Greenpoint
Lorven Pharmacy
Culture on the Cheap
All the (dog) shit fit to print
Yesterday’s jaunt to Bushwick was incredibly fruitful. I found so much ‘eye candy’ that today will be a new first for New York Shitty: there are three “Dung of the Days”! Let’s get started…
Representing Greenpoint, we have a nice pile of bum shit (with asswipe!!!) next to some swank-tastic condos.
Representing Williamsburg, we have this mashed-up pile(s?) of shit gracing the front of the Key Food grocery store at 575 Grand Street.
And last— but not least— representing Bushwick, we have this festive group of butt dumplings which can be found at 91 Montrose Avenue.
Miss Heather
Turdasaurus Rex
This week I will be house-sitting for a friend of mine who lives in Bushwick. I am pretty jazzed about this because I have long wanted to peruse her hood for “dog bombs” and any other weird shit to be found. My friend has seen many choice things there over the years, including a man lacquering chicken feet on the sidewalk and some dude using a running fire hydrant to wash the fish he caught (from the East River???). He gutted them right there on the street and left the guts for all the enjoy. Yummy.
I did not see anything too out of the ordinary today, but I spied my very first piece of Bushwick dog shit signage…
and found today’s “Dung of the Day” in front of William J. Gaynor Junior High School at 223 Graham Avenue.
It sort of looks like Barney— enough to merit a very special PhotoShop project. Hmm…
Miss Heather
P.S.: Today’s “Dung of the Day” is dedicated to the fine men and women who have taken on the onerous task of educating New York City’s youth. It has been my observation that few places (other than retirement homes) have as much dog shit piled around them than public schools. You folks get no respect whatsoever.
I have the best, but here’s one of the rest
Filed under: Area 51
Recently I recounted a story from my “Dallas days” to one of my husband’s coworkers. We got on the subject of Hare Krishnas; he had a (VERY) funny tale to tell, as did I. It’s a long story (one which I care not go to into at this time), but it got me thinking about the various men I dated before I got married.
This has been on my mind of late because my wedding anniversary is this month: October 31. Our civil ceremony/quasi-elopement did not go over well with my Southern Baptist inlaws. They sent me a rather turgid email (not even a phone call) stating “Congratulations on formalizing your commitment”.
At the time I thought this was funny as hell. I still do: “formalizing (my) commitment” sounds like being thrown into a mental institution. Then again, I live in New York Shitty, have a cat named “Frances” (as in Frances Farmer) and operate a blog (mostly) about dog shit. I am the self-elected inmate of my own prison of sin. In their eyes anyway; I prefer to call it freedom.
Humor me, the levity helps me laugh off the money I lost by not having the requisite “dog and pony” show in a church.
While my husband was out of town this week, I pondered the motley crew who (at one time or another and of their own free will) CHOSE to take on my manic antics. This group is a veritable rogue’s gallery of manhood, I assure you. Water reaches its own level: freaks beget freaks. Some of them were nice, others not so much, but none of them were boring. I feel sorry for a few of them sometimes.
I parsed through the “coulda-haves”, “shouldn’t-haves”, “mighta-haves” and the “what the-fucks” and have declared a winner— or more appropriately— a runner-up. (I am married now, after all.)
The year was 2000 and I was a temp. I met a guy on the job (we’ll call him “Mike”) and we hit it off. (Yes, I realize that dating in the office is not advisable, but then again, we did not work with each other in any way.) Mike was a comedian who worked a day job to support his passion, I was a nascent Dog Shit Queen and full-time smartass. Do the math chemistry.
We bantered a lot, hung-out a lot, but went out only once. I didn’t get home until 4:00 a.m. that night. Nothing naughty happened, we just had so much fun bullshitting we lost track of time.
After that, nothing. We still emailed each other on occasion, but it was pretty weird. This really got to me at first, but I got over it and moved on.
(Jump forward two years)
I swung by this office to say “Hi” to my old supervisor and asked if Mike was around.
Old Supervisor (sheepishly): Uh, he is not here— didn’t you hear?
Fellow (former) Co-worker: He had a breakdown or something and had to be hospitalized.
Me: What?!?
F.F.C: He thought his roommates were watching him or something. It was a real mess.
Being the inquisitive person I am, I got to the bottom of this mystery: I emailed Mike. We met for dinner and I got the scoop.
Mike was clearly medicated, but was still very much the charming and incredibly witty man I knew several years before. The story (as I understand it) is as follows:
Mike thought his roommates were videotaping him. He had a nervous breakdown and was incarcerated at Bellevue. One day he managed to escape and (for reasons one can only imagine) decided to go back to work. And work Mike did— until a few men from Bellevue came to collect him. No one in the office thought anything of him being there.
If the previous anecdote is not sufficient evidence that working in a cubicle farm either encourages or requires insanity, I don’t know what is. Something distinctly weird and BAD happens when you throw people together like that.
I left our dinner date sad. To this day I cannot exactly pin down why I feel this way, save the fact that Mike has a long, hard road before him and being ostracized by his former coworkers is not going to help matters.
Wherever you are now Mike, I am rooting for you.
Miss Heather
POSTSCRIPT
Mike’s musings about other Bellevue residents (to me):
They were really nice people, artists mostly. Like you.
This is one of nicest compliments I have gotten to this day.
(Drawing Credit*: Miss Heather)
*This rendering does not depict anyone mentioned in this post in any way whatsoever. I just felt like including it.
A Day in the Life of Greenpoint
If it is possible to get “spring fever” in autumn, I have it. There’s something about the first wave of cool weather that makes me restless and reduces my attention span to zero. Shit, it took me a few tries today before I figured out that the Glad “ForceFlex” bag I put in the kitchen garbage can was not defective: it stretches to fit the can. DUH. Anyhoo…
I love taking walks around this ‘hood because I find so many fascinating things. Sometimes they even seem to tell a story, like the photos I am featuring on today’s post. I found the following items in this exact order on a recent Saturday morning…
Cigarette, asswipe and a lotto ticket…
A new work by my favorite Greenpoint ‘sign-maker’.
Some seriously mixed signals. I’m guessing this person’s love interest did not withstand the test of time.
A Slipster Still Life:
- Partially consumed latte: check
- One empty fifth of Vodka: check
- Dirty panties: check
Miss Heather
P.S.: Be sure to check out my new stuff on flickr. I have a created “Miss Heather’s House of Pain” for your viewing pleasure. In a nutshell, this is a photo documentary of how truly ghetto my apartment building has become. I am also in the process of creating a photo “set” of nifty pix I have taken around Brooklyn. Enjoy!
Interior Decoration by Miss Heather
Filed under: Area 51
When I was growing up my parents had a bulldog. “Amos” was blind, mostly deaf and left drool all over the place (as bulldogs are known to do). My parent’s penchant for constantly moving presented Amos with a sizeable challenge: he had to learn to negotiate a new house, year after year. The first week after each new move he’d bang around a bit, but always managed to get things down pat. Damned remarkable.
I make mention of the previous childhood tale because it is very similar to what happens here at Chateau de Ghetto when Miss Heather does a little tidying and redecorating: my husband knocks around a few days as he negotiates the learning curve. Sometimes he hits his foot on stuff and curses, other times he will walk by a new piece of furniture for two or three days before even noticing it. It’s damned funny.
Yesterday I set about finding a new ‘home’ for my four foot tall cardboard replica of the Empire State Building. I was non-plussed with it gracing the top of our refrigerator because it obstructed the New York State flag hanging on the wall behind it. While trying to figure out where else in the apartment I could put this item, I ran into a quandry that I am certain other owners of large Empire State Building standees have run into: low ceilings.
The only space that could accommodate something this tall was the dresser in our bedroom and even then I could not put the “top” on it.
I placed the ‘ESB’ there and had three inches to spare. It was a tight fit and an intimidating one at that: the building literally looms over you when in bed. “How could I mitigate this effect”, I asked myself. Then I had my ‘eureka moment’…
I think it needs more monkies.
Miss Heather
Green Street Blues
Exactly one week ago I came across this via The Gowanus Lounge. Not only do I (more or less) agree with the guy, but I have a few thoughts to add…
Green Street has never been a terribly nice place. The fortress (built by the MTA) at the end of the block has made matters worse:
- I am awakened by construction crews moving containers out of this pit at ALL HOURS. 12:30 and 5:30 in the morning seem to be pretty popular. I am of the understanding that this will be going on for another two years.
- This ‘fortress’ has also created a haven for criminal activity because it limits visibility of the block from Manhattan Avenue. Since that thing went up, tagging has increased AND the druggies have moved in. Don’t believe me? Click here and check out the two dudes I called the police on yesterday because they were shooting up in BROAD DAYLIGHT.
- I have come damned close to being run over trying to cross Green Street and Manhattan Avenue because motorists blow through the stop signs at this intersection. I have called 311 about this repeatedly and nothing is being done about it.
None of the previous items are good for ‘curb appeal’, if you know what I mean. Anyone who would buy into one of the glass boxes o’crap being tossed up here would have to be a certifiable moron. Shit, the only reason I am here is for the cheap(ish) rent.
That said, even I have no idea if even I will be around the next year or two because our landlord is getting greedy. He is attempting to (illegally) evict all three of the Section-8 tenants from our building. These people are very nice and actually help make this building a safer place to live. They are older (one is disabled), have lived here for 15+ years, and as a result, really care about the place and the people in it. It makes me sick. The only thing that is more depressing is the fact that one of the families is not even fighting back.
To summarize, ‘development’ (and the sheer greed that comes with it) is destroying this block— and probably this ‘hood as a whole. It is also destroying the lives of a number of people here whose only vice is being poor or disabled. There will be other consequences down the road, e.g., pushing an already-taxed infrastructure (public transportation, grocery stores, public schools, etc.) past capacity, but the human cost I am seeing (and experiencing) here and now is what really gets to me.
At first I wondered how these people can sleep at night, but then I remembered: they have no conscience. After they turn a fast buck in this neighborhood they will simply go on to the next one.
Miss Heather
Ho(ly) Shit
I am a recluse. One of the many things I like about Greenpoint is that people leave you alone. I have always been a weirdo. Big time (I document dog shit and make burqas for Hello Kitty dolls, after all). But unlike anywhere else I have ever lived, I can fly my freak flag with pride here without fear of retribution or ridicule. I cannot adequately convey how grateful I am for this privilege.
My interactions with the outside world have also become much more interesting as a result: in Greenpoint people just say “That’s Miss Heather, she’s like that”, everywhere else people say “What the fuck!?!” Or worse. For example, I am thoroughly confounded by the fact that when my (whiter-than-driven-snow) honky highness wears a t-shirt with Angela Davis on it, very little is said. But when I wear this…
I get an earful. And then some.
Of all the things I have made, this jacket is the “Holy of Holies”. I wear it with pride and guard it with a ferocity not unlike how a tiger protects her young. Lest any of you harbor any confusion whatsoever as to who this guy is, click here before you continue reading.
Am I a Maoist? Absolutely not. I like to think that my jacket is a Mao inhibitor that features a shiny happy pink man with a twinkle in his eye. Would this guy start a Cultural Revolution? Probably not— except perhaps if it involved fairies, bunny rabbits and a bubble machine a la Lawrence Welk.
Around here people are pretty used to seeing this jacket. Some are amused by it, a few get confused by it, most simply do not care. This is “Little Poland” after all. It’s not like I am walking around with a jacket with Stalin on it, after all.
Here are some of my favorite questions/comments regarding this article of clothing:
- Middle-eastern store owner: Isn’t he the guy who went crazy and killed a bunch of people? (He’s not that far off the mark— ed. note)
- 50-something year old Chinese food delivery man: (Chinese) MAO ZEDONG! (Chinese) MAO ZEDONG! (Repeat four more times).
- NYC Department of Transportation employee: Is that Reverend Sun Myung Moon (Uh, no— ed. note)
- Two 20-something year old Chinese dudes waiting for the E train at 23rd-Ely Avenue: (laugh their asses off).
- A few people: Is that Chang Kai-sheck (Wrong side, kiddos. If I was Taiwanese I’d probably beat the crap out of you— ed. note)
- Several people: Is that Pol Pot? (Close, but no cigar— ed. note)
- Even more people: Is that Kim Jong Il? (If only. Kim Jong is seriously Illin’ with that Elvis-esque pompadour. Too bad he is a nut job with nuclear technology— ed. note)
- 50-something year old goon smoking a cigarette outside the 53rd Street stop of the E (to his buddy): Looggit DAT! Dat chick has fuggin’ Ho Chi Minh on the back of her jacket!
*A-hem*
No, I do not have Ho Chi Minh on my jacket.
The number of Vietnam-era men (and one can safely assume veterans of this ‘conflict’ are in the group I am talking about) who get Mao confused with Ho is absolutely mind-boggling. Here is a picture of Mao…
and here is a picture of Ho.
Not exactly dead-ringers, huh? I was not old enough to remember any of this shit when it happened; I was too busy toilet-training and shoving crayons up my nose. Perhaps hindsight helps in this respect, then again, maybe the reason the whole this ‘conflict’ got as fucked up as it did was because these dudes had no idea whatsoever who they were after? Anything Asiatic goes.
(Come to think of it, the previous scenario is not dissimilar to our fine country’s current cluster-fuck in the middle east, but I digress…)
Last Friday I had the mother of all Mao jacket incidents. In Greenpoint, of all places. I had just got off the train. I passed by a liquor store, and as I did an older man exited and started walking behind me.
Old Man: HO!
Me (to myself): What the fuck?
Old Man: HO!
Me (to myself): Fucking pervert!
Old Man: HOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Me (getting mighty pissed, I turned around): WHAT?!?
(The old man points at my jacket and asks in broken English if it is Ho Chi Minh.)
Me (please kill me now): No, it’s not Ho Chi Minh.
After a weekend’s worth of reflection I can safely say that the old man wasn’t doing anything wrong. Rather, my vanity got the better of me. Scrawny broads aren’t terribly popular here, much less those who are (clearly) over 30 and married. To skirt-chase me would be like hankering for some man’s leftover potato chips: crumbs. Greenpoint men want the full four-course meal.
If this post (my 101st!) is good for nothing else, consider it a public service announcement. All the previous dudes are dead now save two: Rev. Moon and Kim Jong Il.
- Reverend Moon fancies himself a savior and fancies money-laundering and tax evasion (among other things).
- Kim Jong Il has the atomic bomb. He tested it today.
Take your pick.
Miss Heather
The Algonquin Roundtable, Bushwick Style
Filed under: Area 51
Here is a delightful exchange a friend of mine heard in Bushwick last night.
Miss Heather
This is funny.
At midnight I went to the deli to get some beer
because I was wrapping up a paper and felt I deserved
it.There were a bunch of hoody-macs all around the
deli. Tough young hispanic and black dudes hanging
around being cool. They were actually very tall
strapping young men–most of them 6 foot tall.
Which is not common in this neighborhood.Anyway one of them was ordering a sandwich and the
others were just standing around being in the way.
I got my beer came back and they were oblivious to
being in my way. So I said, “Hey you all in line?”Not yet, sweety, said one of them.
They let me in line.
They guy got his sandwich and looked at me. His
friends said, “Damn how many layers you need on that
thing, dawg.”And he said “I’m a growing boy. At least my meat
is.”I was just trying with all my might to keep a
straight face because, I’m sorry, his comic timing
was impeccable.One of his friends goes, “dude, I didn’t need to
hear that.”And he goes “it wasn’t meant for you to hear, but it
sounds like you be listening”I am impressed by the subtlety by that last quip.
He didn’t have to say “fag” he just let it be implied.
Dung of the Day: Driggs and North 9th Street
I bet there is a story behind this melange. Not a GOOD story, but a story nonetheless…
Miss Heather
Greenpoint Kids Rule (Park Slope Kids Drool)
Just in case the url of this blog (www.newyorkshitty.com) and the content herein have not made it clear already; this is not a child-friendly publication. It is a belief of the Dog Shit Queen of Greenpoint that there is already WAY too much bandwidth wasted on children and their parents’ vanity. Having made my stance on this issue known, I am willing to be flexible when the mood strikes me. Hence this post.
Today I went to the Franklin Corner Store to get some tea. The only upshot of gentrification here I can think of is that my tea of choice, Ito-En green tea with jasmine, is available almost everywhere now. The Franklin Corner Store started carrying it a few months ago and I have been eternally grateful ever since. A day without fragrant green tea buzz is a day that never was for Miss Heather.
I selected a chilled bottle of delicious tea from the cooler and proceeded to the register. The store owner asked if I was ready to check out. I said “Yes” and handed him $2.00. That’s when his young son popped up from behind the counter giggling maniacally. This kid is probably seven or eight years old and today he was hyper something fierce. I can only imagine how much sugar the lad had consumed to get himself worked into this state.
He kept bobbing up and down behind the counter, playing some demented version of “Peek a Boo” with me. All the while giggling his ass off. I enjoyed this tremendously, especially after I noticed that he had a price tag affixed to his forehead.
Me (to the store owner/father): How much does he cost?
Store Owner (without missing a beat): $2.25
We both laughed and after four attempts (the kid could NOT stand still if his life depended on it) I got this pic.
It might be a good idea to move the candy out of this child’s reach. As Cindy Adams might say:
Only in Greenpoint folks, only in Greenpoint!
I can only imagine what unholy furor the previous exchange may have precipitated had it transpired in Park Slope. Any ‘nabe laden with mommies who take make the time (and have the lack of a sense of humor needed) to bicker over the gender of a hat on Craigslist is a very scary and dangerous place in my book. I cannot state this with 100% certainty, but I’d wager one (or several) of the following scenarios would have come to pass had this child been found with a price tag on his head in Park Slope:
- A humorless dowager calls child protection services to accuse the store owner and me of human trafficking.
- Well-meaning Woman “A” (whose sole sense of purpose in life— because she does not have one— is poking her nose into other people’s business) cries racism because Latino children cost less than white children.
- Concerned Woman “B” points out the plight of trafficked women in Europe and Asia and calls Woman “A” racist and sexist.
- A debate ensues over what constitutes being ‘Latino’, as there a number of children in The Phillippines (which is in Asia) who are of Hispanic descent. This in turn…
- Starts a vitriolic exchange (on Craigslist naturally, high-minded virtue is only plausible if it can be voiced for free) as to what constitutes being “Hispanic” and what constitutes being “Latino”…
- And on.
- And on.
- And on into infinity… or when Craigslist.org crashes due to all the traffic. Whichever comes first.
- A brigade of lactating mommies start a “Suckle-In” in front of the offending store while chanting “We Will Overcome”.
- Edgy moms start putting tags on their children’s foreheads like…
- “Kaitlin, an Empowered Wom(b)yn Production: Priceless”
- “Max @ $2.25: an act of solidary for the oppressed child at the corner store”
Readers: Please shoot me an email if you think I missed anything in the above list. Outraged mommies are also encouraged to give feedback; I understand that your humvee-sized strollers (and the kids in them) would be irrevocably damaged from riding the G train.
That’s why Greenpoint kids rule and Park Slope kids drool: Greenpoint parents have a sense of humor. They let their kids act like kids.
I have always liked the Franklin Corner Store because their Cuban sandwiches are unbelievable*. Their kids are damned cool too. They can count on my repeat business for a long, long time.
Miss Heather
*Just try their “New Mexico” or “El Mexicano” sandwich. Vegetarian Heaven in a mouthful.
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