Greenpoint
Lorven Pharmacy
Culture on the Cheap
The Blarney Choad
Not satisfied with a mere six surveillance cameras, Magic Johnson and his crew have seen fit to add a few more.
I’m not too sure what purpose these cameras serve (aside from perhaps pissing people off— and in this regard they are working like a charm), but if they are being used as a dog shit deterrent, IT ISN’T WORKING.
Top of the mornin’ to ya Mr. Johnson!
I found this a yard away from these festive feces. Looks like the St. Paddy’s celebration is finally winding down at 106 Green Street. Sixteen days of partying: even for here that has got to set some sort of record…
Miss Heather
219 Montrose Avenue
Now that spring has arrived I have to be more careful when exiting my apartment building. This is because the usual suspects (hipsters, bums and junkies— I can no longer tell the difference) have resumed hanging out on my stoop. It takes every iota of restraint I have not to swing the hideous metal door that graces my building full force and squash these creatures like flies. If you do not shell out the ridiculous amount of money (my husband and I do in order) to live here, don’t hang out here . Simple as that.
When I was helping some friends move their cats this weekend I noticed that the fine folks who reside at 219 Montrose Avenue feel the same way about loiterers as I do. They made a nice sign to make their stance on this issue crystal fucking clear.
I for one like the juxtaposition of the plywood sign against the brand-spanking new vinyl siding. I think I will print out a nice copy of this sign, have it laminated and place it on our front door. It looks like it works.
Miss Heather
Uriah Hoare: Working Man’s Hero
For reasons I will go into another time, I have been spending a lot of time researching Greenpoint history of late. As I parsed through page upon page of old newspapers, I came to the realization that this neighborhood has not changed much over the last 150+ years. Greenpoint is a strange place; its inhabitants are even stranger. Yet, by the grace of god, not much in the way of serious criminal activity goes down here. But when something does happen, you can bet your bottom dollar…
- It will be a doozy.
- Alcohol consumption and/or arson will be involved.
Take the following gem of a crime blotter entry I found recently from the Brooklyn Daily Eagle:
July 15, 1860
Another Explosion of Fireworks — Suspected Arson and Arrest of the Supposed Incendiaries— Between 3 and 4 o’clock yesterday afternoon a large brick building situated in Green Street, near Union (now Manhattan Ed. Note) Avenue, Greenpoint, was blown into fragments by the explosion of a quantity of fireworks which had been placed there for storage. The building and the contents belonged to the firm of Boch & Puchta, of 50 Liberty Street, New York, and whose factory is at Greenpoint. The building is used exclusively for storing manufactured goods, and contained at the time of the explosion, at least, $4,000 worth of fireworks ready for delivery. The roof of the house was thrown upwards of forty feet into the air. Rockets, Roman candles, and squibs of different descriptions, were scattered in different directions for hundreds of yards around, and had the accident occured at night would doubtless have presented one of the most brilliant pyrotechnic displays ever witnessed. The noise of the explosion, it is said, was heard at a distance of two miles. The exploded building was detached and thrown at least two hundred yards away from any other house, consequently the damage done was confined entirely to the premises of Boch & Puchta, who estimate their loss at about $5,000 on building and stock. It is believed that the place was set on fire, and two men named Uriah Hoare and Henry Wendt were arrested on suspicion.
“Arrested on suspicion” is not a satisfactory explanation to Miss Heather. I needed closure and I wouldn’t rest goddammit until got it. I did: courtesy of the “Brooklyn Intelligence” section of New York Times published the same day…
…Hoare was discharged by Boch & Puchta yesterday morning for intoxication, the owners not considering it safe to trust such a man about their establishment. A few minutes before the explosion occured he was seen leaving the building, and it is supposed that he kindled a fire under it. The other man (Wendt) was arrested because he is an intimate associate of Hoare’s.
Not only does Mr. Wendt deserve induction into the Best Friend EVER Hall of Fame (if there is such a place), but this has got to be one of the most inspired acts of revenge against a former employer I have ever read. Someone should make a buddy movie based off this tale. I think Will Ferrell has the acting chops to depict Uriah Hoare with dignity and respect he so richly deserves.
Uriah Hoare, on the behalf of everyone who has ever wanted to rip their (ex) boss a new asshole, I salute you.
Miss Heather
No Dumping
This colossal failure to communicate can be found at the northwest intersection of India and West Street. If you go down there to check it out be sure to watch where you step. There’s feces (canine and otherwise) ALL OVER THE PLACE.
Miss Heather
Interesting Development at 97 Green Street
Although I am very happy to see that someone else hereabouts is fed up with the Green Street Crapfest I do feel compelled to point out that if a person is too fucking lazy to bend over and pick up his (or HER) dog doo, I seriously doubt he (or she) will bother negotiating around a couple of bikes and cinder blocks to get a sack to put said shit in. Even if it is free.
Just a thought.
Miss Heather
Diarrhea Daze: a few thoughts about intelligent design
Spring cleaning at Chateau de Ghetto is not unlike an Easter egg hunt: there is much ‘treasure’ to be had provided one searches diligently enough. I found the above item in our hallway as I was vacuuming the hallway this afternoon. I recognized the handwriting immediately; it is my own.
While the phrase “I’ve Got Diarrhea” pretty much speaks for itself, I’m not too sure what the alpha-numeric annotations pertain to. Perhaps it is some sort of shit cypher, who knows? I sure as fuck don’t remember. The one thing I can assert without a shadow of a doubt is that my finding this item was more than a little bit ironic. I have had diarrhea the last 2-3 days. I have also been busy puking my brains out in the wee hours of the morning.
I am pretty impervious to the common cold, influenza or any other malady that usually afflicts one’s person during the winter season. Regrettably, the same cannot be said about stomach sickness in the early spring. Take my word for it; what I had (and still have) has made the previous clear in the starkest and most repulsive terms.
Staying up all night vomiting and shitting (as I have) predisposes a person to rethink the human condition. This is especially true when the contents of his/her body are flying out of every orifice imaginable at the speed of sound. Gastronomical meltdowns are the mighty crucible that make even the most callous of mankind to look, well, inward. Bearing the previous in mind, I would like to offer some constructive criticism to whoever is responsible for designing the human body.
TO: Mr. G
FROM: Miss Heather
RE: Proposed Improvements to the Design of the Human Body
- The epiglottis is a laudable concept: it routes food to the stomach and air to the lungs. Why did you see fit not to outfit the hindquarters of humanity with a similar device, e.g.; a router that prevents flatus from intermixing with feces? Had you seen fit to do so, the ubiquitous ‘wet fart’— and the abject humiliation and ceaseless laundering that goes with it— would cease to exist. If you do not address this problem I am certain there will be a Nobel Prize and/or world domination for the person who does.
- My epiglottis serves it function during the intake of air and food, but the same cannot be said about acts of expulsion. As a result of this defect, I spent five minutes blowing my nose to get all the FOOD out of it. Ever seen collard greens and lentils come out of your nose? I didn’t think so. Trust me, it’s a sight you will never forget.
- Both ends at once: while the diaphragm is essential to one’s expulsion of vomitus and bowel movements, it has been my observation that when one is ill (as I have been lately) it tends to facilitate doing both of the previous at the same time. Until bathrooms are retro-fitted to address this problem, I would humbly recommend that the rectum and mouth be placed in close enough proximity so as to enable simultaneous discharge into the same receptacle. Human adaptation to this anatomical change will, in all probability, be seamless. If it’s damned near to impossible for me to tell the difference between the utterances people make from the top hole and the bottom one, I do not think anyone else will be the wiser. This will be our little secret.
Your immediate attention to this matter is greatly appreciated.
Sincerely,
Miss Heather
P.S.: If your design is (presumably) intelligent, could you please explain this person* to me? No one, I repeat, NO ONE calls this ‘hood “Green Point”.
If all the previous isn’t enough to make you feel a wee bit queasy, dear readers, today’s “Dung of the Day” will.
Anyone looking for some dog shit and an old douchebag? If so, go to Dupont Street west of Franklin (across from the playground) and knock yourself out.
Miss Heather
*I am a person of action. I would much rather be the broad who is talked about (for chasing dog shit sans compensation in Greenpoint), than to be paid to sit on my ass, sip coffee and pontificate about someone else’s accomplishments— which came to pass over ten years ago. That said, I am completely amenable flogging any miscreant who calls my ‘nabe “Green Point” for a modest fee.
Angel of Meth
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
The only thing worse than being home and watching a dozen police officers and EMS workers gather in front of your apartment building is to head home and FIND a bunch of squad cars and EMS workers in front of your apartment building. I learned this five years ago when my good buddy Rachael and I were headed back to my cracktastic apartment on Clay Street late one Friday night.
By the time we had reached the intersection of Eagle Street and Manhattan Avenue FOUR SQUAD CARS tore past us rollerballs ablazing. I turned to Rachael and said, “Fifty bucks says they’re headed to my block”. They were.
By the time we reached Clay Street on foot there were 60-70 gawkers (clad mostly in wife beaters and boxer shorts) milling about the remains of the ‘action’. I asked my Super (who was one the aforementioned wife beater wearers) what happened. He cryptically replied:
When you look for trouble, someone will give it to you.
After this sage wisdom left his lips, the Super proceeded to take a long swig from a bottle of Domaine Caton, his wine of choice that particular evening. Fortunately, my downstairs neighbor was a little bit more informative. “Angel” told me that some Dominicans and Mexicans got into a fight involving “machetes” and “pipes”. Ducky. Now jump to…
Yesterday, March 25, 2007
I arrived home at 5:00 p.m. to (once again) find a horde of policemen and EMS workers hovering around the front of my apartment building. Thankfully, machetes or pipes were not involved— unless one counts a crack pipe— but I digress.
Once I got past all the ‘looky-loos’, I saw a circle of 8-10 policemen and one civilian. In the middle of this pow-wow was a man lying face down on the cement with two tazer prongs stuck in his lower back. Unlike what I have seen on “Cops” this man was quite alert and talkative. This was probably so because ‘homeboy’ was tweaked out of his fucking gourd.
Follows are some highlights from his ‘discussion’ with New York’s Finest…
Cop: So, what have you been doing?
Tweaker: I’ve been runnin’ like Rocky Balboa.
Cop: What’s the problem?
Tweaker: I’ve been awake for three days, that’s the problem.
“Tweakie Bird” could not understand why the policemen were so interested in him…
Tweaker: Man, don’t you guys have a job to do?
Cop: We’re doing it right now.
This bon mot was met with a roar of laughter from all the onlookers, myself included. Having had my fill of ‘fun’ for the day, I went upstairs to my apartment. This was a bad call on my part: I later learned from my upstairs neighbor that he was hauled off in a straight jacket after rattling off a rather choice rant about being a U.S. Marine.
Miss Heather
Greenpoint Love
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
Last night my sister-in-law checked into the Chateau de Ghetto Arms (the living room of my apartment). Her flight ran two hours late, so she did not get the full ‘Welcome to Greenpoint’ experience until today (when we went out). On the way to the subway she (we) saw:
- One drunk dude falling asleep against a pay phone on Manhattan Avenue
- Another drunk dude pissing on Kent Street
At 12:30 p.m. Not exactly the stuff one usually finds in rural Indiana (which is where she resides). The piece de resistance however was when we arrived home this afternoon and exited the Queens-bound platform (of the G) at India Street.
A little motivational material to kick off the morning commute…
with a little something especially for the ladies.
In Greenpoint ‘love’ is an equal opportunity thing… and there’s always plenty of it to go around.
Miss Heather
Greenpoint Pest Control
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
Today my next door neighbors presented me with a new, challenging piece of refuse.
It took me awhile to figure out what this assemblage is, but I did:
- One used paper towel roll.
- One sticky mouse trap with…
- a dead mouse!
While deciphering the components of this contraption was difficult (until I noticed its strong resemblance to the ‘tools’ monkies make to fish dirt mounds for delicious termites), figuring out why it came about was not; someone was too grossed out to actually pick up the trap using his/her hand, so a TOOL was improvised. A ghetto-ass tool.
It was very thoughtful of my neighbors to share this tasty morsel with me. Periodic visits to my kitchen would simply not be complete without a scenic view of deceased vermin. Thanks a lot guys assholes!
As always this repulsive, but strangely ingenius, item has been added to my “Backdoor Crapstavaganza“.
Miss Heather
UPDATE 3/25/07: The dead mouse has since disappeared. I think the pigeons ate it. I have seen them devour rancid hot dog weenies, so a dead rodent soaking in water is probably right up their alley. The raw hide bone is still there, though.
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