Penile Endowment & Pete’s Candy Store

July 29, 2007 ·
Filed under: 11211, Area 51, Greenpoint Magic, Williamsburg, Williamsburg Brooklyn 

Someone put a pubic hair in my Coke!

As I was reading The Gowanus Lounge this morning I found myself taking a psychedelic trip down down the rabbit hole to my days as a single woman about town.

Yes, I am talking about “Missed Connection” post about Pete’s Candy Store. To the best of my knowledge the chap I met there did not have two penises. If he did, both tools were NOT located below the belt, if you know what I mean.

He was special. Very special. And given some of the VERY special peeps I have dated, this is no small accomplishment. To crack the top five in the smash-jaw world of Miss Heather’s all-time favorite male suitors is sort of like being the most retarded kid on the short bus. It is a dubious distinction to be certain, but a distinction it is nonetheless.

In a kingdom of the ‘tards, he who wears the crash helmet with a thick lucite mouth guard is king. This chap was the Hannibal Lechter of my dreams (whose type are only had by my person after eating a lot of spicy food before going to bed).

It was a sultry summer day in 2002…

My big fat dyke best bud Rachael and I were in a particularly rambunctious mood. Our friendship is a never-ending folie à deux sans the body count. Unless of course you include the male ego as an animal of prey: in which case our faces would be found in every god damned post office in this country. Possibly every milk carton too, but I digress…

We had quite a busy evening ahead of us. First a barbecue party in East Williamsburg, then a night of bar crawling. To this end Rachael showed up at my apartment with a diaper bag full of provisions, among the goods contained in this bag were a container of baby wipes (because New York Shitty is a very dirty place) and an electronic bull horn. After futzing around with the latter for fifteen minutes (and playing “The Yellow Rose of Texas” for my neighbors’ edification) we took our show on the road. We walked.

As we strolled down Manhattan Avenue I would turn on the megaphone and announce every stop of the G train replete with “stand clear of the closing doors”. The people at Greenpoint Avenue were confused by this. The folks at Nassau Avenue were amused by this. A woman at Metropolitan Avenue complimented me on my flawless recitation of the transfers available to the Canarsie and 8th Avenue bound L train. I thanked her and told her that I had done much research on the subject.

We arrived at the barbecue and quickly found ourselves getting bored. This is not criticize the hosts, Mark and Heather, they were terrific. Rather, Rachael and I had an itch to scratch and our fine fettle would be wasted at such an informal function. I was rocking a fuzzy pink tube top, furry pink platform shower thongs and rhinestone earrings shaped like dollar signs. I, in the clarity of hindsight, looked ridiculous.

I was Greenpoint Fabulous, albeit bereft of the usual “whale tail” and “camel toe” one sees in the ‘Pernt with disquieting frequency. In my humble opinion the Garden Spot is the Camel Toe Capital of the universe. If you’re into this kind of thing, brave the G train and come here. You’ll feel like a kid in a candy store.

So my buddy Rach and I headed to Williamsburg without delay. After hitting Union Pool (LAME), Sweetwater (and bumping into someone I went to undergrad school with back in Texas), walking by a school and acquiring a child’s desk we headed to Pete’s. We stopped to catch our breath. Carrying a desk, even one clearly designed for a kindergartner, is pretty tiring. We looked up and noticed a buddy of ours waving at us. We went in, desk in hand.

It was our buddy “Hunter”. That’s not his real name— I can’t remember what it is at the moment— but he bears a striking resemblance to Hunter S. Thompson. The moniker works so let’s roll with it, okay? He was seated with a motley crew of dudes we had never met. A chap who called himself “Snowflake” seated himself in our newly-acquired desk. He fit too.

Despite our best efforts Rachael and I kept calling him “Snowball”. I suspect this was probably the result of watching Clerks and reading Animal Farm one too many times. No offense was intended and none seemed to be taken: he invited us to go home with him later. We declined.

Next to me sat a rheumy-eyed dude whose name (also) eludes me. He probably told me what it was but it didn’t register. My intoxication was not to blame either; this dude was one beer and a bong hit shy of becoming Terri Schiavo. Frankly, I was amazed he could even sit up straight. Despite this handicap, he put on his best moves.

TS (looking at my earrings): Ssssssssso, I see it you’re in it for the bennies?

Me: What?

TS: The bennies, the benjamins.

Me: Benjamins?

TS: $100 bills babe, money.

Me: If I was I wouldn’t be so fucking poor, dude.

TS (while pulling out a one-hitter and stuffing it with grass): Really? Why did you break up with your last boyfriend?

Me: He smoked so much grass he couldn’t keep it up.

(He puts his one-hitter away.)

TS: Let me tell you something…

Me: Yes, and that is???

TS: I’ve got the biggesssssssst dick and the mossssssst money of any man in thisssss entire bar.

Me (raising an eyebrow): Really? Now that is interesting. Are you serious?

TS: Yes, I’ve got the biggessssssst dick and the mosssssst money of any dude in thissssss whole barrrrrr.

Me (to Rachael): Hey Rach, could you hand me the bag?

Rachel hands me the bag and I pull out the megaphone. Even though my suitor’s lips whispered “no”, everyone around us said “yes”. So, as Nike suggests, I just did it.

Me: Hey everybody!

(The dull roar of cocktail conversation and flirtation abruptly stops.)

Me: This guy has the biggest dick and the most money of any man in this bar!

After five full seconds of silence, everyone resumed their respective conversations and this chap got the point.

When Rachael and I left two very touchy feely gals were draped on his shoulders. Although I suspect they were more interested in each other than him, my act of mischief probably gave him ample material to submit to Penthouse Forum the next day. Or he awakened to discover that someone stole one of his kidneys. Either way, it’s a happy ending.

Miss Heather

Best Job Interview Ever

January 15, 2007 ·
Filed under: 11211, Area 51, Dog Shit, Dung of the Day, Williamsburg, Williamsburg Brooklyn 

Although I take pride and derive much satisfaction from being the proprietress of New York Shitty, it does have its complications. My desire to expand my Shitty Empire (and pay off student loan debt) has necessitated that I seek permanent part-time employment. I suspect I speak for a number of people when I say that my accomplishments (thus far) merit praise and prove my worthiness to be the Mayor of this fine city (or at least hold a seat on Community Board 1). However, The Dog Shit Queen of Greenpoint (with all the responsibilities, powers and privileges vested therein) is not exactly the kind of position one can cite on a resume— or explain to some HR hack.

Or is it?

Recently I came across a “Help Wanted” advertisement on Craigslist for a dog walker. Follows is a condensed version of the job requirements (my comments in boldface):

I want to hear from you if:

# You are a 100% reliable person. No “no shows” or last minute “call ins.”
# You must love animals – particularly the canines. Experience with dog walking, ASPCA, shelters is preferred.
# This is an outside job that can be dirty sometimes. If you are resilient to rain, wind,snow,(soon) sun, cold, poop and have a keen eye for chicken bones read on…if not please don’t apply. WAIT— I have a keen eye for chicken bones!
# You must have a cellphone, digi camera or cellcam and a computer with internet
After some thought I finally concluded that this woman probably wants photographic evidence that “Fluffy” or “Fido” did a deuce. God, what is this world coming to???
# You must be a US citizen
Illegals do just about every other crappy job (no pun intended) in this country, why are you being so choosy?
# You will submit to a criminal background check
# I prefer you live in Williamsburg, Greenpoint or Bushwick maybe Clinton Hill. This is a part time job so a long commute makes no sense.
# I need you to be available M-F 11:30 am to 4:00 pm. There may be some weekend work too but I will only hire someone who is available during weekdays.

Please copy, paste and answer all of the following questions into your response. The Subject line must read “Part Time Dog Walker” – if it says anything else it will not be opened. Um, this is a dog walker ad, it’s not the fucking SAT for chrissakes!

Subject Line : Part Time Dog Walker
(Just in case you didn’t get it the first time.)

# 1.Your full name:
# 2 Your cell phone#:
# 3.Tell me why you want to be a dog walker?
Let’s cut the crap: no one wants to be a dog walker. It has been my observation that people WORK so they have a roof over their head and food in their stomachs.
# 4.What experience with animal care, if any, do you have?
Five cats and one husband. A good friend of mine asks me to walk her dog when her regular dog walker calls out sick; she says I am the only other person her dog will poop for. My presence encourages defecation. I have the face that launched a thousand shits. I’ve even had a pigeon crap on my head once. That sucked.

# 5.Will you submit to a background check?
Sure, why not? I’ve always had the presence of mind NOT to get caught.
# 6.Are you always available M-F 11:30am to 4pm?
# 7.What neighborhood do you live in? What train line do you live near?
# 8.Do you own a bicycle? A camera?
I do not own a bicycle but I DO own a digital camera. In fact, I had to upgrade my Flick’r account because I had over 200 pictures of dog shit and ran out of space. Does this count?
# 9.What is the highest level of education you have completed? I have a Master’s Degree in Fine Art from Parsons School of Design and graduated magna cum laude with a BFA in Fine Art and a minor in History. Both of the previous degrees are suicide pacts with poverty. However, I am ready, willing and able to converse with “Fido” about art theory, Lacan, Heidegger, Spanish History, Latin American History and (for your leftist chicano canine clientele) Liberation Theology.
# 10.Are you planning any vacations in the next 3 months? WTF? If I go on a trip will I get paged to pick up some errant piece of crap on Ainslie Street or something?
# 11.This is a part time job (7 to 12 hrs week). Are you employed elsewhere? What do you do?
# 12.Last one! Tell me what hobbies/interests you have, what you’re about.
*A-hem*

* Location: williamsburg

* Compensation: $100 to $150 per week. 7 hours to 12 hours week. Approx.

After doing the math, I deduced that this job pays between $12.00 and $14.00 an hour. Most of the part-time Administrative jobs I have found (that am qualified to hold) pay less. MUCH LESS. Suffice it to say that I find it oh so refreshing to see that unpaid interns (READ: slave labor) have become such an integral part of the administrative workforce.

Truth be told, ALL work entails shoveling shit, be it literally or figuratively. Picking up dog shit appears to be the more lucrative use of my time. This is a pretty damning indictment of our society (and the values it espouses) if you ask me. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised given our nation’s increasing reliance on a service-based job growth: scooping up designer dog dung cannot be “outsourced”. Yet, anyway.

I did not reply to this ad. Although I am OK with dog shit, own a digital camera, have Internet access and a “keen eye for chicken bones”, I know damned well the first time a dog under my care wretches up/shits out parasites I will lose both my composure and my lunch! Living in Greenpoint (and NYC in general) has given me a strong stomach. Shit (canine, feline or hominid), puke, stink, noise, public masturbation, the G train, crazy homeless people and self-important rich people, while annoying, are manageable to me. Roundworms, tape worms, pin worms, etc., freak my ass out. These things are, to use Orwellian parlance, my “Room 101”.

I did, however, send a resume and cover letter regarding Help Wanted ad posted by a local publication seeking an Administrative Assistant. Not only was I qualified for this position, but I felt my being The Dog Shit Queen of Greenpoint made me one cut above my fellow applicants. It did: during the interview I had for this job last Friday.

After a slow and fitful start, my potential employer posited the following question to me:

Give me an example from your personal life that demonstrates your ability to organize.

Here’s what I told him:

As you may or may not be aware, I have a web site: New York Shitty. This web site is (mostly) about the dog shit problem in Greenpoint. I frequently take walks, though I prefer to call them “fact finding missions”, to ascertain the amount of unattended dog shit in any given area. Sometimes I cover a designated area (when I get a tip), other times I merely cover an area I happen knocking around in on that given day. I take photos of the dog shit I find, note the address where it is located and use this data to generate Crap Maps.

One time I inspected far north Greenpoint. This is area is notorious for having a lot of dog shit. As it happens, there is a retirement home that straddles Eagle and Dupont Street and I discovered that dog owners are pretty fond of taking their dogs behind this establishment and letting them shit all over the place. There must have been at least twenty pieces of dog crap there. This required particularly rigorous record-keeping on my part. Sometimes I’d make a written annotation about a noteworthy piece of poop, other times I made qualitative observations about a one piece of shit or another, etc. When you upload fifty plus pieces of pictures of poop on any given day (like I do), you need to ensure that each piece of shit corresponds to the correct address. Otherwise, the “Crap Map” will be inaccurate.

I prefer to take the time to keep exhaustive records so I can dedicate the rest of my time to constructing “Crap Maps” or doing fun stuff like making customized shit-shaped bullets for my “Poopipoint” presentations.

A lengthy and enjoyable scatological/philosophical discussion followed. Some of the topics covered were: hobo porn (“smegmen”), garbage (“offal”), the night I ended up hanging out at the Briarwood Police Station because a dude was jerking off in front of me on the N train, and of course, how I may (or may not) fit into this organizational structure. I must have been there for at least an hour.

I sent a follow-up email the next day. This email had a jpg of today’s “Dung of the Day” attached to it. Part of it read as follows:

…I thought you might enjoy the dog shit assemblage I found at a parking lot after we met. As always, I took a photo and noted the location: across the street from 212 Grand Street. After doing a little research (Google Maps and the Department of Buildings BIS database are excellent resources when a piece of property is not clearly demarcated) I deduced it that this turd was located at 215 Grand Street. I may be demented but I am detail-oriented…

Marlboro Brown

I have yet to hear back. Maybe I will, maybe I won’t. Then again, the satisfaction I got from talking about dog shit in a job interview is a reward unto itself. And you can’t put a price on that.

Miss Heather

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