your name and God answered…
At one glance we loved you
with a thousand hearts…
Unless the information I received in my sex education class was incorrect, I fail to see what god has to do with such things. It is my understanding that child-bearing is a simple matter of biology, not invoking some cosmic hotline for help. If you can’t figure it out on your own, you probably shouldn’t have children in the first place. Simple as that.
Then again, maybe contacting “him†has become an automated/consolidated process like dialing 311. Not only will a courteous operator handle your inquiry, but a licensed expert from Jesus’ Insemination Services Made Manifest (J.I.S.M.M.) will be dispatched to your home where he, turkey-baster/plunger in hand, will help you achieve your reproductive dream. Be sure to demand I.D. from your case-worker, as there are a number of imposters afoot.
The repetitive mention of “hearts†strikes me as being downright creepy. Having a fair amount of pre-Colonial Latin American history under my belt, the phrase “we loved you with a thousand hearts†paints a particularly gruesome picture in my mind. Presuming that each parent has one heart, where did the other 998 come from? Your guess is as good as mine.
In closing, I’d like to make the following suggestions to soon-to-be parents:
- Your childless friends (BTW— we prefer the term child-free) are happy for you.
- We wish you the very best and look forward to being a part of your child’s life, but…
- please leave god and hyperbole out of it. Most of the world’s problems nowadays are firmly grounded in god and hyperbole; there is no need to add fuel to the fire, so to speak.
Having children is a biological function. It is about as mundane as taking a shit: both happen every day, all over the world, in numbers that would stagger the imagination. I will refrain from describing my bowel movements as an act of god (and believe you me, my affection for hot food often renders by-products culled straight out of the Old Testament) if you will be so kind as to return the favor in kind.
Otherwise, I will have not other recourse than to reply to your birth announcements with this.
Miss Heather
Neat Stuff
I have been busy making stuff of late.
Here are two recently-completed pieces that I wish to share. I hope you enjoy them as much I as I do.
The FEMA Clock
The body of this clock is made from a pencil case I bought from a local 99 cent store before Hurricane Katrina. I thought it was pretty funny at the time of purchase, but I get a real rip out of it now. The penguin playing guitar is a nice touch.
I am toying around with the idea of placing this item for sale on Ebay just to see what will happen. It’s been my observation that many users of Ebay tend to be right-leaning, so I imagine it would not be received very well.
The American Express Lamp
I have been collecting those fake credit cards that come in junk mail for at least three years now. With some help from my friends, I have amassed around 100 of them as of this post. To date I have used them to spice up the chandelier in the living room, but I elected to pull a few ‘cards’ to make this nifty lamp shade.
Otherwise, I have one cool new development to announce: Jack E. Jett has shown interest in featuring some of my dog shit infotainment on his show. I suspect this weekend will be spent prepping stuff to this end and knocking out a PowerPoint presentation of my latest dog shit findings for all to enjoy.
Miss Heather
Vomitorium
I just took out the trash. As I was completing this task I noticed that my shoes were sticking to the floor. This is because someone has seen fit to vomit in our foyer, up the stairwell and outside our front door. This person was even thoughtful enough to leave their used puke rags for me to savor and cherish.
Miss Heather
P.S.: If you are wondering, I still do not have a working telephone. It is 11:00 a.m.
Critical (m)Ass
Just when I think things can’t get any more shitty around here at “Half-assed Junction”, the universe throws a couple more turds my direction.
Among the numerous items on my agenda for today, I get to wait for Verizon to repair our telephone. We have not had phone service since Sunday. I spent all day yesterday waiting for Verizon, to no avail. I suspect the work the MTA was doing yesterday (READ: a 8+ story tall crane occupying our street), has something to do with the phone company not showing up.
I am not necessarily angry about having an inoperative landline: I have worked enough Reception desks to harbor a dark hatred of telephones and most of the people who use them. Rather, I am getting very tired of this full-scale assault against the peaceful sanctity of my home. As I write this (at 9:00 a.m.):
- I have been awakened at 7:00 a.m. by Clarence the Tom Cat making his morning visit. This worked our cats into such a frenzy my husband had to intervene before they beat the living shit out of each other.
- The construction crew out front fired up their machinery at 7:30 a.m.
- The landlord started work on his new roof behind us at 8:30 a.m. Hopefully the Department of Buildings will pay him a visit today. God only knows I have waited long enough for this to happen: OVER A WEEK.
If I have managed to achieve anything during the 30-odd years I have been in this mortal coil, it is the cultivation of anger management skills. I was quite the ball of piss and vinegar in my teens and twenties; I am still as angry (if not more so) now, but I channel it in a more constructive fashion. This newly-developed ability of mine is being pushed to the absolute limit right now. The recent revelation that our landlord is refusing to accept rent checks from one of our neighbors isn’t helping much.
Over the last month or so I have noticed that the garbage in our building is not being handled like it used to be. Instead of being sorted and bagged on a regular basis, now it piles up into an uncontrollable heap. When this matter is (finally) bagged, all the contents (recycling and household waste alike) are being thrown together.
The is happening because the landlord is no longer allowing our neighbor (a section-8 tenant whose husband is very ill) to work as a porter in our building in exchange for a nominal reduction in rent. Her rent checks are not being accepted either. Apparently this has been going on for two months, but we only got wind of it last night. I am not certain what else is going on (with our nabe), but I imagine it can’t be good.
While I cannot offer many details as to what is happening (with this neighbor), I can give a compelling reason as to why it is happening: our landlord recently refinanced the mortgage on this building. One of the stipulations of this mortgage is that the rent collected from this building goes against the balance (of said mortgage). If an apartment turns over, he can raise the rent*; if he raises the rent, it means more money to throw against the mortgage payment. I wonder how many of the other long-term residents of this building he is doing this to— or if my husband and I will be next?
Miss Heather
*and we’ll get more neighbors like this.
Ghetto-gate: September 17, 2006
The landlord next door has done no new ‘renovation’ work the last two days (that I know of anyway). Had he done so, I bet he’d get really pissed about what happened to his roof. Literally.
Clarence the Tom Cat has seen fit to ‘spray’ copiously upon his (new) plywood domain (much to our cats’ displeasure) and the neighbors next door have reverted back to throwing food/garbage out their window. The landlord can gentrify the building, but he can’t gentrify the residents contained therein. The Crapstravaganza continues!
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