Greenpoint
Lorven Pharmacy
Culture on the Cheap
This Is Glorious (Even By New York Standards)
Today I have the honor of presenting a contribution from outside.in‘s very own editor, Hillary Byrum. She writes:
As the editor of outside.in, I spend a lot of time surfing the Brooklyn portion of the site and I’m always psyched when I’m bounced to NewYorkShitty – it’s great. Anyway, I snapped a crappy (pun intended) photo of this “situation” earlier today around Berry & S.2nd and I thought of your blog. I’m not sure why this mess is where we are drawing the line between tolerable and intolerable street-piss/poop, but I’m tickled that someone was inspired to build a weird little sandwich board.
Thanks again Hillary for this stunning example of dog shit signage!
Miss Heather
A Couple Upcoming Events and a Kitten Who Needs a Home
This is Fleur. She was found in the Brooklyn Botanic Garden with her brothers, Albert and Bourgeon. Bourgeon died and Albert has since moved on to his new home. Now she is all alone. Those of you who are interested in giving a home to one of the cutest kittens I have ever seen can contact Lisa of BARC via Flickr mail. Or perhaps you will have the chance to meet Miss Fleur in person at…
Speaking of animal lovers, tomorrow Little Cakes Gallery will be kicking off its fall season with Super Heroes Return by Mumbreeze. Per their press release:
Super Heroes Return mixes high and low tech mediums along with childhood influences from both the United States and Japan to create a whimsical full spectrum installation to carry you away to Mumbreeze’s Pop Neverland.
A large staircase stacked with papier-mâché dolls is their version of “Ohinasamaâ€, a Japanese family tradition to celebrate the holiday Girls’ Day. Instead of fancy porcelain figurines representing the Emperor and Empress’s court, they’ve replaced them with multi colored abstract figures that remind one of super heroes such as Ultraman, the bad guy monsters in Godzilla movies, and more recent anime robots like Evangelion. Their slightly awkward, stiff stance and blank facial expressions take their influence from older icons like that of the Haniwa clay figures buried in funeral mounds in ancient Japan…
For more information, click on the above image and you will be directed to Little Cakes’ web site.
Little Cakes Gallery
625 East 6th Street #1B
New York, NY 10009
646-342-1056
Hours: Friday through Sunday, 1:00 p.m. to 6:00 p.m. and by appointment
Lastly (and a somewhat related note), I’d like to give a shout-out to Matthew Nistor. Not only is this chap a reader of New York Shitty, but (more importantly) he is also a very talented photographer. Check out his web site and see for yourself.
Miss Heather
Bright Lights, Big Shitty
This morning I found my person in elevated state of fabulousness. Unlike many of the impeccably-wrecked 20-somethings I call neighbors, my mid-30’s person knew this was a day to promenade my bad self in (where else) WILLIAMSBURG. Unlike men, who are considered to be ‘distinguished’ as they get older, women are not. I grasp the odd MILF straws when I find them, and today was one such day.
I called my buddy Rachael on her cell. She was at McCarren Park. We rendezvoused and proceeded to poo poo the Bedford Avenue cat walk with our fine-ass Greenpoint selves. We were in the belly of the beast and we prevailed! On Berry Street the bowels of the beast gave us an offering in return.
A mini bottle of Vodka. Poop was presenting. But the Bic pen cap was what triggered the fit of rage I had today*.
Back in 2001 (when I had a “real” job and no self esteem whatsoever) I did weight training at the Greenpoint YMCA. After a particularly heavy workout (and drinking copious amounts of water) I needed to go to the bathroom. BAD. I went to the women’s locker room— which some cretin saw fit to equip with two stalls.
I wait. And wait.
Inasmuch I believe being a lesbian would solve many of my (mal)adjustment problems, the sad fact is I am not one. Not for wont of trying. But, as Scarlett O’Hara Said:
Tomorrow is another day!
What I saw in that bathroom stall was a set-back in this endeavor. FOREVER. After hopping around like a circus chimp with crabs for several minutes, I peeked at female who was reluctant to vacate my much-needed stall.
It was a 40-something Polish soccer mom snorting cocaine from a plastic Bic pen cap.
Just like the one in the above photo.
We are all addicts, each and every one of us. But for the love of god please:
- exercise your additions with panache, e.g.; if you’re going to take up a high-dollar habit, get the proper accoutrements and
- do not interfere with my essential bodily functions!
Miss Heather
*That and finding some shitty-ass piece of jewelry I priced at the junk shop for $3.00 at a “ritzy” vintage shop on Grand Street marked-up to $45.00. Bad fashion has a price. Perhaps Williamsburg has an idiot tax? I can only hope so.
Bedbuggery
People have different ideas of success. Some consider making ungodly amounts of money as being “successful”. In my opinion, nothing says “you’ve made it” like getting a shout-out from bedbugger.com. And as it would happen, this came to pass yesterday. To celebrate this most auspicious accomplishment, I have tapped into my growing archive of bedbug-related photos and present them here. Enjoy!
May 5, 2006
Location: 97 Green Street
This is the first bedbug-ridden mattress I photographed. For this reason it will always be a sentimental favorite to yours truly.
June 18, 2007
Location: 66 Greenpoint Avenue
The former owner of this piece of bedding chose to employ wit. That’s the thing about us Greenpointers, we have a very acerbic sense of humor. You pretty much have to nowadays.
July 17, 2007
Location: the vestibule of my apartment building
Naturally I found this to be a little disquieting. Is the Bedbug King trying to tell me something? I certainly hope not. What does a Bedbug King look like, for that matter? I never, EVER want to find out!
August 8, 2007
Location: 609 Metropolitan Avenue
This bedbug infested combo hails from Williamsburg. At a distance I thought someone was having furniture delivered to their apartment. Clearly I was wrong.
I do find it suspect that an exterminator claiming to be a “bed bug specialist” is located right across the street, though.
August 17, 2007
Location: India Street, in front of the Astral Apartments
The pouring rain didn’t stop me from documenting this, the latest (but hardly last) victim of the Greenpoint Bedbug Epidemic. This is getting a little too close for comfort.
Ask not for whom the Bedbug King comes, he comes for thee!
Miss Heather
Upcoming Events in North Brooklyn
Ad Hoc Art is having an opening this Saturday, August 25th from 6:00 p.m. – 11:00 p.m. The group show is entitled Second Line: Art and Film related to the Gulf Coast and features a piece from a former Greenpointer/neighbor of mine, Deborah Fisher. For more details, click on the above image and you will be directed to Ad Hoc’s web site or give them a call at:
Ad Hoc Art
49 Bogart Street (between Seigel and Grattan)
Brooklyn, NY 11206
(718) 366-2466
www.adhocart.org
In related Bushwick/artistic news, 3rd Ward is having an open call for submissions for an upcoming show entitled Art Ate New York. Those of you who are interested in entering this “renegade art competition” need to:
Create something public, profound and just left-of-legal and you will have a chance of winning loot/fame. We are looking for renegade sculpture, poster-work, performance, spray-can-art or anything else we haven’t thought of. It must be publicly placed.
As you can imagine, yours truly is quite interested in this opportunity. If my $50,000 of student loan debt gave me anything (other than a great education and more than a few gray hairs), it provided me a forum to act out in any manner I saw fit and get good grades for it. Maybe I’ll reprise Miss Heather’s Hunny Hut, a concession stand dedicated to augmenting mixed drinks by adding copious amounts of Ready Whip and beating them into frothy perfection using a Black and Decker Drill with a large rubber dildo affixed to it? Then again, maybe I won’t. As Professor Ping said in Barbarella:
…who knows, genius is mysterious!
Even if I don’t win, if the person who does allows me to use his/her winning prize of a three month supply of Red Bull for cocktail fodder, I would still consider it a good use of my time.
To get the full lowdown and competition specs, click here.
3rd Ward
195 Morgan Avenue
Brooklyn, NY 11206
www.3rdwardbrooklyn.org
As I mentioned in an earlier post, East Coast Aliens is hosting the first of a series of Nick Zedd films (featuring the one and only Rev Jen) this upcoming Sunday evening. For more details, check out their web site or click here.
Lastly, there will be a fundraiser for Greenburg’s (or Williamspoint’s) very own Dome Garden Monday, August 27th at Enid’s. This garden (just across the street from the universe’s very own Garden Spot) is a lovely respite from the increasingly corporate (and ugly) character of the neighborhood surrounding it. Even if an evening at Enid’s strikes you as being pure hell, please pitch in to this great cause. Donate, volunteer, whatever suits you. Just do it!
Miss Heather
Box Lunch on Bedford Avenue
Lest the promise of a hot dog and a hand job are not sufficient enticements to motivate you Manhattanites to cross the East River, today I present to you the Bedford Avenue Bagel!
I came across this delectable and delicious item at the intersection North 3rd Street and (DUH) Bedford Avenue. Initially I thought this baked good was cradled in a B-cup. Upon further inspection I deduced it wasn’t. Silly me.
Bagel, lox and fanny floss: it’s what’s for lunch.
A box lunch, that is.
Miss Heather
A Happy Meal with a Happy Ending
Last week dear readers you learned about me declining a lucrative offer to join the sex industry. Believe it or not, I occasionally regret that decision. Sure, I don’t have the stomach for “adult films” but I probably would have been a good stripper. Or dominatrix. It would simply be a matter of self-discipline and focus.
The problem is I have a notoriously impish sense of humor. The sight of some mousy chap who looks like he slaves over actuarial tables for a living getting used and abused by a statuesque Eastern European woman while strapped to wall gives me the giggles. I know this for a fact because I have seen this very scenario. Twice. In both cases I had to hurry my person out of earshot so as to release my category five case of the sillies.
I should probably just settle for stripping. My buddy Rebecca11222 brought an opportunity to my attention yesterday that might be just the thing. She writes:
From “Kitchen Delight” (which is barely a kitchen and hardly a delight) on N8th btw Driggs & Bedford today. Not actually IN Greenpoint, but I had to pass it in order to walk to Greenpoint.
Don’t ask about the special sauce.
Sir, would you like to super-size that handjob? Is that for here or to go?
Miss Heather
P.S.: I’d like to give a shout out to my buddy Bob over at The Gowanus Lounge. As some of you may be aware, he is out of town at the moment. Of all places, he happens to be in Hawaii —which is soon to be grazed by a hurricane. Yikes!
The Fedderist Manifesto
Today I wish to add a new weapon to the arsenal of wretched real estate rhetoric. My buddy Kevin over at Forgotten-NY brought us the oft used and loved term “Fedders building”. What I propose is a modest and simple expansion of his creation:
Fedderize (fed’er-riz) vt. -ized, izing, izes 1. remodeling an old building in order to make it completely and utterly hideous.
Exhibit A
149 Grand Street
Brooklyn, NY 11211
Let’s start with this one. Though it is a pretty mild example several elements of Fedderization are manifest:
- The addition of Fedders boxes to an otherwise beautiful facade
- Jarring use of stucco
- A vinyl awning which has no aesthetic relationship whatsoever with the rest of the building
When I saw this building my jaw dropped. I couldn’t believe someone would deface an otherwise okay building by installing Fedders boxes. Whoever is responsible for this should be kicked in the head.
Let’s proceed to the most venal example of Fedderization I have ever seen. In fact, the following turd was the inspiration for this post! Get out your motion sickness bags folks. You’re gonna need them.
EXHIBIT B
1007-1009 50th Avenue
Long Island City, NY 10111
How-lee Sheeeeee-it!
I remember this building. It was once an unremarkable, if slightly run-down, clone of its neighbors. Now it is a hideous melange of what the fuck:
- The first floor and all the window sills are slathered in titanium white stucco.
- Two Fedders boxes grace each floor . They look like teats on a sow.
- The store front on the right employs the sparing use of marble, which is sort of odd given they didn’t skimp on all the other ugly shit inflicted upon this building.
- The store front of the left looks like something one would find in an industrial park. It does not match its companion to the right. One would think the Fedderist responsible for this gruesome twosome would be consistent in his (or her) craptitude. Obviously this was not the case.
Could someone please explain to me why someone would outlay (what appears to be) a lot of money to do this? Although I dislike the practice, I can understand why many developers have seen fit to erect ugly, over-sized, institutional-looking buildings in Greenpoint, Williamsburg, Long Island City and beyond: to save money. This, on the other hand, I do not get. Thoughts anyone?
Miss Heather
Miss Heather’s Apartment Share Inferno
Filed under: 11206, 11222, Crazy People, East Williamsburg, East Williamsburg Brooklyn, Greenpoint, Greenpoint Brooklyn, Greenpoint Magic, Greenwich Village, Williamsburg, Williamsburg Brooklyn
New York Shitty is a metropolis of pissers and moaners. Crappy jobs/job interviews, crappy dates, crappy landlords: someone has written a lengthy (and usually pithy) missive (or two) about them all. Yet no one has written about a subject that encapsulates all the previous and more: apartment shares and the people who offer them. Until today.
I care not for landlords, first dates or job interviews— but at least I know what all the previous involve: me getting fucked. Be it metaphorically, physically or both. The same cannot be said about apartment share interviews, as I learned several years ago.
The purpose of this post is to showcase the three worst (and/or weirdest) apartment share interviews I have ever had. I have even taken the liberty of creating a handy checklist to track the depths of depravity I endured. Nothing says “you’ve arrived” (in HELL) like PowerPoint, after all.
CASE STUDY #1: THE DUNGEON
Vital Statistics
Location: Meserole Street and Graham Avenue
Rent: $450 a month
The Catch: It’s a SRO
Truth be told, I was not very jazzed about the location of this share. Sure, it is a beautiful building, but I am a Greenpoint gal through and through. However, when one is dirt-ass broke, she cannot afford to be choosy, so I checked it out.
When I arrived at the front door I was greeted by a young woman. I think she was from Belgium, though it was hard to tell. She was a very pleasant and elegantly dressed lady— which made up for the decidedly NON-elegant setting.
As she led me through the front door (of her section) of the SRO, a man donning a dragon mask and reeking of marijuana popped out of another door and started giggling inanely. “Okay”, I thought “So he likes to party a little on a Sunday afternoon. Who doesn’t? No problem.”
The room she showed me was very spacious. I’ve seen many apartments smaller than this space, which probably measured around 400 square feet. I even liked the shade of lilac the walls were painted. Very pretty. I even told her so and she thanked me. She had picked out the paint herself.
Then I saw something I have never seen in any apartment/share space before: leather restraints, paddles and heavy chains anchored to the wall by mollies. Given that this was a three month sublease, the presence of these implements was non-negotiable. I could honestly not care less what this woman did (professionally?), but I don’t think I could have handled waking up every morning to the sight of Medieval torture devices. I was offered this sublet, but turned it down.
All things considered this experience was pretty mild (as I later would learn). What’s more, she was really likable and clearly not out to rip me off so I give this share a rating of…
CASE STUDY #2: MESEROLE STREET SUICIDE SHARE
Vital Statistics
Location: Meserole and Leonard Street
Rent: $500 a month
The Catch: Too many to summarize
The only reason I agreed to an interview at this share was because I confused “Meserole Street” with “Meserole Avenue”. After my interview at this hellhole I have never confused the two thoroughfares since.
I knocked on the door, a smallish red-haired man answered and ushered me in. It was dark. It was dirty. It was the bachelor pad date rape central replete with a disemboweled motorcycle in the living area. Although something about the “head roomie” was unsettling to me, I liked the other guy and heard them out. He was nice.
Then the shoes dropped, one after the other.
- Once the “Head Roomie” stood by the bathroom area (which was better lit) I recognized him; this shithead had I.M.ed me on Nerve a month ago. And being a freak (him more so than, me), I dissed him. Whoops.
- After making the previous discovery he showed me the room. It was okay, I guess. Then he pulled out a photo album and pointed to a picture of 20-something brunette chap.
See this guy?
I answered: yes.
He used to live in that space. Really nice guy, always laughing. We didn’t realize he had problems.
Me: Really, what kind of problems?
After not hearing from him a couple of days we went into his room and discovered that he had shot himself in the head hanged himself.
Me: I’m sorry to hear that.
What the hell do you say to something like that? How can one NOT notice a DEAD BODY for TWO WHOLE DAYS??? These are both very good questions. I kept them to myself.
I feel that people need to know about this, you know.
He said.
Let’s see: this was either the most diabolical form of revenge ever exacted (Where’s Candid Camera?) or this guy is being honest. Given the lack of overall intelligence he demonstrated on Nerve, I’m leaning towards the latter. I bet he is still trolling the Internets for leg too. My advice: no woman in her right mind is going to put out in a place that reeks of motor oil.
When I took the above the photo a meathead busy recycling beer bottles shouted:
Take a picture of the building across the street, it’s much nicer!
And, inasmuch as I hate to say it, I agree. At least no one has blown his (or her) brains out here hanged him (or herself) there.
Yet.
With so many different factors at play, I am going to stick with simple suicide on this one and give this share a…
At last! We are down to our last contender from the Universe’s very own Garden Spot: Greenpoint, Brooklyn U.S.A.!
CASE STUDY #3: STONER SPECIAL
Vital Statistics
Location: Nassau Avenue and Monitor Street
Rent: $600 a month
The Catch: It’s total fucking rip-off… and more!
I slog my ass over to this place. It stinks. Literally. Only a block away from Kingsland Avenue, the corner where this building is situated sports a perfume I like to call Petro le Um #5. Being the eager little domicile hunter I was (because I have a strong distaste about being homeless) I go in.
It is a loft. I do not like lofts. Inasmuch as the real estate industry likes to throw around the buzz phrase “artist loft” my experience has been that “artists” generally do not inhabit such spaces. I write this as an artist. 252 Norman Avenue was no exception.
I look around and note the “stoner special” layout of the living area: three really big, threadbare sofas encircling a very expensive widescreen television set. I am shown the room that is for rent: it is (maybe) eight by ten feet. It has no windows whatsoever. They are asking $600 a month for this piece of shit. In 2001.
I am then subjected to a gauntlet of questions by the residents of this place. I smile and answer them politely. Then I go home.
A weeks goes by and I get a phone call. It is one of the fellows from this apartment.
Me: So did I get the share?
Dude: No, but I thought you were cute and wondered if you’d like to go out on a date.
WTF!?!
When I told my buddy Larry about this recently, he opined:
You should have gone out with the guy and moved in with him. That way you will have a place to live and not have to pay rent.
Funny man, that Larry.
That said, there is something so utterly WRONG about using apartment share interviews to pick up chicks. It takes real chutzpah to call someone, tell her she did NOT get the share and then ask her on a date. Truth be told, it gave me the fucking creeps. So I give this jerk a…
In case you are wondering, I ended up putting all my shit in storage and sofa surfing until I found a place of my own. I can honestly say that one month of sofa-surfing wasn’t that bad when faced with my alternatives.
Miss Heather
Penile Endowment & Pete’s Candy Store
As I was reading The Gowanus Lounge this morning I found myself taking a psychedelic trip down down the rabbit hole to my days as a single woman about town.
Yes, I am talking about “Missed Connection” post about Pete’s Candy Store. To the best of my knowledge the chap I met there did not have two penises. If he did, both tools were NOT located below the belt, if you know what I mean.
He was special. Very special. And given some of the VERY special peeps I have dated, this is no small accomplishment. To crack the top five in the smash-jaw world of Miss Heather’s all-time favorite male suitors is sort of like being the most retarded kid on the short bus. It is a dubious distinction to be certain, but a distinction it is nonetheless.
In a kingdom of the ‘tards, he who wears the crash helmet with a thick lucite mouth guard is king. This chap was the Hannibal Lechter of my dreams (whose type are only had by my person after eating a lot of spicy food before going to bed).
It was a sultry summer day in 2002…
My big fat dyke best bud Rachael and I were in a particularly rambunctious mood. Our friendship is a never-ending folie à deux sans the body count. Unless of course you include the male ego as an animal of prey: in which case our faces would be found in every god damned post office in this country. Possibly every milk carton too, but I digress…
We had quite a busy evening ahead of us. First a barbecue party in East Williamsburg, then a night of bar crawling. To this end Rachael showed up at my apartment with a diaper bag full of provisions, among the goods contained in this bag were a container of baby wipes (because New York Shitty is a very dirty place) and an electronic bull horn. After futzing around with the latter for fifteen minutes (and playing “The Yellow Rose of Texas” for my neighbors’ edification) we took our show on the road. We walked.
As we strolled down Manhattan Avenue I would turn on the megaphone and announce every stop of the G train replete with “stand clear of the closing doors”. The people at Greenpoint Avenue were confused by this. The folks at Nassau Avenue were amused by this. A woman at Metropolitan Avenue complimented me on my flawless recitation of the transfers available to the Canarsie and 8th Avenue bound L train. I thanked her and told her that I had done much research on the subject.
We arrived at the barbecue and quickly found ourselves getting bored. This is not criticize the hosts, Mark and Heather, they were terrific. Rather, Rachael and I had an itch to scratch and our fine fettle would be wasted at such an informal function. I was rocking a fuzzy pink tube top, furry pink platform shower thongs and rhinestone earrings shaped like dollar signs. I, in the clarity of hindsight, looked ridiculous.
I was Greenpoint Fabulous, albeit bereft of the usual “whale tail” and “camel toe” one sees in the ‘Pernt with disquieting frequency. In my humble opinion the Garden Spot is the Camel Toe Capital of the universe. If you’re into this kind of thing, brave the G train and come here. You’ll feel like a kid in a candy store.
So my buddy Rach and I headed to Williamsburg without delay. After hitting Union Pool (LAME), Sweetwater (and bumping into someone I went to undergrad school with back in Texas), walking by a school and acquiring a child’s desk we headed to Pete’s. We stopped to catch our breath. Carrying a desk, even one clearly designed for a kindergartner, is pretty tiring. We looked up and noticed a buddy of ours waving at us. We went in, desk in hand.
It was our buddy “Hunter”. That’s not his real name— I can’t remember what it is at the moment— but he bears a striking resemblance to Hunter S. Thompson. The moniker works so let’s roll with it, okay? He was seated with a motley crew of dudes we had never met. A chap who called himself “Snowflake” seated himself in our newly-acquired desk. He fit too.
Despite our best efforts Rachael and I kept calling him “Snowball”. I suspect this was probably the result of watching Clerks and reading Animal Farm one too many times. No offense was intended and none seemed to be taken: he invited us to go home with him later. We declined.
Next to me sat a rheumy-eyed dude whose name (also) eludes me. He probably told me what it was but it didn’t register. My intoxication was not to blame either; this dude was one beer and a bong hit shy of becoming Terri Schiavo. Frankly, I was amazed he could even sit up straight. Despite this handicap, he put on his best moves.
TS (looking at my earrings): Ssssssssso, I see it you’re in it for the bennies?
Me: What?
TS: The bennies, the benjamins.
Me: Benjamins?
TS: $100 bills babe, money.
Me: If I was I wouldn’t be so fucking poor, dude.
TS (while pulling out a one-hitter and stuffing it with grass): Really? Why did you break up with your last boyfriend?
Me: He smoked so much grass he couldn’t keep it up.
(He puts his one-hitter away.)
TS: Let me tell you something…
Me: Yes, and that is???
TS: I’ve got the biggesssssssst dick and the mossssssst money of any man in thisssss entire bar.
Me (raising an eyebrow): Really? Now that is interesting. Are you serious?
TS: Yes, I’ve got the biggessssssst dick and the mosssssst money of any dude in thissssss whole barrrrrr.
Me (to Rachael): Hey Rach, could you hand me the bag?
Rachel hands me the bag and I pull out the megaphone. Even though my suitor’s lips whispered “no”, everyone around us said “yes”. So, as Nike suggests, I just did it.
Me: Hey everybody!
(The dull roar of cocktail conversation and flirtation abruptly stops.)
Me: This guy has the biggest dick and the most money of any man in this bar!
After five full seconds of silence, everyone resumed their respective conversations and this chap got the point.
When Rachael and I left two very touchy feely gals were draped on his shoulders. Although I suspect they were more interested in each other than him, my act of mischief probably gave him ample material to submit to Penthouse Forum the next day. Or he awakened to discover that someone stole one of his kidneys. Either way, it’s a happy ending.
Miss Heather
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