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Meet Haile Selassie
Tonight I am going to be self-indulgent and write about a post about a kitty I know: one Haile Selassie. He currently resides at the BARC shelter, but until about two weeks ago he was my neighbor. From the mean streets of Greenpoint to the blue chip hipster haven of Williamsburg, Mr. Selassie is, to quote George Jefferson, “Movin’ on up” in the world.
I first became acquainted with Haile about 2 1/2 years ago. Every so often he would pay our apartment a ‘visit’, much to the consternation of our cats. One time my cat Uni and he were having a stand-off, nose to nose, through my bedroom window. Neither one was very happy to see the other. Uni was scratching at the glass like the Tasmanian Devil, which was pretty remarkable given that she hardly moves from her spot on the bed on any given day. Seriously, this gal is fucking lazy. Even for a cat.
Boy was she was pissed, but Haile kept his cool. He simply turned around, positioned his hindquarters just so and managed to discharge a heaping helping of spray right at her face. This did little to assuage her anger. From that day I on referred to him as “Clarence Thomas” and called Uni “Anita Hill” because (after that incident) they had a special ‘thing’ for each other— and it was most decidely NOT love at first sight.
Soon thereafter I learned that my next door neighbors were providing Haile (formerly known as Mr. Thomas*) with food and water. I suspect he was (is) either a runaway or a throw-away because around the time Haile came on the scene I noticed flyers around the neighborhood featuring a “lost cat” whose description matched him to a “t”. If this lost cat was Haile, no one came forward and as a consequence, the area behind my apartment became his home. If I went out there to read, Haile would come over and say “Hi”— albeit while keeping his distance. Last August when my husband and I were out back roasting chili peppers for 3 hours Haile kept us company. Perhaps he has a penchant for spicy food? Only Haile knows and he isn’t talking.
This routine changed when the building next door was gut-renovated last September. After not seeing Haile for awhile, my husband and I thought (hoped) our former neighbors took him with them when they moved out. Earlier this year we learned this was not so; not only did the visits resume, but he pulled the ‘piss in the face’ trick on another one of our cats. This act precipitated a feline feud at Chateau de Ghetto that took 15 minutes and a water gun (that had to be reloaded TWICE), to put down. Although this was not an enjoyable event, my husband and I admired Haile’s raw chutzpah. We even laughed about it later and I thought to myself: “Yeah, this cat is 100% Greenpoint through and through.”
Now jump forward to two weeks ago. The visits became more frequent because Haile was clearly hungry. He would show up at our kitchen window every time I served supper to our little pride. I shit you not, the poor fella licked his lips whenever I would open a can of cat food. I suspect most of you can deduce what happened next: I started feeding Haile too. (Miss Heather may hate dog shit, but she loves animals.)
Shortly thereafter I contacted Lisa Vallez (of BARC) and we set up a trap to catch Mr. Selassie. To his credit, Haile is one clever cat: the first time he set off the trap, he managed to eat the food without getting caught. Exasperated, I rummaged through the fridge looking for something especially enticing to put in there… and I found it: marinated lamb leftovers from Ghenet Restaurant.
Mind you, this was only 36 hours after being violently ill with stomach flu— and one of the things that made the roundtrip into and out of my mouth (and nose) was Ethiopian leftovers. The sight and smell of this foodstuff made me queasy, but being the proud person I am, I was not about to be outsmarted by a cat— no matter how cute he is. Haile was gonna get in that cage if it killed the both of us.
Thankfully, it did not come to that. One minute (if that) after placing the lamb in the trap I heard a loud “SNAP“. I peeked out the window and lo, there Haile was in the cage! Hence how he got his new (and decidely more politically correct) name: Haile Selassie. Although he found the Wellness wet food perfectly acceptable, his taste for Ethiopian marinated lamb from a top drawer dining establishment facilitated his capture. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised by his epicurian tastes: Mr. Selassie sports a tuxedo coat, an ascot, white ‘spats’ and gloves. He was clearly born to appreciate the finer things in life, but life saw fit give him something else. Until now.
Thankfully, Haile has a new (and hopefully temporary) home at BARC. Aside from an eye infection (and missing three teeth), he has a clean bill of health: no FIV, no feline leukemia. I imagine it will take a little time for him to learn to trust humans again, but can you blame him? Perhaps it is wishful thinking on my part, but I think Haile will come around.
Miss Heather
P.S.: I would like to give a big shout out of thanks to Lisa (who also took the above photo) and the peeps at BARC for helping Haile have a shot at a better life. God only knows, he deserves it.
*As unbelievable as it may sound, until recently I never considered the racial implications regarding my choice of moniker for this cat. I am not Don Imus, thank you. Rather, I have a strange (and probably unwholesome) fascination with the Clarence Thomas/Anita Hearings of yore— especially Mr. Thomas’s quip about finding a public hair in his Coke. Every so often when I am at a party (or some other public gathering— especially art openings) and find myself getting bored, I will shout “Someone put a pubic hair in my Coke!” just to see the look on peoples’ faces. I strongly recommend doing this, the response is priceless.
The previous having been said, I (fairly) recently found myself applauding something Mr. Thomas did: his letter of dissent regarding the Supreme Court’s decision to allow eminent domain for private use. He said something to the effect of ‘urban renewal is negro removal’. Not only is the man right, but his tome should be expanded to ‘urban renewal is poverty removal’. One needs not be black to be poor.
As I have gotten along in years (or perhaps have become more aware things— or both), I have noticed that being poor is an unwritten crime in this country. The popular perception seems to be that a person is poor due to a simple lack of moral character. The thought that our government’s lack of moral character (and we, the people’s voting patterns) may be responsible for making these people poor and keeping them that way has clearly not crossed these peoples’ minds. Instead we sweep them under the rug. Good for U.S.
Welcome to New York Shitty
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
April 10, 2007, 6:40 a.m.
April 11, 2007, 6:46 a.m.
April 12, 2007, 6:48 a.m.
The pile-driver at 110 Green Street has been eerily silent of late. No worries, another source of irritation (READ: psychosis-inducing sleep deprivation) has reared its ugly head: the contractors who are upgrading a transformer for the G train in front of my apartment building.
This brings me to the above-listed dates and times: these indicate when I have been awakened by this crew making an UNGODLY amount of noise. I am talking about a colossal din that makes my brick shithouse of an apartment building rattle. Scary. As a result, I have not had a contigious eight hours of sleep until today. I cannot over-emphasize how much better I feel.
The same cannot be said about yesterday. It was the third morning of total and utter fucking chaos and I was going out of my mind. I understand that these guys have a job to do and all that happy horseshit, but SO DO I and all the other people whose apartments overlook this site. All because some of us keep different hours due to being ‘night people’ or working the graveyard shift (and many people here do), doesn’t mean we should be singled out for this cruel and unusual punishment.
What’s more, their shenanigans have claimed another unwitting victim: my younger cousin Jennie, who happens to be visiting right now. She and my mother arrived in New York Shitty the evening of April 11th and checked into their hotel. The next morning we were to talk on the phone and come up with some sort of plan for the day. This task is usually delegated to me by my husband. He says it’s because he will “just screw it up anyway”. I say it’s because he doesn’t want to do it. ANYHOO…
My mother calls and my husband puts her on speakerphone. In hindsight, this was probably not a wise call on his part…
Me (to my mother): …I’m really sorry, my brain just isn’t working too good right now.
Mamasan: Well grab a cup of coffee to wake you up and get down here.
Me: I am tired because some ASSHOLE woke me up at 6:48 this morning. This has been going on for THREE DAYS.
Mamasan: Was it the cats?
Me: No, it was not the fucking cats. The contractors who are doing work for the MTA have been firing up their heavy machinery before 7:00 a.m. for the last three days.
Mamasan: (laughing)
Me: IT IS NOT FUNNY! It’s so loud it even wakes Sam up. I am so fucking sick of this shit I think I am going to call the city.
Mamasan: (*chirp, chirp*)
Let me tell you a few things:
- I have not seen my cousin in over ten years.
- She was raised in a much more devout household than myself (READ: Southern Baptist). I cannot recall this person using profanity of any kind. Ever.
- I, on the other hand, drop f-bombs and other colorful phrases with total abandon. The only reason I never got in trouble for doing so when I was younger is because my mother felt it would hypocritical to punish me for using language I had clearly learned from my own father.
- Although I can exercise restraint (regarding the use of the above-mentioned language), my ability to do so is severely compromised when I have had not had a normal night’s sleep IN THREE DAYS.
I’m really sorry Jennie. Then again, you were probably going to hear someone drop a salvo of f-bombs (or worse) eventually. I mean, this IS New York after all. Perhaps it’s better that you got a taste of it from your own flesh and blood first. Oh yeah, welcome to New York Shitty.
Miss Heather
God bless you Mr. Vonnegut
Filed under: Area 51
1922-2007
You may be gone, but your legacy lives on. Please put in a good word for me, as I would be delighted to be your cell mate in heaven, hell or purgatory. I’m putting my money on purgatory ‘cuz between you, me, and Mark Twain, I suspect neither god nor satan would want us.
Miss Heather
Miss Heather wants to send out some New York Shitty love to…
Filed under: Area 51
- Kevin Walsh (of Forgotten-NY) for giving me props in his recent piece featuring
East WilliamsburgGreenpoint. - Contemptster, for being deferential to the Dog Shit Queen of Greenpoint’s doo doo expertise. Check this one out, it’s a fun read.
- Slices of the City, for adding me to their blogroll. Although I do not eat pizza often, when I do it sure as fuck better be good. The only thing I hate more than bad pizza is bad Chinese food.
- ‘Mookie Singerman’, whose comment regarding New York Shitty (and my mother) made me shoot coffee out of my nose (because I was laughing my ass off). Those of you out there who have actually met my mother would understand why his comment would strike me as being hilarious.
- Lastly I want to give a shout out to Morgan Friedman of Overheard in New York for giving me the heads up that an item I submitted will be featured in tomorrow’s issue of Metro New York.
To quote Jeff Spicoli:
Awesome! Totally Awesome!
Miss Heather
High Life on Manhattan Avenue
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
This week I have found two— count ’em TWO— photos on Manhattan Avenue. The first one was located in front of Alfenet Consulting, the latter, in front of the Mexican grocery that is located, get this— TWO doors away. Here they are for all to enjoy…
Bring on the brown sugah!
Bring on the:
- Bong
- Booze
- Cocaine
- Coffee
- Screwdrivers and…
- Time Magazine?!?
When I find shit like this it just goes to show how incredibly fucking dull my life really is. I didn’t know Keith Richards lived in Greenpoint. Perhaps I should bake a nice casserole and welcome him to the neighborhood?
Miss Heather
Magic Johnson’s Bigass Tool
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
This evening I had the pleasure of moderating a comment regarding my recent piece about 110 Green Street. Lara writes:
Great site! Thought you might like to see my video of this so called “pile driver” (new term for me as well). And just so you know…yep, I reside directly in front of this hell hole…look right out over it. The video was shot from my window.
Check it out at: http://onesweetworld.wordpress.com
Just in case you didn’t get enough of it already!!
Thanks Lara! Please accept my sincerest condolences.
Miss Heather
Pissville
Last weekend I was feeling adventurous so I ventured across the Greenpoint Avenue Bridge to (gasp!) Queens. Below is a map indicating the area I checked out.
This disorienting no man’s land (nestled between the Long Island Expressway and Newton Creek) is known by several names. Some call it Long Island City, others say it is Sunnyside. I have created my own (very) off-color moniker for this ‘hood, as you will soon learn.
Anyone who has had Greenpoint History 101 will tell you that Neziah Bliss was the driving force behind my neighborhood’s development. In 1838 Mr. Bliss shelled out the dough to have the land surveyed. The result of this endeavor is the grid-work of streets that riddle Greenpoint to this day. As a consequence, the Bliss name is venerated here; he is Greenpoint nobility.
What a number of people do not realize is that Mr. Bliss was also responsible for development in adjoining Queens. This includes the area I perused yesterday. This parcel of land was once called ‘Blissville’ (in honor of its founder). After inspecting his namesake neighborhood I humbly recommend that it be rechristened “Pissville”. This is because it is friggin’ nasty.
If I had to describe Pissville in one sentence this would be this: take the worst features of Greenpoint and Long Island City and cram them into the armpit that is the Long Island Expressway. Pretty sexy, huh? Follows are some highlights from my Pissville experience… with PICTURES!
WELCOME TO PISSVILLE
When I reached the apex of the Greenpoint Avenue Bridge the first two businesses I laid eyes upon were two shuttered storefronts. One was clearly a bodega, the other was more ambiguous; it had an orange awning with the word “Circles†emblazoned on it. “That has got to be a titty bar†I mumbled to myself. When I got home later and googled the address (36-21 Review Avenue) I discovered that I was correct. (The previous link is NSFW — Ed. Note.)
I failed to take photo of this fine establishment, but suffice it to say that it looked like the kind of strip joint where the dancers probably wear control top thongs to keep wiggle and jiggle to a dull roar. If Medusa’s face could turn one’s person into stone— or if the god of the Old Testament could convert heathens into glorified saltlicks, the sight of this place is more than enough to give anyone (not wearing a hazmat suit) a raging case of herpes. Valtrex, anyone?
I FPUCKED YOUR MOTHER
After being greeted with the promise of tits and ass, I thought to myself: “This place has personality.”
And it is not a very nice one.
I do not wish to suggest that I find Pissville unlikeable. Even though Charles Bukowski is one of my favorite authors (to make metaphor), I sure as hell would not want him as a next door neighbor— if you know what I mean. But if you were to locate Mr. Bukowski (READ: Pissville) safely on the other side of Newtown Creek everything would be peachy keen. That way I can savor its unique charm (and/or some anonymous person’s boast of defiling my mother) whenever the mood suits me.
Kenny does not appear to be a very popular guy…
but “Joe” is clearly missed by many. May he rest in peace.
Amusingly enough, Pissville (as laden with garbage and foul language as it is) was strangely bereft of dog shit. That said, I did not go away empty handed.
Although it is not discernable in the above photo, the author of this signature shit used an inter-office memo as toilet paper. Perhaps it was a disgruntled worker from Kenny’s? This turd taco can be found at 51-26 34th Street.
And here is a little something I discovered across the street from this shit sandwich…
A BIGASS CONDOMINIUM BUILDING!
Let’s review:
- This ‘nabe is appointed with little more than a bodega and a titty bar.
- The sidewalks are covered with garbage.
- Someone residing here claims to have done dirty things to my mother. This dude must have the longest schlong on the east coast ‘cuz my mother resides in New Mexico. I am not sure what “pucking” is, but I bet it is something so nasty that even a crack whore charges extra for it.
- This building is not located anywhere near a subway station, and…
- under the right conditions the area probably reeks of exhaust fumes (from the L.I.E.) and the putrid stink from the waste water plant across Newton Creek.
Who do I make my check out to?
Miss Heather
Easter: Greenpoint Style
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
This morning (upon discovering that Dreamhost was down) I decided to go for walk. Follows are a few things I saw of interest.
The fine gentlemen at the Franklin Corner Store saw fit to make a statement about global warming and climate change.
The residents at 204 Franklin Street are attempting to combat the dog crap problem while keeping with the spirit of the holiday.
141 Kent Street could clearly care less. Christmas, Halloween, Easter— these ‘holidays’ are nothing more than an opportunity for kids get hopped up on sugary food… and parents drinking heavily in order to make the resulting mayhem tolerable.
Thankfully, the “Beer Bunny” was kind enough to leave 143 Kent Street a little something to take the edge off.
Miss Heather
At last, affordable housing in Greenpoint!
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
Yesterday I read an article in the April issue of Greenline entitled “Too Little, Too Late?”. As some of you can probably deduce, the subject of this piece was housing. And after I completed the second paragraph of this opus I learned that:
…plans for 459 units of affordable housing on the waterfront and 246 in the upland area (Where the fuck is that? McGuinness Boulevard? East New York?!?— Ed. Note) are…
to quote the HPD representative who spouted this bullshit “in the pipeline.”
Of course they are, I thought to myself. If there is one thing I can safely assert about the housing situation here, it is this: if you (and yours) earn under $100,000 a year (yes, I just typed six figures) and seek a domicile— be it a rental or for purchase— you might as well drop dead. 705 ‘affordable units’ of housing?!? Houseshit!
Perhaps I should revise the previous figure to 706 because today I discovered a bona fide piece of affordable housing. It is located in the ‘upland’ area of Greenpoint at 218 India Street…
or would that be 216 India Street? This cozy ‘starter apartment’ was not labeled, so both of the previous addresses are little more than educated guesses. Regardless, I liked their flexible terms in regards to financing.
I’m not too sure I like the “ass” part, but accepting a lid (or two) of weed as rental payment is probably sound business practice. Checks bounce, our money isn’t worth shit anyway, so why not implement the ‘grass standard’? Marijuana: America’s other greenback.
A great number of you (who are undoubtedly interested in this wonderful real estate opportunity) may harbor concerns about security. I will put this issue to rest here and now. Although 218 India Street is not appointed with jimmy-proof locks, a buzzer system or security cameras, its neighbor (222 India Street) has a Doberman Pinscher on the premises for your peace of mind. (Or to take a piece out of some unfortunate trespasser’s ass.)
The word on the street is that this canine is a real cocksucker. (Yeah, that was a cheap shot. If it wasn’t for cheap thrills I would have lost the will to live a long, long time ago. Sue me.)
Last— but hardly least— here is my favorite feature of 128 India Street.
New York Shitty, I present the Play-Mor Palace!
Miss Heather
Easter, East Williamsburg Style
Filed under: Area 51
I had originally planned to post this photo today, but it would appear that my homeboy down south has beat me to it.
That’s alright, because the above photo (provided by “Rebecca11222”) is infinitely more disturbing. Notice how this sign fails to indicate whether or not these “baby lambs”, “baby goats” and “rabbits” still have a pulse. I s’pose what you’ll get is anyone’s guess. Nonetheless, I betcha one very special child (residing near Metropolitan Avenue and Leonard Street which is where this store is located) found a very special treat in his Easter basket this morning.
Miss Heather
P.S.: The dude in this photo looks WAY too interested in those baby goats.
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