Greenpoint
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(Or “The Fingered Building”)
Last weekend my husband and I entertained some friends from out of town. Greenpoint style. As the evening wound down, we popped in on my buddy Larry at The Thing. He told a tale I have heard many times before. This was okay because I have yet to get tired of hearing it. Probably never will. It has all the elements of a good story, including:
- public masturbation
- an ice cream cone
- the Achille Lauro
Before moving to Brooklyn, Larry operated a junk shop on 10th Street at Fourth Avenue (Manhattan). Being in close proximity to St. Mark’s Place, he had a constant stream of weirdos, burn-outs, junkies and freaks to savor. Enough so that he became jaded. Until that day. A day that will live in real estate infamy.
ASIDE: Is it just me, or does most real estate jargon/ad copy sound like pornography nowadays? This is probably because a number of real agents are sexist perverts. I will never forget the time (when I was a real estate agent) when one of my more neanderthal compatriots referred to a particular condo he had previewed as being a “hot bitch”. I thought to myself:
If it’s so damned hot, why don’t you fuck it? ASSHOLE.
This agent enjoyed a particularly colorful reputation at the office. This is because an ex-girlfriend of his stormed in one day and had to be physically removed by the police. He said it was because she wasn’t handling the break-up well. I say it was because she wanted (rightfully and understandably) to dispatch this human piece of shit to his maker. But that’s beside the point, back to Larry’s tale…
Larry was hanging out in front of his shop when he saw him. I am certain a number of other people did as well, but they did their best not to show it. I can’t honestly say I blame them; Amy Vanderbilt has yet to set any hard and fast rules about how to graciously handle a man masturbating on the street.
Much less man eating an ice cream while masturbating on the street. Much, much less a man staring up an apartment building (that was once the residence of Leon Klinghoffer as Larry, a native New Yorker, noted) while eating an ice cream cone and masturbating on the street.
Everyone says New York Shitty real estate is hot, but this is the first time I have heard of a building getting of the ‘five knuckle shuffle’ stamp of approval. With an ice cream cone no less. WOW.
Shit like this makes me wish I had a penis. If I did, I would go down to Richardson Street and spank away. Ice cream cone in one hand, my member in the other. Perhaps pulling a ‘Raymond Marble’ a la Pink Flamingos would suffice? I could rig up a cod piece, insert my long vegan schlong of tofurky and go at it. I wonder what would John Waters do?
Miss Heather
Italy?!?
I was recently astonished to discover that someone in Italy added me as a Flickr contact. I mean 1/3 of my photos are scatalogical in some way, shape or form and it has been my observation that poop usually doesn’t win friends or influence people. Now I am beginning to rethink this long-held assumption.
After a little digging I discovered that Italians dislike dog shit as much as we do. In fact, they make light of their crap conundrum in a manner that is unabashedly stylish and witty. Then again, how could we possibly expect anything less from country who boasts some of the finest fashion designers in the world? Shit, their country is shaped like a boot with a stylish stiletto heel for crissakes!
Miss Heather
Today’s piece of Greenpoint history
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
Contrary to what most people think, my ‘nabe’s distinctly Polish flavor is a relatively new phenomenon. I get more than a little irked when I tell someone a tale of Greenpoint hooliganism from the days of old, only to have him or her assume the perpetrator was Polish. The fact of the matter is people have been getting fucked up and doing weird shit here for a long, long time. The Poles are doing nothing more than continuing a tradition started by their Irish and German predecessors.
The historians among you probably understand the European geo-politics that precipitated the mass migration of Polish nationals to this country. The Polish presence was not felt in Greenpoint until the end of the 19th century. But when it was, it started off with bang. Literally. (We Poles don’t do anything half-assed.)
From the April 29, 1898 edition of the New York Times:
A $75,000 FIRE IN GREENPOINT
A Sausage Factory and Thousands of Pounds of Lard Burned.
By the explosion of a steam pipe in the boiler room of Walter and Peter Heidelberger’s sausage factory at 1085 and 1087 Manhattan Avenue, Greenpoint, yesterday a fire ensued which did damage to the extent of nearly $75,000.
The buildings were of brick and three stories high. Two families lived over the provision store on the Manhattan Avenue side, and in the rear of these buildings was another three-story brick building used as a storehouse and smokehouse. In this building were thousands of pounds of lard. The explosion occurred at 5:30 a.m. and its force was so great that the inhabitants of all the tenement dwellings in the neighborhood were aroused. The explosion set fire to the greasy floors, and soon the inflammatory material on the premises burned with great fierceness. The fire at first was thickest in the rear of the building, which fronts Dupont Street.
A policeman who heard the explosion turned in an alarm of the fire, and the firemen were promptly on hand. By that time, however, the flames had burned through all the floors and reached the roof.
The tenants in the front building succeeded in getting safely out, some in only their night garments. Two more alarms of fire were turned in because the wind was driving the fire toward a row of tall tenements. On the arrival of additional fire apparatus the flames had reached the interior of the main building, but they were kept confined to the two buildings.
Come to think of it, the surname “Heidelberger” strikes me as being a wee bit German. Just like a pickle helmet filled with sauerkraut and beer is somewhat German. I can only imagine what the Heidelberger’s Polish neighbors thought about being awakened by this conflagration, but I’ll bet my bottom dollar one them muttered:
Przeklinani Niemcy, tam idzie sÄ…siedztwo!*
Miss Heather
*Damn Germans, there goes the neighborhood!
Miss Julie becomes a south Brooklyn gal
Filed under: Area 51
This morning my husband and I had the pleasure of meeting Julie’s prospective parents. As soon as I laid eyes on them I knew I had made a good choice. They are youngish married couple with no pets. My biggest concern about placing Julie was how she would manage in a multi-cat household. She has already been moved around quite a bit, has lived alone for the last six months, and I wanted to keep the trauma to a minimum.
This couple had been mulling over getting a cat for some time and once John (the husband) learned about Julie via Gothamist, he contacted his wife. His wife, Nicole, in turn contacted me. After talking a little over the phone, we agreed to meet today so they could meet Miss Julie and make a final decision.
It did not take them long to decide. Julie put on a real show, chatting them up and giving them several choice glimpses of her lusciously tubby tabby tummy. What sealed the deal was Julie loving all over Nicole’s purse.
Getting Julie into the carrier was a bit of a task. She clearly did not want to go and used her bountiful bod to force her way out. This Greenpoint girl was not too keen on moving to Kensington. But after being assured she would not be exposed to any Park Slope stroller moms, Julie calmed down a bit and complied with being lowered into the carrier.
As I write this I wonder how Julie is doing at her new home. I bet she is napping away after having such an adventurous day. Her new family has promised to send me photos once Julie gets settled and I eagerly await them.
Believe it or not, Julie is one lucky cat. She got a new home. Many of her feline brethren don’t have that luxury; they languish in shelters or on the street. Like a little fella I discovered on Bad Advice today.
“Inky” is a CUTE little guy who decided the Roebling Oil Field was not for him. Certainly there is someone (other than me) who melts at the sight of that chunk of wet cat food stuck to his little black nose. Any black cat lovers out there? It’s time to step up to the plate.
Miss Heather
UPDATE: here is a photo of Julie napping at her new digs.
John writes:
Attached are two first photos of Julie comfortably napping on our couch. She’s made herself very much at home in all our most comfortable places. We’re already looking forward to seeing her every time we walk in the door.
And the beep goes on…
In just over two hours my new electronic neighbor will have been beeping for three whole days. I cannot tell a lie: in the last 25 hours my irritation has become fascination. Not only do I want to see how long this appliance will continue chirping away, but after it stops I am going to conduct an autopsy and determine the make and model of the battery. Whatever it is, I will buy nothing else the rest of my life.
Given the previous paragraph, some very thoughtful advice tendered to me recently (by a commenter), thought greatly appreciated, is irrelevant. Not wanting to seem ungrateful, I will share it here. “Jukeboxgraduate”writes:
miss heather – you can’t rig something to pull it across the roof? or scramble across the roof to get it yourself? or leave a note on the front door of the offending building:
TO THE MORONS WHO THREW THE SMOKE DETECTOR ON THE ROOF
THE BEEPING IS DRIVING US NUTS. IF YOU DON’T TAKE IT OFF THE ROOF AND TAKE THE BATTERIES OUT, WE WILL CALL THE POLICE AND REPORT SUSPICIOUS DRUG DEALING ACTIVITY IN YOUR BUILDING.
THANK YOU FOR YOUR CONSIDERATION.
Although the above advice is pretty sensible stuff, yesterday I heard the most diabolical (and effective) means of handling a noisy neighbor problem. EVER.
My buddy, we’ll call him “John”, had some seriously noisy neighbors. They were the dreaded frat boy type who swills beer and blares music at all hours. Wishing to resolve this problem amicably, John spoke to them several times. All to no avail. This is when he got an idea. An excellent idea.
“John” proceeded to draft a terse but civil letter using the best legalese his mind could muster. The phrase “quiet enjoyment” was employed repeatedly. After printing this letter on quality bond and signing it, he added the final fiendish touch: he mailed it in an envelope he had found recently. An envelope whose preprinted return address happened to be a law firm.
The noise stopped.
Miss Heather
Belvedere XXVIII
As my husband and I were passing Java Street this afternoon we noticed a balloon festooned sign with “Open House” emblazoned on it. Not even bothering to read the details, I told my husband:
I betcha this is an advertisement for one of those fucking Belvedere buildings.
I have a perverse fascination with Belvedere. Despite the posh sounding name, these buildings are little more than perfect facsimiles of the pre-fab piles of shit that grace gated apartment communities in suburban Dallas or (insert outer ring suburb here). I am also amazed by how god damned many of them there are. Too damned many, as you will see.
You needn’t pound the pavement in Greenpoint long to deduce how many of these ‘exclusive’ properties scar the local landscape. The developer has saved you (and me) the trouble by numbering them. Including the building my husband and I saw yesterday.
Twenty eight?!? Shit, that means there’s almost as many of Belvederes as there are Super Bowls. And I am not too crazy about the Super Bowl either. Wardrobe malfunctions notwithstanding, obviously.
This sheds light as to why I see these posters all the damned time. I have always interpreted the euphemism “motivated seller” as meaning “desperately trying to unload something nobody wants to buy”. Perhaps I should give my buddies Bridge Realty an Economics 101 refresher course? *a-hem*
Dear Mr. Belvedere,
If you are having trouble selling your existing stock, it is an indicator that your product supply has outstripped consumer demand. Constructing another property exactly like it across the street is not going to change anything. In fact, doing so will only exacerbate the problem.
It does not take a graduate of Harvard Business School to figure this out. I have two degrees in fine art and I easily grasp this defining principle of the free market system. What’s your problem?
In closing, I would like to point out that calling the property (across the street from Belvedere XXVIII) “Belveder XII” makes you look really fucking stupid. Can you count? Oh wait, maybe you can’t. This would explain why you continue to build these crappy condos despite having a dearth of interested buyers.
Sincerely,
Miss Heather
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
How many hipsters does it take to turn off a smoke detector?
Hell if I know. All I’m saying is for the last two hours my husband and I have had the pleasure of hearing “BEEP, BEEP” at four minute intervals. OVER AND OVER. Why? Because our ‘nabes tossed their smoke detector behind their/our apartment.
Why didn’t they just remove the fucking battery!?! And to think these are the very folks who will be bankrolling my social security in my old age. I’m already staking out my spot under the BQE.
Miss Heather
UPDATE: it is 12:45 a.m., May 4th, and the alarm is still going strong.
SECOND UPDATE: 9:52 a.m., May 4th, STILL GOING.
THIRD UPDATE: 4:13 p.m., May 4th, STILL GOING.
FOURTH UPDATE: 8:35 p.m., May 4th, STILL GOING STRONG.
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!
There’s no place like home!
A few weeks ago I did something I rarely, if ever, do: drop $60.00 for a pair of shoes. The above shoes. When I saw them at the Mini minimarket I was smitten. How often does one find red FLOCKED flats, much less red flocked flats THAT SMELL LIKE FRUIT. I shit you not, they do. After wearing them my feet smell like The Copa Cabana. Not that I’m into sniffing feet (my own or anyone else’s), mind you.
Which brings me to a recent dialogue I had with one of my readers, “jukeboxgraduate”. She writes:
Ah, Miss Heather. Clearly you do not live close enough to Franklin St. to remember the hell that was the YEAR AND A HALF of its destruction, rebuild, destruction, rebuild, etc. I remember jackhammers outside my window – repeatedly – at 6am. I remember flaming man holes (no, really, actual man holes in the street – me calling 911 because everyone outside just seemed to be standing there staring at it).
To wit I emailed her back:
…I chuckled at your memories of exploding man holes and the utter hell that was Franklin Street. Remember when they had a rash of muggings there a year or two ago? I do. It was around that time my husband and I had the pleasure of walking by some young toughs smoking crack around a discarded stove… (Ah, those were the days!)
Damn, I miss those flaming man holes. Nowadays if I want to experience that kind of thing I have to consume large amounts of tofu— but somehow it just isn’t the same. Yes indeedy, to quote Archie and Edith Bunker, those were the days. The days when Franklin Street was a special place teeming with very special people. I’m going to click together my tooty fruity red ruby slippers, go back in time and tell you about one such special person…
It was a sultry summer night in Greenpoint. On a lark, my buddy Rachael and I went to the G Lounge. (This bar is long gone, Van Gogh’s Radio has since taken its place. —Ed. Note) After we arrived we noticed our friend Jez was there, so we joined her. Next to her was this tall lanky dude. The three of us struck up a conversation with him.
Or should I say two of us conversed with him? For reasons I do not recall this guy pissed Jez off and the two commenced having a shouting match. Knowing that Jez can be a bit of a hot head, Rachael and I laughed it off. We made no effort whatsoever to suppress our amusement at her scathing bon mots. This act of insouciance on our part was the final straw; she stomped out of the bar, leaving us alone with our new friend. We explained to Michael that he should not to take anything Jez said personally. She’s a very sweet— but very opinionated gal— who clearly needed to blow off some steam.
After making peace, Mike left the bar. Rachael and I, no longer having a source of entertainment, left as well. We bumped into Mike a few doors down. He was with two young Polish toughs drinking Johnny Walker Red straight out of the bottle. Demonstrating true Greenpoint hospitality, they offered us a swig. Rachael accepted, I declined.
Having broken bread, Mike started to open up. A LOT. He wanted to know if Rachael was married. Rachael answered to the affirmative. He was visibly crushed by this and we took pity on him. Enough so to acquiesce to a strange, but other harmless request: to suck one of our big toes. Yup, Mr. Mike was a foot man.
Although this is not my thing, my “inner fucker” was dying to know if this dude would actually do it. And by “it” I mean stick my dirty, unwashed toe in his mouth. Right there on the street. My more sensible side figured his mouth was probably pretty clean after swigging that high-octane hooch. I mean, think about it: I know where my foot has been, but god only knows where his mouth has been. Oh wait, I DO KNOW: feasting upon the finely fettled and festering feet of New York Shitty. *shudder*
Long story made short, he did it. The Polish dudes thought this was the funniest fucking thing they had ever seen (because it is FUCKING FUNNY). As time went on Rachael and I came to learn how truly weird Mike was. Not only was he into feet, but he liked to wear women’s pantyhose (preferably control top) and was entranced by Landmark Forum. The lattermost was what really turned me off. Those people give me the fucking creeps.
Thankfully, Greenpoint gentrification eventually forced Mike to move elsewhere. “Where to?”, you ask?
Where else: QUEENS.
Miss Heather
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