Crazy People

Spotted At Bedford Avenue & North 7 Street: LaRouchepsters

Oct
28

This morning I awakened in a state not unlike the previous four before: tired. However, there was one crucial difference this time around; I was also very, SERIOUSLY, cold. Neither a whiff nor a sputter of heat was to be had. Not that the “girls” (as I call them) seemed to mind; they were quite perky. Yes, gentle readers, winter has arrived at Chez Shitty. With a two titty salute! But I digress.

The rest of me got up, made a pot of coffee, threw on some thermal underwear and mulled over what I was going to do today. Given the choice between being miserably cold indoors and miserably cold outdoors, I decided the latter was the more palatable option. So I took a walk.

Before I proceed with my story I would like to point out that unlike a number of people, when I feel like being left alone I leave my apartment. Sometimes I need a break from the rigors of my inbox. It is on our city’s not-so-mean streets that I find much-needed solitude— with one notable exception: Bedford Avenue.

Perhaps it is due to the fact I am “old”, bereft any noticeable tattoos, piercings and/or a hangover that I fit the “profile” of someone who gives a shit (READ: a registered voter). This is the only reason I can muster as to why I attract any and all canvassers with a clipboard/hucksters with cause— however laudable or insane— along this strip.

What transpired this morning is no exception. But this time I was ready.

Ever had one of those moments when something inside of you snaps and you break into peals of prepubescent-esque giggling? Well, that is what happened when I stumbled upon the above juxtaposition of a Pabst Blue Ribbon delivery truck…

and a table staffed by two 20-somethings spreading the good news about Lyndon LaRouche.

LAROUCHEPSTERS!

I thought to myself. And doubled over into another (albeit self-induced) fit of demented cackling.

Call it sleep deprivation (it probably is), but I found their poster calling for the impeachment of Barack NERObama (sporting devil horns, no less) and the above item (I’m not happy with our current Commander in Chief— but a Hitler mustache— REALLY?) utterly hilarious. My amusement did not go unnoticed by the chaps staffing said table either:

Me (laughing): Aw man!

Do you know the similarities between Barack Obama and Dick Cheney?

The LaRouchepster asked. To wit I replied with a smile:

No, I just didn’t know LaRouche was out of jail.*

(silence)

When I called the Mister to tell him about my merry-making, I mistakenly called these folks Libertarians. He corrected me as follows:

They’re LaRouchians. That’s even worse.

THE END

*Actually I do know this. However, admitting as much would have spoiled all the fun! This post is dedicated to Pa Heather.

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New York Shitty Video du Jour: Live From Manhattan Avenue

Aug
29

If you look carefully when this gent gets up you will notice he has had an, um, accident. This gives a whole new meaning to “doing it in the road”. Just another Monday afternoon in the Garden Spot, folks…

UPDATE, 7:40 p.m.: I have just gotten the 411 on what led up to this event from a pair of eyewitnesses on the scene. Apparently this chap was in a physical altercation with anther individual. He was struck and managed to spill his beverage. Upon hitting (sitting on) the street he shouted:

You spilled my liquor!

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Crosstown Local Videos du Jour: Polemic

Apr
04

Last night yours truly and a pal attended a forum discussion hosted by the very talented Nathan Kensinger about street photography. Aside from the fact Union Docs was stifling, painfully hot it was an enjoyable evening. One which concluded on a provocative note via some “in flight” entertainment on the way home via the Crosstown Local courtesy of this guy.

As you will notice this chap has a pretty wide berth on the platform. This is because (and I suspect my fellow mass transit patrons will agree with me when I write this) he was— how should we say— a bit touched? His speech (inasmuch as I can ascertain) started with making light of Pearl Harbor:

five thousand miles away in 1941…

and eventually morphed into a random series of screeds about what is wrong with our country. Among other things. He continued his polemic on the train itself. Follows is one of the choicer excerpts for your Monday morning edification. Initially he directs his rancor to Hasidim but eventually (re)directs his attention back to the Japanese. Much to the discomfort of one subway-goer.

It should be noted that immediately prior to this screed our subterranean William F. Buckley spied yours truly filming him. To this he said:

Bitch, you’re taking pictures of a garbage can!

I was initially taken aback by this but quickly thought the better of it. Let’s employ a little logic here: which is worse being a bitch (a female dog) or a garbage can (a receptacle for waste products— and one in New York City at that)? This is a no brainer. In any case he resumed his soap boxing upon exiting the G train at India Street. “Polacks” and “Russkies” became his target as we headed north on Manhattan Avenue. That’s when it hit me: this gent and I are neighbors. I’m one lucky gal!

Miss Heather

 

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Audience Participation Time: Cut & Pasty

Jan
19

One of the things I have been endeavoring to do over the last two months is dedicate more time to my own art work. Unfortunately after I get done writing New York Shitty I find myself bereft of any energy to do so. Last weekend this changed. Thanks to my site being down I had the time. Lots of time. What’s more, I had the inspiration. My “eureka moment” came in the way they often do: a discussion at a bar.

The topic of said discussion was the lack of privacy one has in New York City apartments. One need never know when he (or she) will glance out a tenement window to see a neighbor au naturel. I myself have had this experience. Its consequences exacerbated an already tense situation.

I never learned the woman’s name. This is a shame as I know quite a lot about her. This is because she had a habit of sitting in her apartment window chain smoking and talking on her cell phone for hours on end seemingly oblivious to the fact my husband and I could hear every word she was saying. These lengthy monologues would waft into our bedroom along with traces of the crappy weed she would occasionally indulge in. I can’t really bring myself to disdain this woman for predilection for the latter. After all, she was a city employee and probably on a tight budget. But I digress.

As time waxed on, the Mister and my amusement over Cathy’s activities morphed from amusement to annoyance. After she started throwing parties for her equally noisy friends the latter, in turn, transmogrified into extreme hatred. I suspect she sensed this and a cold waresque cloud of mutual contempt formed over our respective households. Chez Shitty was South Korea, our mutually shared “back yard” was Checkpoint Charlie and Chez Cathy was Democratic People’s Republic of Dumbass. Coexistence was for the most part peaceful. Nonetheless one could palpably sense all that was needed to send the situation to hell in a hand basket was a provocation. One day it finally happened: I looked out my bedroom window.

My husband was reading in bed. He wanted to speak to about something. I do recall what. That has been clouded by the fog of war and what happened next: after talking to him I looked up. To see Cathy buck naked. Before I could avert my gaze we locked glances. I could see the rage fill her face. It was done. She promptly shot me the finger and yanked the drapes shut. I suppose I can understand her reason for upset. Then again, her assumption I wanted to look at her rather pendulous breasts was a wee bit presumptuous. Mammary glands hold no amazement for me— and even if they did I needn’t go far to find a pair. Why go out for hamburgers when you can stay home and have steak? But back to my story.

Conversely, one need always be on the lookout for his or her own privacy. These things happens to the best of us. The phone rings as you are about to step into the shower. You dash to answer it and two thirds into your discussion you look up to see an old lady hanging her laundry staring at your hairy ass in abject horror. What to do, you ask? Well at long last I have the answer. Courtesy of lady named Rebecca while having drinks at a place called the Brooklyn Ale House:

I think I am going to get my nipples tattooed so they look pixelated.

That’s when divine inspiration struck. I don’t how the following found its way out of my mouth, but I am very happy it did:

That sounds kind of painful. Why not just make pasties of your own pixelated nipples instead? It’d be a lot cheaper.

The die had been cast. I simply had to find the time and wherewithal to implement my nefarious plan. Then lo, New York Shitty crashed! I considered this to be a sign and got cracking. I did not make the Mister aware of my project. Such endeavors are best done in artistic seclusion.

Long story made short, the cat eventually bolted out of the bag when he shifted his attention from the Lehrer News Hour to my computer monitor.

Those are your breasts.

He noted.

Yes, they are.

I replied.

Do you need me to take more pictures of them?

He inquired with disquieting alacrity.

No, I have the situation well under control.

I assured him.

Are you sure?

He persisted.

Quite sure, thank you.

He went back to watching the news and I went back to work. As the creative process unfolded I had a second epiphany:

Why hide my pixelated lights under a bushel? Why not make it so as anyone can wear them? Why not let “the girls” go global? And so I did. After a few fits and starts Boobification 2.0: Project Cut & Pasty was finally born!

By clicking on the above image you can make your very own Cut & Pasties! What you do with them is your own business.

If there is a lesson to be learned here it is this: do not let, under any circumstances, let New York Shitty go offline. All this does is give me WAY too much time on my hands. I get bored. And as you can see when I get bored interesting things tend to happen.

Miss Heather

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A Tale From The Junk Shop

Jan
16

I am not going to lie: New York Shitty’s latest outage really pissed me off. This has happened with enough frequency that even my patience (and believe it or not I am endowed with quite a lot of this virtue— albeit probably at the expense of a few others) was exhausted. To cite one such example of the patience I am indeed capable of I present for your entertainment a junk shop story.

PREAMBLE

As I have stated before, when I am left in charge interesting things happen. Today I was a magnet for anyone coming in under the influence of mind-altering substances. Or if these individuals were not under the influence, they should probably get whatever is afflicting them looked into. But I am not paid to be psychiatrist. I am a junk woman. In this capacity I have one goal and one goal only: make the sale or induce them to leave, preferably as peacefully as possible. I have many tools in my arsenal for just this purpose. The axe (which you see at left)  is not one of them. Yet.

My “professional career” has largely centered around dealing with the general public. The first and hardest lesson I learned is a significant number of homo sapiens are quite insane. I rarely shout or raise my voice. I hate shouting. I employ this tactic sparingly, but for those of you who are wondering (and I know a number of you are) I usually employ my “outdoor voice” for purchasers of pornography.* I do not object to “adult material”. I have grown to accept that as long as there is a market for such things (men) it will exist. Rather, a great many purchasers of these materials are cheap. Very cheap. And loud. VERY LOUD. As I said before, I hate shouting— but I have learned that bellowing out every item the prospective purchaser is raising hell over for everyone’s edification along with the asking price cuts down on time spent haggling significantly. But I digress.

Porn enthusiasts with tight wallets constitute a very small part of the troublesome clientele I encounter. For the rest my “public servant” persona has proven to be by far the most effective. This can best be described as a cross between Nurse Ratched, suicide hotline operator and Hal 9000.

CASE IN POINT: Man walks into store.

Do you work here?

He asks. BIG RED FLAG. This man has bought merchandise and held entire conversations with yours truly on a number of occasions. One was about how he blacked-out under the influence of hallucinogenics, went bat shit in a store one day, came back a week later not remembering what happened and couldn’t understand why the help was scared shitless of him. Yup.

Me (reluctantly): Yes.
Man:
I want a price for a table.
Me
(with extreme trepidation): Okay.

I look at said table. There is another table on top of it; it has a price tag of $10.00. The table under it is inexplicably the only item without a price tag. I spy a price tag on the ground nearby. I know for a fact all these items were priced yesterday. One item without a tag + one tag discarded on the ground. Face down. Do the math.

Me: That’s strange. This is the only piece of furniture without a price tag...
Man:
Isn’t that (pointing to the table on top) the price?

I want you, dear readers, to take a moment to think about this.

Me: I’m going to ask the manager.
Man:
I have talked to him about this already. The price keeps going up and down.

It is a common scam at the junk shop for prospective clients, when unsatisfied with the price one employee has given him (or her), to try to solicit a quote from another employee on the sly. They do so under the presumption we do not communicate with each other. We do. Hence why this ruse rarely works. What I find fascinating here is:

  1. This person is telling me he has already received a quote from someone else.
  2. He is not happy with the asking price…
  3. and makes it pretty clear this is why he is asking me for a quote.
  4. In essence he has foiled his own scheme. If indeed he had one.

I take a moment to mull over the previous points and replied.

If you have spoken to the manager about this table I am not getting involved.

Long story made short: he and the manager agreed upon $20.00 for this table. He took it home.

DENOUEMENT

Later a co-worker of mine walked in with the errant price tag. It read:

A steal for $30.00!

She asked:

I wonder what this was for?

Me:

Maybe someone didn’t interpret it as a price tag but as an instruction manual.

The End.

Miss Heather

*As it would happen today another junkman, a regular and overall nice guy, came to the store. He (we’ll call him “M”) and Larry da Junkman were recounting tales of a fellow junkman (who we will call “N”). He had recently died. M told a tale about N which inspired me so much I asked him to repeat it. Here it is. Albeit in highly simplified form.

N once decided to rent a bunch of pornographic VHS tapes. Then he proceeded to:

  1. excise all the pornography out of them and return them to the video store.
  2. Inasmuch as I understand, N then proceeded to take all the “naughty bits”, splice them together and compile his own video.

I found this strangely brilliant. I told M just this. He was perplexed:

He was crazy. I could understand if he was an artist or something.

I have often fantasized about taking some of the more vile pornographic videos home, splicing all the pornographic material out of them, returning them to the junk shop and waiting for (the inevitable) hilarity to ensue…

In comes a man exclaiming that his VHS tape “Butts Behind Bars”, purchased for $2.00 has no butts. Only a g-string of a plot. I will look at him with wide-eyed amazement and ask him, being the customer service-oriented person that I am:

  • what was lacking from said movie
  • in explicit detail, e.g.; how many anal double penetrations were you promised? How many did you actually see?

I will document the previous complaint in the same manner I did as a former civil servant: in copious— or this case coital— detail. And laugh my ass off after he leaves.

What can one expect for $2.00 in New York City anymore?  A “Recession Special” cup of joe on Bedford Avenue will set you back $2.00. Riding the subway costs $2.25 per ride the last I checked. I quit checking. I invest my money in comfortable shoes, not metrocards. $2.00 for an excised porno strikes me as being very reasonable— if MTA-esque— bargain: you tender money with the expectation of gratification and receive nothing in return. Just information.

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New York Shitty Day Starter: Festive Fur

Dec
14

When this lovely lass (who happens to be named Pancake) came into the junk shop last weekend I simply had to take a picture off her festive holiday get-up. What’s more, these is something really neat about naming a dog— or any animal for that matter— after this foodstuff. It’s almost as cool as naming a cat “Babka”— and I know a few felines named just this!

Miss Heather

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From the CB1 Yahoo Group: Landlord Harassment & Then Some

Nov
10

Ann-Marie writes:

Yesterday my mother and I were assaulted by our landlord in the building’s hallway. Three real estate agents working for the Corcoran Group were there. While I would not expect them to risk physical injury I would expect them to call the police or try to calm the people involved.

They did nothing. Just stood and watched what unfolded. One of the agents laughed at what was happening. Even after the police arrived the agents still lingered in the hallway watching “the show”. I find them despicable as human beings and wonder if the Corcoran Group with its steller marketing ads would want something like this publicized.

I had called 911. The police took down all necssary information. My mother and I have each filed a complaint and will seek an order of protection through criminal court.

As the landlord was leaving he verbally tripled our rent and said he is going to get us out – by which he will probably file for eviction. We have contacted various agencies for help. Since we live in a “private” house and are not in a rent controlled or rent stabilized apartment not one agency seems to have our situation under their jurisdiction.

Unfortunately I am unemployed right now and lost what little savings I accumulated in the recent stock market crash. So while I would logically look for another apartment or to find a “rent to own” a townhouse (in another state – on my salary and my mother’s SSI we cannot afford New York) my hands are tied. I only ask everyone to pray for us.

I honestly do not know what to say about this other than if what Ann-Marie writes is true— and there is no reason I can think of to disbelieve her— this is appalling. And inexcusable.

Miss Heather

UPDATE, 7:00 p.m.: Laura Hofmann has brought this to my attention:

Ann-Marie served on the Brooklyn Community Board 1 Rezoning Task Force Open Space Committee for the duration of the rezoning process. It is in part, due to her work that everyone in the community will enjoy our community parks.

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New York Shitty Day Ender: A Tail of Two Larrys

Nov
06

Earlier today I was bantering with a buddy of mine online. He, not unlike myself, has a heat issue (READ: he has none).* My first and only piece of advice to this gentleman was as follows:

If the problem persists contact the Borough President’s Office.

I myself have done this and the results were quite frankly amazing. Not one, but TWO Department of Buildings Inspectors showed up the next day. They made it clear Marty sent them. Inasmuch as we disagree on many issues I have to give credit where it is due: Marty understands the value of constituent services. Which brings me to the subject of this post.

Inasmuch as I have mulled over a possible career in politics the truth of the matter is I do not think it is for me. It takes a certain amount of, how should we say— moral flexibility— to gain and retain elective office in this fair city. This is something I woefully lack. Or do I? After today’s sequence of events I am beginning to wonder.

The following tale has all the elements of a good Greenpoint story: neighbors coming to the defense/aid of a fellow neighbor, deception and a catnapping. NOTE: certain elements of this tome have been changed/obfuscated to protect the guilty.

Many of you who live in north Greenpoint are undoubtedly familiar with this establishment. It is pretty much the last bodega to be had until one reaches Eagle Street. I frequent this business often. Granted, some of their prices are a teensy bit high but if it means not having to schlep to The Garden I am willing to pay for the convenience. It is presided over by two lovely young women. And Larry.

He may not look very happy in this picture (he isn’t) but it’s understandable given the circumstances. You see, Larry— and a fair number of folks on Manhattan Avenue— have had a very eventful week.

It all started on Monday. I stopped into the bodega to pick up some groceries. The cashier, who we will call “M” was despondent. I asked her what gives.

We’ve lost Larry, she said.

I asked her what happened. She didn’t know for certain but surmised he either ran off or someone stole him. The next day I asked her colleague, who we will call “N” if he had come back. She told me he had not but hoped wherever he was he was safe and sound. Now jump forward to today, Friday, November 6, 2009.

Larry da Junkman (who will henceforth be referred to as Larry #2), a local celebrity, Seth, and I are bantering. At one point the subject of ladies of the bodega comes up. We all agree they’re really nice. Then Larry says (to me):

When I saw M today she looked like she was on the verge of tears. Do you know what’s up?

I replied:

Didn’t you hear? Their cat has gone MIA.

Larry: When, yesterday?

No, several days ago.

I replied.

Larry: I wonder why she is so upset.

Me: I don’t know but I am going to go over there and find out.

When I entered the bodega I did not have to say anything. M gave me the whole sad, story. Here it is in bullet points:

  • Apparently a patron of said bodega had spied Larry in the possession in of a woman one block away.
  • He/she informed M of this.
  • M took the matter up with the store owner in her building of residence.
  • He was rude and/or unresponsive to her.
  • But apparently passed along word to Larry’s captor as…
  • She stopped by the bodega on Wednesday and told M she would return Larry on Thursday.
  • This never happened.

Wanting to make sure I understood M correctly (there was a bit of a language barrier at play) I walked over to the building in question, took a photograph of it, and walked back to the bodega and showed it to her.

Is this the building?

I asked.

She answered to the affirmative. I headed back to the junk shop without delay. Seth, who was standing out front, noted my anger and inquired as to what came to pass. I growled:

Someone is gonna be in a whole world of hurt.

He and Larry #2 quickly calmed me down and had me recount M’s story. They too got pissed and headed over to the bodega to reconfirm what I had told them and develop a plan of action. This was when the Greenpoint magic kicked in.

As it would happen M had a picture of Larry on her i-Phone. Larry #2 and Seth took said i-Phone and paid the business in question a visit. The proprietor, who we will call “O”, at first seemed intransigent but eventually gave up the goods:

  • Larry’s self-elected hostess was an old and rather daft cat lady. In the purest, piss-stained carpet “cat collector/hoarder” sense of the word.
  • He has known her for ten years and she has done this sort of thing before.
  • She has usually come around to doing the right thing in the past. Eventually.
  • She has neither a buzzer nor a telephone, but he would remind her that M wants her cat back.

At some point Larry #2 threatened to call the police if said catnapper didn’t return M’s cat. O seemed to be unfazed by this. But he, in fact, was. As we later learned.

Long story made short, shortly thereafter O paid M a visit stating that “two men” had come to his business inquiring about her cat. And as I was consuming a much-desired margarita this evening at Papasitos I saw M walking down the sidewalk with Larry. I quickly dashed out to learn what happened.

From what I can gather O did in fact speak to the woman in question. And in an inspired bit of trickery, he intimated that the “two men” who inquired about Larry’s whereabouts were police officers. I realize this is morally (and possibly legally) questionable, but then again so is taking someone’s cat and refusing to return him his rightful owner. On that note, I am happy to announce that as of 8:00 o’clock tonight Larry is back on the job!

Sort of. He isn’t too crazy about the leash but given what it took to bring him home, it is probably a good move on M’s part. In closing M confided in me that she is concerned Larry (who is neutered teenage male with a few more wild oats to sow) may get loose (or stolen— this was never clearly established) again and is mulling over adopting him out to a good home. Anyone who is interested in adopting Larry can shoot me an email at: missheather (at) thatgreenpointblog (dot) com.

Miss Heather

*My heat and hot water has been blissfully restored (the landlord has to make repairs to the boiler) and I am pleased to announce I have taken a much-needed and desired BATH!

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Last Gasp: Remember to Vote Tomorrow!

Nov
02

Did you know Mike Bloomberg is running for mayor? If the numerous fliers and callers/hipster hitters of buzzers didn’t remind you of this fact maybe my answering machine (and inbox) will!

Just 24 more hours, dear readers, and it will be over.

Miss Heather

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From The New York Shitty Inbox: Special Halloween Edition

Oct
31

Today was a very busy day.

First it was awakening to the sound of our cat Frances rather noisy preamble before vomiting upon a pile of books. I managed to move her before she discharged a solitary, runny and repulsive fur bullet. In so doing  we (this was a team effort) managed to knock over a glass of water and ruin some photographs I had laying around. This is not the way I like to start my day. But sometimes that’s the way the kitty cookie crumbles.

After hammering away on the” blog” I rushed to McCarren Park to judge this year’s contestants for the 3rd Annual District Dog Halloween Parade and Costume Contest. I will not lie to you (and I suspect my fellow judges will agree with me when I write this): it was tremendously stressful. So many great costumes, but only so many prizes.

Upon discharging my doggie duty I met up with north Brooklyn’s very own beat reporter extraordinaire, Aaron Short, for a quick interview. Once I saw him off safely on the bus I proceeded to the junk shop so I could fulfill my (un)official role as candy giver. The Mister couldn’t understand my sense of urgency. The fact of the matter is I take the responsibilities which come with such a sinecure (doling out teeth-rotting treats) very, VERY seriously. I serve only the best to 11222′s youth: Snickers, Kit Kats, Milky Ways and Butterfingers. What’s more, it’s fun.

I thoroughly enjoy interacting with the children of this neighborhood. They’re great kids. The adults, on the other hand, can be problematic. CASE IN POINT: a drunk (at 3:30 p.m., I will add) fifty-something woman (sipping a can of beer in a paper bag FROM A STRAW) demanding I give her candy. I refused. She, in turn, grabbed my arm (A BIG NO NO) and implored me once again to give her candy. I, once again, refused. She then took it upon herself to take the matter up with my co-worker (who I presume she took for “management”). To no avail.

For the next five minutes this woman (if you can call such a creature that) ranted and raved on the sidewalk for the passerby’s edification. At one point she found two young boys dressed up as police officers. She begged these petit officers to arrest me. Later I was told by one woman in the audience she mentioned something about getting a gun. I replied:

She can get a gun. She’s still not getting any candy.

And she didn’t. Intuiting that she was not going to receive anything in the way of confectionary from yours truly she left for greener pastures. I later saw her toting home six cases of beer. So it goes.

Needless to say when I got home I was sorely in need of some peace and quiet. Nothing doing. The following comment was awaiting my moderating touch. Atlas9 writes (in regards to this post):

I don’t understand the problem, sure bloomberg is going for a third term; but he did it by the books. Why freak out about it? He isn’t being dictatorial, and he sure hasn’t made himself chancellor of NYC, so where is the fundemental problem? The guy wants to stay in office… So that all depends on the election. And the election is democratic, so he is essentially following the democratic process. Also, I canvass for bloomberg in the downtown Brooklyn area, and I can tell you I am no hipster. Just as you were so taken aback from the real estate agents, the same applies here. Don’t be so quick to judge. I am here to engage you and others in the area on the democratic process. If that isn’t something you like then maybe you should consider living in a less important area outside of NYC. But If I were you I would appreciate the fact that bloomberg is playing fair and by the books, and that’s something you have to respect. So please, let’s all relax and try to enjoy a small slice of democracy in our increasingly un democratic world. (emphasis mine — Ed. Note)

P.S. Don’t be rude to me when I come knocking. I don’t mind if you don’t like bloomberg and I am more than willing to listen to what you have to say.

Here’s the deal folks: I have neither the energy nor the inclination to deal with Atlas9′s polemic about the democratic process as it pertains to Bloomberg at this moment. I suspect many of you, dear readers and fellow citizens, might. If so, please tender your thoughts in the comments (or via email— you can do so via my “tips” page”). All I ask of you, fellow citizens, is to to keep them as civil as possible.

Miss Heather

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