How does your YRD grow

For those of our neighbors who don't get in enough gardening at their country homes, there is a local shoppe aimed at urban yard-tending. To show how urban they are, they left the vowels out of the boutique name, so let's just call it "YRD."




On a recon mission soon after they opened, taking in all the lovely plants and gardening supplies, I got that familiar feeling of being surrounded by Stuff That I Can't Afford and Furthermore Can't Fathom Spending This Much On. I was drawn to a hand trowel with a shiny red handle, then looked at the price: I forget now the exact number, but it was at least $50. Are they joking? Is this used for digging in gold dust? And what kind of an asshole pays more than $50 for a trowel?! An urbn asshole, apparently. (The first trowel I found online costs $3.99.)

Then I looked at the individual superfancy cut flowers for sale, and some of them cost nearly as much per stem as I'd spend on an order of groceries.

Must be nice.

It's not (entirely) that I am jealous. I would like to compare the negative feelings I get when I walk around the neighborhood to my experience when flipping through mainstream magazines aimed at women, which I only ever do when bored in a waiting room, for the following reason: they make me feel fat, ugly, old, and poor. And I'm actually approaching them with a more informed and more positive self-image than probably most of their readership does. So if those mags affect me that way...what is it doing to less-confident readers? And so when I look at these local boutiques, I just feel poor, unsuccessful, resentful, and poor. Which doesn't exactly foster a positive sense of community.

Fortunately, with both magazines and shopping, there are alternatives. With women's magazines, BUST is the best example. And for those of us who spend most of our income on rent and bills, there's always the cheap hobag stores, the Salvo, G-will, and non-NYC thrift stores and rummage sales for copping a shopping high. OK, this is ending on a more pathetic note than it was meant to. How about this: F the A-holes who pay $50 for hnd trwls!!!

I hate everything today

Just a quick post to say I hate this Ducati parked on my street. No real reason, I just do.

Brokeback reading

I was reading my usual weekly dose of tabloid trash this week, and look, this just in... we're beautiful people!



Oh, wait, he probably wasn't talking about us.

Introducing the Enemy

You know who I don't like? People who don't like me and my friends, especially when there is no clear reason for it. Meet Aging Hipster Coffeeshop Owner. He runs a very successful little local coffeeshop where I used to be a regular. Aging Hipster Coffeeshop Owner is the unofficial mayor of the neighborhood, personally greeting every customer, inquiring about their special dogs and kids, asking how their trip to Tuscany was, and so on. Sounds great, right? When I first moved here 5-1/2 years ago, I thought so, too.



I lined up like everyone else every day and got my large iced coffee with soy milk, paid too much for it like everyone else, and sat outside watching the folks go by. Aging Hipster Coffeeshop Owner never learned my name, and the regulars all know him and each other, but I remained solo there. This was during a period when I freelanced mostly from home, so I put in a few hours a day at this cafe with my laptop. But the daytime regulars didn't seem to have anything to do other than while away their time discussing restaurants and NPR and dry cleaners and such, and I began feeling alienated from the local people and lifestyle. Their seemingly leisurely, idle, carefree, upscale-with-a-twist-of-bohemian lifestyle epitomizes what annoys me about this neighborhood.

Then I began to notice that not only was Aging Hipster Coffeeshop Owner not friendly to me, but his demeanor became barely civil when I got to the counter, greeting him with a smile and a hello. He'd shift gears from chatty with the other patrons to just greeting me with, "Large with soy?" in a flat, dead voice. So he knew my drink, but I was not to get any "how are the hubby and kids" talk. Not that I had a hubby (just checking out the occasional hot dad), but you know.

Finally I thought, F this cock, I'm not giving him regular business anymore. Thus began my boycott of the place, though I would still go in once in awhile since it was so convenient. The last straw came probably about two years ago when I went in there one day, on the phone with my mom, but talking at a respectful volume. Was just stirring in the simple syrup, literally seconds away from leaving the place, when Aging Hipster Coffeeshop Owner said, "ah--hello?" to get my attention, then, expressionless, tapped a sign with a drawing of a cell phone and a red NO circle crossing it out. I glared at him, left, cursing away about him on the phone, and have never darkened that doorway since.

So he wouldn't abide my talking on the cell phone in his little kingdom, but he did let me buy his overpriced drink first. Last time I checked, talking on a cell phone wasn't illegal, but you know what is illegal? Allowing dogs inside a dining establishment, which happens there all the time.

But I'm not the only one who's gotten the jerk treatment there. My roommate got a job there when she was new to Brooklyn--and I knew she'd be hired, since she has pixie-short hair, which is one of the acceptable looks for girls who work at this coffeeshop (although it helps a lot to be a sexy-accented foreigner with a ponytail and wisps of hair coming out just so). Aging Hipster Coffeeshop Owner has a sexy little foreign girlfriend (of course he does) who works there too, and they were both impatient with my roommate after not even training her properly, and fired her after three days, then barely paid her anything. And one of Reilly's and my first bonding points when we met was talking about what a jerk Aging Hipster Coffeeshop Owner had been to both of us. And so the contingent against that place grows.

Aging Hipster Coffeeshop Owner drove me away, which must've been the goal, and is now my enemy. I did not start this war, but I'm going to continue it. And by that, I mean I am going to keep exposing his snooty ways to anyone who will listen.

Aging Hipster Coffeeshop Owner, I am waiting for the day when a Starbucks opens up a block away from you. And when (not if) it does, I am going to go there EVERY DAY. I'll have a venti iced with soy, please (and this fistful of extra Sugar in the Raw packets goes into my bag).

Sunday Stoop Sisterhood

After a weekend of rain, we finally got a break Sunday evening and immediately took the stoop back to the stoop. Colleen came over bummed out and full of the man-hating/ self-hating that all of us single ladies get ourselves into now and then.

Well screw dudes!


Yeah

My roomie came down and four single, and one soon to not be, ladies had the necessary bitch session and commiserating.
Ladies, yes, you're awesome, even if you happen to be stuck in the wretched snake pit of the NYC dating scene.

Then, Kristina Wong came by and we got our needed rock on.





And oh my gosh, Sight of the Night:

Look what someone left on the curb!

Next Friday

We were rained out on Friday, so we stooped it inside at my place. Several hours later, after listening to records, we were siezed with an urge to rip it up at a karaoke bar, "Sister Christian"-style. What a bunch of a-holes. (Where "a" = "awesome")

(Watch at own risk. And if so, wait for it...this is painful but redunkulous.)


We were joined by special guest stooperstar Kristina Wong, who is a karaoke pro. She introduced her opening song, "My Heart Will Go On," by saying to the mostly bridge-and-tunnel bachelor-party crowd: "Hello, my name is Kristina Wong and you guys are making homophobic comments." But they didn't seem to notice, and then she worked the ass off that crowd. But not before the karaoke-bar lady almost turned off Kristina's mic when she cussed.



She rules. She's heading back to L.A. tomorrow and it's still raining, but we'll get her on the stoop when she comes back in August.

Sight of the night: And there was also this guy.

There goes the neighborhood: Celebrating one week on the stoop

Our first Very Special Stoop Day began with me making one of those shameful bachelor-style purchases at the Rite Aid--2 cartons of their shittiest beer--where you almost have to explain to the cashier that you really are OK. (When I was a grocery-store cashier as a lass, I'd get these old bachelors buying a few sad items that offered a window into their lives, one of which always seemed to be a personal-sized Table Talk pie for 25 cents, and I'm quite sure if it were legal in Jersey to sell beer in the supermarkets, another regular item in their order would've been crappy beer.)

Six of us gathered to celebrate stoop-style, and two members of the party were brand-new pals to Reilly & I. Getting them all to come by was a cinch, and they immediately embraced the ways of the stoop.

So far, the stooping has been less about observing the passerby (on a hot day like Sunday, no one was really even walking) and more about encouraging stoop culture. Which is good, because we did an experiment where my roommate walked by the stoop as we continued talking at our normal volume, and she could hear us clearly from a lot farther away than we’d realized. Good to know.

And, of course, stooping at our level is about being awesome.



Tunes courtesy of my roommate’s BF included a predictably healthy dose of metal and hard rock, with highlights including Pirate Jenny and, at the author’s request, Body Count’s “There Goes the Neighborhood.” That one created quite a sensation, at least between he and I. And thanks to my 99-cent-superstore sound system, we raged at a neighborly volume.





When people aren’t isolated with their own TVs and their own Internets in their own air-conditioned rooms, you know what happens? A little something they had in the olden days called conversation! Here are some standout quotes:

“I remember having to ward off the advances of a 64-year-old gay retard.”

“If you’re a dude and you squat like that, you’re gonna get shit on the back of your nuts.”

[While describing her dad, on Fathers' Day, working in the garage in just his underwear and socks and shoes] “The important thing to remember is my dad always wears a sweatband.”

“You ended up covered in blood? Why?”

“If you saw a mouse stuck on the bottom of someone’s shoe on the subway, would you say anything?” [A pause, as everyone considers]



And we also played some wholesome games like Boggle Deluxe and Mastermind. This one time? Reilly guessed the Mastermind pattern on her first try. She is a math person and said the odds against that are like, fucking crazy. Therefore, the only reasonable conclusion is that drinking Natty Light and Beast all day makes you psychic. It's healthy!

One unusual sighting was an out-and-out hipster couple—he in the flaming-arm tatts, she of the giant sunglasses, the haircut, and the green fringed suade purse (kinda like me, to be honest, but having the hipster-dark brown/black hair and more stylish). In our nabe, not to be confused with Willamsjerk, you don't see too many outright hipsters. Rather, we get yupsters: cohabitating bespectacled couples, alterna-moms and alterna-dads who show that they used to be cooler by dressing their young daughters in stripey tights (a la early-to-mid '90s alternawear) and their toddler sons in Ramones onesies, purchased for 40 bucks at some boutique with a schticky name and good for at least you know 2 or 3 wears before the kid grows out of it, so totally practical. ANYWAY so this couple walked up to our stoop, their bulldog defacated on the tree right across from our stoop, they stashed the dump in a neighbor's trash, then they turned around and went back from whence they came. Why here? Was this some sort of a challenge?

We ordered food and tried to tip the delivery guy with a can of Beast, but he wasn't having it. The only possible explanation is language barrier. Shortly after, an obese mystery man emerged from Reilly's building to claim his own delivery food. My roommate's BF said, "I don't know what would be better, if you tell me that guy was your landlord or your roommate."
Reilly: "I dont' know who that guy was."
BF: "Even better."

The group started breaking up after dinner time, but our two newest buds are planning to stoop on their own stoop a few blocks away, so we're going to stoop around.

Sight of the day: Jeep with longhorn hood ornament...or maybe that fat guy. Who was he?

Stoopers to date: 12
Largest number of women we spotted returning from brunch in one group: 6
Number of gals in that group who had paper fans: 4
Number of gawkers who didn’t wave back when I waved at them today: 4
Number who did: 3
Number of passerby who voluntarily said hello: 1
Sightings of our celebrity-couple neighbors and their Brokeback baby: 0

Friday

After work I went see the Zaha Hadid show at the Guggenheim on pay-as-you-wish night (aka $1 night). Afterwards, it was surprisingly easy to lure my friends (one a Manhattanite, I might add) back to the stoop. We picked up some cheap wine and some good takeout, and had a fine dinner, stoop style.

I’ve been thinking about all the new condo buildings sprouting up around the neighborhood lately. Trying to make sense out of my gut-feeling, visceral hate. Aside from the multitude of obviousness, these condos mark a break in tradition in the Brooklyn row house neighborhoods precisely because they don’t have the stoop as a friendly gesture to the neighborhood. The stoop is an extension of public space past the lot line and up to the front door. There is a “giving-back” of the home to the street. Simply put, you can hang on your stoop and get to know your neighborhood. (Or not, if they all want to hang out in their AC/ TV, but that is another rant).

Most of these new condo buildings take up their entire lot, no front yard and no stoop, and no hanging out in the vestibule either, I bet. And the city tweaks the zoning (allowing extra height or lot coverage) based on these condos' “give-backs” to the community. What give-backs? They take the form of a new gym, say, that you pay to be a member of, or lower income housing, which is generally located far away and not part of the development itself.

But, back to those of us using the public space...



After dinner, Colleen and ECS stooped by in asshole costume for going out (ECS in a skirt worn as a dress and false eyelashes, Colleen in a slip and new stab-point shoes). If this post seems self-absorbed, it is. Because hardly anyone walked by. I think we will have to make a lot of our own fun this summer.



Which we did.




And then Colleen & ECS went off to wreak havoc on the Lower East Side.



Last event of the night...neighbor K stooped in on his way home to chat, our first neighbor stoop in. Yay. Maybe he got sick of me texting him.

The first week: It begins.

This blog was born when Reilly's cat went missing last Sunday and she spent most of the day on her stoop smoking and studying, hoping the kitty would find her way safely back home.

But the seed for the blog has been germinating for quite awhile with both of us, as we gripe about our neighborhood every time we get together. That same Sunday, I was walking through our booming south Brooklyn nabe with another friend, grumbling about how every week there's another new shop for jerks where I can't afford anything even if I wanted their jerk stuff. Every time I left my apartment, I got the feeling that our 'hood was one big club that I'm not invited to join.

So that day, after I joined Reilly on the stoop, drinks were drunk (as happens when we get together), and a plan formed to start our own club. One for the cool kids.



We were out on the stoop til well after the quiet neighborhood's bedtime, watching the dog walkers and the variations on the bikers: the checkered shirt couple (he in blue gingham, she in red), the flashing light combo couple (he with flashing light on the bike, she with it on the helmet, both helmeted, of course), outright laughing at couple on the tandem bike, and wondering who has the most boring sex of the lot of 'em. The next night, we were out there again, and spotted our first Sight of the Night: A lone biker with a blue miner lamp on his helmet, a headlight, a red-flashing-light-up back medallion, and a red-flashing rump light below his seat.

On Wednesday, we saw him again. And so that lone biker became our first character: Light Brite.

I can see now our summer unrolling before us, as we get better at stooping. We'll be obnoxious, zing what needs to be zung, prank the sidewalkers, come to know our neighbors and neighborhood more and maybe even like some of them. At least now I have somewhere to sit, and we have our own little (growing) community. Every high school needs the smokers, socs require greasers; every bloated institution needs its foils, and so our neighborhood needs us. So dig it, and get stoopid.

(Callie the cat is fine. She was in the crazy people's apartment. More on them later.)