Greenpoint
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Culture on the Cheap
Bright Lights, Big Shitty
Filed under: Dog Shit, Dung of the Day, Greenpoint Magic, Williamsburg
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.
Comments
2 Comments on Bright Lights, Big Shitty
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rheingold on
Mon, 3rd Sep 2007 12:25 am
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rheingold on
Mon, 3rd Sep 2007 12:41 am
Miss Heather,
May I say how much I enjoy your site. Every sinister construction site, every dog shit depth charge about which you write makes me get all misty-eyed for the Greenpoint where I used to live but can not longer afford. Your tree pit installment was particularly touching. Few things about Greenpoint spoke to me like the frightening urban vegetation which would spring from sidewalk cracks to heights of midget wrestlers seemingly overnight. The densest forests, as I remember, were on Java and Kent on the West St. end. I was always nervous that a tendril was going to reach out and grab my ankle as I walked by.
Thank you thank you thank you for providing a window to the old nabe. Please reassure me that some things remain eternal about Greenpoint. There are still old beer-Os hanging out by the corrugated tin fence across from the park on Dupont St., aren’t there?
Bless you,
Daniel
Miss Heather,
May I say how much I enjoy your site. Every sinister fly-by-night construction site, every dog shit depth charge you chronicle makes me misty-eyed for the Greenpoint I loved but in which I can no longer afford to live.
Particularly touching was your installment about the tree pits. Few things said Greenpoint to me like the mutant vegetation that would spring from sidewalk crack to the height of midget wrestlers seemingly overnight. The densest forests, as I remember, were on Java and Kent at the West St. end. I always sped up my pace as I walked by, nervous that a tendril would reach out and grab my ankle.
Bless you for providing me with a window on the old nabe. Please tell me gentrification hasn’t completely devoured Greenpoint and that some things remain eternal. There is still that claque of old beer-Os along the corrugated tin fence across from the park on Dupont St, isn’t there?
Thank you again,
Daniel
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