greenpoint shitty

Though I have met Miss Heather, the phenomenal keeper of New York Shitty, in passing on occasion, I had the pleasure of hearing her read last night at Matchless, where she wowed the crowd with this tale of indecency.¹ It was a lovely night with the Heathers, chatting about gin with Mr. Heather at Teddy's and about Brooklyn Bowl -- I had attended a private tour of the huge space Thursday and owe a blog post about it -- on the return walk to Greenpoint.

Inevitably the subject of photography came up, as photos feature heavily on New York Shitty, and I said that while I do carry a camera around I am nowhere as prolific as Miss Heather, nor do I pass as many interesting scenes as she does. Over the summer I contributed to the Gowanus Lounge and Greenpointers Flick'r pools, but I don't consider what catches my eye to be of the New York Shitty aesthetic. Here are a few selections, however:

I sent Miss Heather this picture with the following note on May 7:

I've wanted to send you this photo since last October, but since Matt "mugsniffer" Glasson took it (at my request), it was on his computer until it came to my possession in January. Your post stuck a fire under my ass to finally send it your way.

The Viridian isn't the only new development with an incorrect vehicular phenomenon. Check out this photo of 90 Guernsey Street. It's pretty subtle, but notice that the driveway does not meet up with the garage but is off by about eighteen inches to two feet. My friend's car was towed a few months ago because he was parked in front of a driveway, even though he swore he wasn't. I wonder if this was the property he parked in front of. Can a car be reasonably towed from an imperfect driveway?

While walking to Word to order a book from another of last night's readers, I passed this delightful sign on Milton near Franklin:


And on Leonard near Greenpoint, behind St. Anthony's, this fellow was taking a siesta:


¹ When she mentioned Briarwood, I said aloud "Oh yeah," which turned a few heads, and later explained that I had experienced a similar situation at 23rd-Ely while en route to high school and had to report it at Briarwood, coincidentally the same stop as my alma mater.

reasons to love Greenpoint

Rutila, Me & Pony, originally uploaded by bitchcakesny.

Bitchcakes, local Greenpoint blogger-celebrity, regularly writes about why she loves Greenpoint. It's time for a Greenpointer to return the favor.

I first discovered Bitchcakes via New York Shitty and read about her second Commuting Casanova, Louie. I laughed hysterically because I've encountered the same fellow on Manhattan Avenue -- he's been pursuing me since I was fourteen -- and learned that she regularly updates two other blogs (one that follows her success on Weight Watchers [she's a WW celebrity too, with over 1000 followers!] and a journal-like blog on top of her commuting blog).

I first e-mailed her regarding Summer Streets in late August, telling her how invigorating it was to bike over the Williamsburg Bridge, up Lafayette and Park Avenue, around Central Park, and returning to Greenpoint after going over the Brooklyn Bridge; I related to how proud she was when she conquered the Williamsburg Bridge. We slowly built up correspondence on her blogs, and I was thrilled when she accepted my invitation to the Matty & Ben show. I unfortunately woke up too late the next day to brunch with her and her gang, but the invitation put a smile on my face; I was cool enough to brunch with!¹

There are so many times when I read her blogs and am grateful It's not just me!, especially when she's writing about body image or escalator etiquette.² I was really touched when she sent me a message after the break-up, and she completely understood my depressing reply, much to my relief. Though I've been feeling unworthy of fun, she's been getting me out: we've been frequenting The Richardson, went to last Sunday's Bust-sponsored Craftacular, and jumped to the Ramones in Punk Rope last night.³

A conversation never devolves into a pity party because whatever the topic -- relationships, body image, healthful foods, or commuting -- one of us has the solution. Seriously, when she was distressed about oatmeal, I knew which brand to recommend. (Nature's Path.) When I was upset about making someone else upset, she reassured me that I did all I could do. (I don't have to keep apologizing for who I am, how I feel, or what I want.)

She's a font of positivity that doesn't advertise herself, and she makes a tremendous contribution to the community at large by corresponding with Assemblyman Lentol about the MTA "doomsday" fare hike; getting Starbucks to re-evaluate the calorie content of its pastries, which in turn had CBS investigating other mass-produced foods sold by other chains; and being an inspiration to hundreds of people who yearn to make their lives healthier -- all on her own time.

I'll always appreciate the time she could have to herself in her very busy schedule but decides to spend with me. We always have a blast -- the above photo was taken on Rockabilly Night at Legion the week I moved out of Guernsey, and I still cannot get over that particular smile -- so, Bitchcakes, thank you for being a reason to love Greenpoint!

¹ Damn, I could have met the Joe Katz a few months earlier!

² This post too is a gem regarding walking on escalators. The MTA should add the "commuting is like driving" analogy to its code of conduct. And you can read about a "move it" situation I had here, which actually took place after the Matty & Ben Show.

³ Nice meeting and teaming up with Miss Dewey Decimal, too!

spring cleaning

I did a little housecleaning on this blog, moving a few potentially reputation-damaging posts to another site. Leave a comment if you want the address, and I'll consider the request, depending on our level of friendship. I'm a pretty open person and normally am against this sort of self-censorship, but I'd hate for writing that stems from a volatile time in my life to define me to others.

Since this blog never really found its footing, I invite anyone who's interested to follow me on Twitter, where I'm thrilled to be "tweeting" with the likes of:

• NY1's best morning anchor Pat Kiernan, whom I've had a crush on since high school (and he sent me a direct message recently!)

• book babes Stephanie, who manages the awesome Word bookstore, Kelly, and Jessica

• travel writers Farley, who hosts the brilliant Restless Legs Reading Series, and Meg, collegiate friend who introduced me to the travel genre

• the one and only Bitchcakes, whom you'll learn about in an upcoming post

If you follow me, you'll be getting updates about publishing, primates, and happenings in Greenpoint and Willaimsburg. For example, I'll be going on the Brooklyn Based tour of Brooklyn Bowl tomorrow, and my packed BEA schedule -- I'll be working in the Autographing Area four days straight -- includes the Emerging Leaders panel and party and the BEA Tweet Up.

As Jamie Cullum put it: "I'm a twentysomething, and I'll keep being me" -- insecurities and all. I just won't be sharing them here.

my secret admirer

Last week my inbox greeted me with a message from a stranger. Apparently, late last summer I sat for an artist on Union Avenue, gave him my name and an e-mail address I don't use, and forgot about the event. He came across the sketch, colored it in, and sent it to me with a nice note.

Last summer was the first time I began to feel comfortable wearing tank tops. Even though I had lost enough weight to make me a medium, I was still self-conscious going to barbecues dressed like this. That picture -- and most of last summer -- was a turning point. Viewing my body at such odd angles, in such new clothes, made me face how far I've come since high school in a good way. In senior year of high school, I was scared shitless to wear this gorgeous red dress because of my arms. (In both pictures I was a size 12 and weighed 165 to 170+ pounds.) My arms, like my thighs, were huge, and disgustingly discolored with freckles.

It was a big step for me to go to Las Vegas with mostly arm-baring clothes -- but seriously, when you look this good, who can blame you? Before the break-up, I declared to Ashley that this summer was going to be the summer of tank tops because they no longer frighten me. I was going to take pride in being shown off. Now, however, I'll have to show myself off, and if I caught someone's eye in a tank top last summer, it's possible I can do the same this summer. Let's hope others find themselves as captivated as that artist, whom I hope to meet and make his work a proper commission by buying a round or two.

carnivorous

Peter Luger
Originally uploaded by laverrue

On May 15 I'll be heading to Dylan Prime in Tribeca to taste its carpetbagger steak, filet mignon stuffed with oysters in a Guinness sauce and served with baby spinach and mashed potatoes.

My first visit to a steakhouse was in 2004 with my high-school girlfriends in Disney World. Our inaugural dinner took place at Shula's Steakhouse, and I chose the twelve-ounce filet mignon because it was the smallest cut of meat offered. The gals returned to Shula's location in New York at least two more times for We Hate Men Valentine's Day dinners, but it wasn't until last year when I took pride in my inner carnivore and regularly stared sampling steakhouses, starting with the best -- Peter Luger. Here's my take on steak thus far:

1. Peter Luger: It shouldn't be surprising that perennial favorite Peter Luger tops my list of steak. Each juicy piece of the huge porterhouse for four was cooked to medium-rare perfection, and I preferred drizzling the steak's own juices on top of my slices instead of using Luger's own tasty steak sauce. We ordered steamed broccoli on the side to give the table a breath of health. Though I was skeptical about ordering dessert because I know cheesecake, the attentive waiter accurately described Luger's as "the best in the country" -- yes, it's more moist than Junior's, especially with a bit of schlag added to the fork -- and Luger will remain a tough act to follow when it comes to steak and birthday presents.

2. Lawry's: You may have noted that in the previous paragraph I wrote about the dining environment as well as the steak. Well, Lawry's in Las Vegas was a nice change of scenery from the bright lights of the strip. We dined in an earth-toned-filled room, and the waitresses' modest costumes were a far cry from other ladies apparel. The waitress prepared a spinning salad as part of your prime-rib meal, which you order by amount (cut) and temperature (done-ness), and the meat, served with a good helping of its own juices, practically melted in your mouth.

3. A. J. Maxwell's Steakhouse: I've already written about my Valentine's Day 2008 dining experience, and I maintain that A. J. Maxwell's Louis XIV (filet mignon topped with foie gras and port wine sauce) was more satisfying than the drunken, unwanted sex that followed. The reason why it's listed after Lawry's is because this dish popped my "foie gras cherry," so the experience was overpowered by the duck delicacy instead of the main meat. Broccoli and mashed potatoes were good sides, but one huge martini put me under the table and under my host, spelling disaster.

4. Shula's: I haven't been here since Valentine's Day 2006 but recall its satisfying twelve-ounce filet mignon, dinner-plate-sized hash brown, and broccoli bouquet -- nothing comes in "small" -- and excellent apple cobbler for dessert, which you have to order at the same time as dinner. The dining experience is mediocre, but if you're a first-timer or bringing first-timers to Shula's, ask for the dining-selection spiel, and watch out for live creatures!

5. Jackson Avenue Steakhouse: Taking the B43 back to Greenpoint after dining at Motorino on New Year's Day, I turned to Former and said: "Our diet consists of steak and specialty pizzas," with the full intention of treating him to coal-oven-pizza mainstay Lombardi's just over a week later for his birthday. Instead, he requested to try this sorry excuse for a steakhouse. We ordered a medium-rare porterhouse for two and found it unevenly cooked and fatty. The garlic mashed potatoes were the night's saving grace, as the steamed mixed vegetables were as limp as a wet noodle. My one praise for the place is that the waiter didn't bat an eye when I requested anisette with my espresso.

crass and cultured

NYC - Brooklyn Museum of Art - "The Rebel Angels" by Salvatore Albano, originally uploaded by cerdsp.

Last weekend was up in the air because of plans that were canceled at the last minute. Upset, I experienced an insomniac night -- they're not fun -- and created mayhem. Interestingly enough, the craziest thing that happened early Saturday morning was not in fact unintentionally locking myself on a roof but escaping from the clutches of a drunk on the way back from that unannounced visit.

After a few hours of sleep, I headed uninspiringly to Target in Fort Greene to waste time and bought the Die Hard trilogy for twelve dollars. Had a simple but scrumptious salad at Mullanes and was surprised by a few Deadheads at the jukebox who played "Ripple," a song I performed in the fourth grade, learning the lyrics from a beautifully illustrated comic book.

Saturday night was much better, gallivanting to La Vuelta, Rose, and the Brooklyn Ale House to top it all off with absinthe. The next day's hangover was ameliorated by being greeted with a glass of water when my eyes flickered open. We ordered in breakfast and watched JCVD, which started off hilarious but quickly got tiresome. Good thing the film's just over ninety minutes.

Made an impromptu visit to the Brooklyn Museum and got to see its renowned Egyptian collection, many pieces of which I remembered from grade- and high-school textbooks. Then we headed to Soda, gorged on its kielbasa sandwich and kasha pierogis with bacon, and watched Die Hard upon returning. It's a successful, albeit unconventional, date movie -- especially when you're filling in Paul Gleason's dialogue with quotes from The Breakfast Club.

The good news is he passed the Bill test. The bad news is part of the upcoming weekend is already reserved for Mother's Day, and it's going to be difficult to leave for a few hours and fulfill daughterly duties when I'd much rather be wanton.