Greenpoint
Lorven Pharmacy
Culture on the Cheap
Greenpoint is well hung (and/or delusional)
The male ego has always been a source of fascination to me. As time has gone by I have come to the realization that earning 70 cents on the dollar is a very small price to pay for not bearing the burden of life-long severe social retardation many of my XY chromo brothers seem to be afflicted with. For example…
Several years ago I came across a personals ad for some gent who lives(d?) in Greenpoint. After listing his interests, hangouts (the Pencil Factory) and describing his appearance, he closed with his biggest, uh, enticement for the ladies:
Only women who know how to handle large equipment (10″ +) need reply.
Whoa dude, put that thing away! Greenpoint is a pretty small place. For the next several months I found myself wondering if the guy sitting next to me at the Pencil Factory— or waiting behind me at the grocery store checkout had an anaconda in his pants. This is no way to go through life.
Which brings me to today’s “Dung of the Day” from India Street…
Greenpoint, where the turds are hung like just their men: too big (and TOO close) for comfort.
Miss Heather
Greenpoint Irish
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
This morning my husband was kind enough to inform me that we were dangerously low on toilet paper. Although I seriously dislike getting repeat money shots of sleet to the face, I dislike wiping my ass with napkins even more, so I went to the grocery store. The following curiousity can be purchased at the Garden. Get your green bagels while supplies last!
I was mulling over leaving this item as an offering at Pete McGuinness’s grave, but since I can’t locate it, his boulevard will have to suffice. I hope the bums don’t eat it.
When asked about his (BRIEF) stint working as a lumber inspector in the south, this fine man replied:
I don’t like that Jim Crow they got or their goddam white crow either.
God bless you Mr. McGuinness. Happy St. Pats.
Miss Heather
Beadel Street, Here I come!
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
It’s pretty hard not to get depressed when you live in a ‘hood that is having much of its character eradicated in the name of ‘progress’. With every walk I take I become aware of (yet) another high-density faux Modernist heap of diarrhea being built here. Yesterday’s walk was no different— until I hit Beadel Street, anyway. It was on this humble block that I encountered the most fucking awesome house in all of Greenpoint.
Yes, you are seeing leopard print.
Lots of leopard print.
And fringe.
As you can imagine, I was rendered utterly speechless by the sublime genius of this domicile. I am dying to know what the inside looks like, but then again, I am probably not worthy of the experience. God, I want this house.
Miss Heather
McGolrick Park Crapper of Death
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
Today I made a lengthy sojourn to the far hinterlands of Greenpoint. I took a number of wonderful photographs during my trek, many of which have since been uploaded to my Flickr page. After reading this post, do check them out. After. Reading. This. Post. What follows is some life/dignity-saving information that you, dear readers, may find of interest.
Unlike a lot of people, I’m pretty tolerant of New York City public lavatories. When you live in a city with 8 million plus people, things are going to get pretty raunchy. This is an unavoidable fact of life.
In fact, I had a life-changing experience in one such public crapper: Washington Square Park. This is arguably one of the most disgusting public bathrooms New York City has to offer.
It was almost a decade ago.
It was my first trip to New York Shitty.
I was deciding upon which graduate school to attend— and I really had to go to the bathroom.
When I entered the Washington Square Park bathroom I was met with that special fetid piss cum ASS aroma that can only be had in such places. After some investigation I deduced that I was expected to select my allotted amount of toilet paper from the improvised ‘holder’ (made by stringing a chain across the front right-hand DOORLESS stall) before going to the bathroom. I got my t.p. and got down to it. No problem.
As I washed my hands I noticed there were no paper towels. Being an early adopter, I ventured back to the toilet paper cache to find a woman sitting on the can staring at me. I think it was a woman, who really knows— and I didn’t want to find out. As I grabbed a wad of t.p. she looked me squarely in the eye and grunted. LOUDLY. This was followed by the sound of two turds plopping into the toilet. Oh what a relief it is!
That’s when my friend/tour guide (from the Bronx) turned to me and said:
Welcome to New York.
Needless to say, I have been enamored of New York Shitty ever since. That moment inspired me to tell the Chicago Art Institute to go fuck themselves. Miss Heather went to school in New York*, and well, the rest is history (in the making, maybe).
Jump forward to today, March 14, 2007…
I loaded my backpack for my two-hour journey, and in so doing, I forgot my cardinal Greenpoint Golden Rule: always carry a pack of disinfectant baby wipes. By the time I had (almost) reached the Kosciuszko Bridge I realized I needed to go to the bathroom. I made a hasty retreat to McGolrick Park so I could patronize their facilities— and I damned near met my maker.
When I reached Monitor Street I knew I had a serious situation on my hands. I sprinted to the can and dropped trou. Then I noticed there was no toilet paper. None that I would care to use, anyway.
I grabbed my backpack and tore through it looking for a napkin, paper towel, handkerchief, ANYTHING I could use to wipe my ass. No such luck (schmuck), so I had to improvise a solution. I did, albeit through trial and error:
- ATM receipts: the slick photo-static paper make for poor absorption of fecal matter, as I discovered
- Post-It notes: much more absorbent, but still lacking
- a plastic lid from a take-out container: BINGO! Remembering what a good buddy of mine told me about going to college in the Soviet Union (and having no running water in her fourth floor dormitory bathroom), I realized had the raw material for an ad hoc bidet.
I high-tailed my ass to the sink, hydroplaned and almost slammed my head into a wall. In my enthusiasm I had forgotten that the park employees were thoughtful enough to mop the floor— but not enough so to DRY MOP afterwards.
This moment acquainted me with my own mortality— and pride. Unlike my husband, I am not a full-blown athiest. I probably qualify as being an agnostic. This is a good thing, as it makes me a little less of a hypocrite when I muttered:
God, please do not let me die here.
Being found with a fractured skull, shit-smeared ass and a take-out lid in the McGolrick Park women’s bathroom is NOT the way I want to go. Come to think of it, I can’t think of anyone who would like to die in this manner. For too many a good reason to go into here.
After regaining my senses (and traction) I headed to the faucet.
Ever tried operating/stabilizing a shitty faucet while filling a lid with water? Try it. You’ll find yourself exclaiming exactly what I did, or worse:
GODDAMMIT!
This is when I heard a roar of laughter from the room next to me. A room where two park employees were hanging out. This pissed me off. A LOT.
I’ll show them, I thought to myself. So I spent the next two minutes doing a bucket lid brigade so as to render my ass spotless. And I did.
Not having any porter to tip, I left my own (non-monetary) token of appreciation.
Miss Heather
P.S.: Thanks Zoya!
*And had one of the most mind-blowingly intelligent and COOL teachers ever. Nayland Blake. Look him up.
Someone call the ASPCA!
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
Last weekend my husband and I were walking down India Street when we discovered a dog gazing at us from an apartment window. A stuffed dog. I thought this was really funny until I walked past this house (again) today…
This poor pup has clearly met with foul play. Anyone up for starting a Stuffed Schnauzer Rescue Organization?
Miss Heather
Manhattan Avenue Yummy Taco
Much has been said, but little has been written about this dining establishment. So, in the interest of the general public, I will endeavor to do so here and now.
Speaking as someone who has spent most of her life in the southwest, I have certain expectations when it comes to Mexican food. I am not a snob; some days Taco Bell is every bit as tasty as Taco Chulo to my taste buds. But finding baby corn in my nachos freaks me out. That’s what I found when my husband brought me nachos from Yummy Taco— and much, much more…
A long time ago I was feeling under the weather. My husband, in his infinite kindness, offered to pick me up something to eat on the way home from work. I requested nachos. When I opened the styrofoam take-out container from Yummy Taco, here’s what I found:
- 4 or 5 corn chips
- a pile of beans
- salsa whose flavor closely resembled Pace picante sauce
- mushrooms
- baby corn
- broccoli
- cheese
- GREEN pico de gallo
I have patronized a number of Chinese-owned/operated Mexican restaurants. While none would remotely qualify as blue-chip fare, this was the first (and hopefully LAST) time I have ever seen green pico, mushrooms and baby corn employed in Mexican cuisine. My husband recently made a joke about the DOH’s recent crackdown on restaurants:
Yummy Taco better watch out, the Health Inspector is coming!
To wit I quipped,
Yummy Taco has nothing to worry about. That green pico of theirs probably keeps the rats at bay. Even rodents wouldn’t eat that shit; it’d probably kill them.
Which brings me to today’s “Dung of the Day” from 118 Freeman Street…
and a photo of Yummy Taco’s storefront.
Looks like someone else (a food critic from the New York Times?) shares my opinion of their fare. Yummy indeed!
Miss Heather
Ask a New Yorker
Filed under: Area 51
This evening I popped on over to Ask A New Yorker to see what’s shaking. Boy am I glad I did, because I came across this guy. Check him out, the man’s a fucking genius.
Miss Heather
This has been brought to my attention
Filed under: Area 51
Yesterday at around 5:00 p.m. I got a call from my husband. Without saying “Hello”, “How are you”, or whatever one usually says when someone answers the phone, he asked me a question: “Do you know what Details magazine is?
Me: Yes, I do.
Husband: Well, they know who you are.
This is page 105 from this month’s Details magazine.
Whoever is responsible for making this happen, thank you!
Miss Heather
P.S.: The daughter of a friend of ours found this. Here’s how it happened…
Someone left the magazine on the subway and she picked it up and was reading it and there it was.
Bum Shit, Gowanus Style
Yesterday my homeboy from The Gowanus Lounge sent me a turd teaser. He wrote:
Oh, and I shot a photo of a humongous turd at the Smith-9th Station that, like, no way came from a dog. If you’d like it, I’ll be happy to send it along. Since Smith-9th is the start and end of the G, it’s got a Greenpoint angle.
Being the fine ass Dog Shit Queen that I am, naturally I was all over this (shit) like a fly on crack:
…of course I am interested. Bring it on. I am a big fan of the Smith-9th Street station.
And, as many a late night televangelist would say: ask and ye shall receive…
My intrepid Internet friend waxed philosophical about the provenance of his find:
Here you go, Heather. I’m assuming this is people crap not dog crap, unless there was a really big German Shepherd type of canine up there. Either way, interesting place to find this sort of thing.
To wit, I wrote back:
NICE. That’s bum shit alright. I should know: ever since the Terminal Fire the bums seem to have migrated to my neck of the woods to do their business.
Bob doesn’t seem to relish talking shit shop over an early morning cup o’ joe (like I do):
I knew you’d know, whereas, I simply had a strong feeling. So, now I’ve got an image of someone taking a dump on the Smith-9th platform. Lovely.
And here is my reply:
The ‘image’ in your mind is my daily reality, kiddo.
*snap*
Actually, this specimen reminds me of the time I ate nothing but chile rellenos for two straight days several years ago. I make excellent rellenos, but having a touch of lactose intolerance, I employ a cheese and tofu mixture for filling. And when one mixes this concoction with beans and salsa, you get the digestive equivalent of Liquid Drano.
I am ‘man enough’ to take it, but the ghetto-ass plumbing in this apartment isn’t: as I learned. After discharging enough ‘by-product’ to build a shit bridge from here to Staten Island, I went to work— not knowing that I had left behind a ‘present’ for my (then) roommate to discover later.
When I got home from work that evening he had this thoroughly spooked-out expression on his face. You’d think that he had seen a ghost. I suppose he had; he beheld (and SMELLED) the wraiths of four or five deceased chile rellenos. He* asked me if I felt OK. I told him was feeling great. That’s what most people don’t realize about this variety of explosive shit: after you get it out of your system you feel much, much better.
Miss Heather
*This is the same dude who left skid-marked BVDs in the bathroom floor. FOR TWO DAYS.
Reason #8,950,879 why I live in Greenpoint
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
I found this yesterday afternoon while strolling along Diamond Street.
Priceless.
Miss Heather
P.S.: I am currently listening to Kiss. Not only do I like Kiss, but I have noticed that it is very effective at covering up construction noise. The dull roar of (il)legal construction/destruction blights my block more often than not nowadays. It sucks ASS.
Anyhoo, when “Heaven’s on Fire” came on (you know the beginning part where Paul Stanley sort of yodels), someone outside my window (a foot soldier for the Greenpoint Battalion of the Kiss Army?) did a dead-on imitation of it immediately afterwards. This makes reason #8,950,880 why I live in (and love)…
GREENPOINT ROCK SHITTY!
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