A Happy Meal with a Happy Ending

August 14, 2007 ·
Filed under: Area 51, Williamsburg 

Last week dear readers you learned about me declining a lucrative offer to join the sex industry. Believe it or not, I occasionally regret that decision. Sure, I don’t have the stomach for “adult films” but I probably would have been a good stripper. Or dominatrix. It would simply be a matter of self-discipline and focus.

The problem is I have a notoriously impish sense of humor. The sight of some mousy chap who looks like he slaves over actuarial tables for a living getting used and abused by a statuesque Eastern European woman while strapped to wall gives me the giggles. I know this for a fact because I have seen this very scenario. Twice. In both cases I had to hurry my person out of earshot so as to release my category five case of the sillies.

I should probably just settle for stripping. My buddy Rebecca11222 brought an opportunity to my attention yesterday that might be just the thing. She writes:

From “Kitchen Delight” (which is barely a kitchen and hardly a delight) on N8th btw Driggs & Bedford today. Not actually IN Greenpoint, but I had to pass it in order to walk to Greenpoint.

Don’t ask about the special sauce.

Service with a smile

Sir, would you like to super-size that handjob? Is that for here or to go?

Miss Heather

P.S.: I’d like to give a shout out to my buddy Bob over at The Gowanus Lounge. As some of you may be aware, he is out of town at the moment. Of all places, he happens to be in Hawaii —which is soon to be grazed by a hurricane. Yikes!

The Fedderist Manifesto

August 14, 2007 ·
Filed under: Area 51, Articles of Fedderization, Long Island City, Williamsburg 

Today I wish to add a new weapon to the arsenal of wretched real estate rhetoric. My buddy Kevin over at Forgotten-NY brought us the oft used and loved term “Fedders building”. What I propose is a modest and simple expansion of his creation:

Fedderize (fed’er-riz) vt. -ized, izing, izes 1. remodeling an old building in order to make it completely and utterly hideous.

Exhibit A
149 Grand Street
Brooklyn, NY 11211

149 Grand Street

Let’s start with this one. Though it is a pretty mild example several elements of Fedderization are manifest:

  1. The addition of Fedders boxes to an otherwise beautiful facade
  2. Jarring use of stucco
  3. A vinyl awning which has no aesthetic relationship whatsoever with the rest of the building

When I saw this building my jaw dropped. I couldn’t believe someone would deface an otherwise okay building by installing Fedders boxes. Whoever is responsible for this should be kicked in the head.

Let’s proceed to the most venal example of Fedderization I have ever seen. In fact, the following turd was the inspiration for this post! Get out your motion sickness bags folks. You’re gonna need them.

EXHIBIT B
1007-1009 50th Avenue
Long Island City, NY 10111

1007-1009 50th Avenue

How-lee Sheeeeee-it!

I remember this building. It was once an unremarkable, if slightly run-down, clone of its neighbors. Now it is a hideous melange of what the fuck:

  1. The first floor and all the window sills are slathered in titanium white stucco.
  2. Two Fedders boxes grace each floor . They look like teats on a sow.
  3. The store front on the right employs the sparing use of marble, which is sort of odd given they didn’t skimp on all the other ugly shit inflicted upon this building.
  4. The store front of the left looks like something one would find in an industrial park. It does not match its companion to the right. One would think the Fedderist responsible for this gruesome twosome would be consistent in his (or her) craptitude. Obviously this was not the case.

Could someone please explain to me why someone would outlay (what appears to be) a lot of money to do this? Although I dislike the practice, I can understand why many developers have seen fit to erect ugly, over-sized, institutional-looking buildings in Greenpoint, Williamsburg, Long Island City and beyond: to save money. This, on the other hand, I do not get. Thoughts anyone?

Miss Heather

Miss Heather’s Apartment Share Inferno

New York Shitty is a metropolis of pissers and moaners. Crappy jobs/job interviews, crappy dates, crappy landlords: someone has written a lengthy (and usually pithy) missive (or two) about them all. Yet no one has written about a subject that encapsulates all the previous and more: apartment shares and the people who offer them. Until today.

I care not for landlords, first dates or job interviews— but at least I know what all the previous involve: me getting fucked. Be it metaphorically, physically or both. The same cannot be said about apartment share interviews, as I learned several years ago.

The purpose of this post is to showcase the three worst (and/or weirdest) apartment share interviews I have ever had. I have even taken the liberty of creating a handy checklist to track the depths of depravity I endured. Nothing says “you’ve arrived” (in HELL) like PowerPoint, after all.

CASE STUDY #1: THE DUNGEON

The Dungeon

Vital Statistics

Location: Meserole Street and Graham Avenue
Rent: $450 a month
The Catch: It’s a SRO

Truth be told, I was not very jazzed about the location of this share. Sure, it is a beautiful building, but I am a Greenpoint gal through and through. However, when one is dirt-ass broke, she cannot afford to be choosy, so I checked it out.

When I arrived at the front door I was greeted by a young woman. I think she was from Belgium, though it was hard to tell. She was a very pleasant and elegantly dressed lady— which made up for the decidedly NON-elegant setting.

As she led me through the front door (of her section) of the SRO, a man donning a dragon mask and reeking of marijuana popped out of another door and started giggling inanely. “Okay”, I thought “So he likes to party a little on a Sunday afternoon. Who doesn’t? No problem.”

The room she showed me was very spacious. I’ve seen many apartments smaller than this space, which probably measured around 400 square feet. I even liked the shade of lilac the walls were painted. Very pretty. I even told her so and she thanked me. She had picked out the paint herself.

Then I saw something I have never seen in any apartment/share space before: leather restraints, paddles and heavy chains anchored to the wall by mollies. Given that this was a three month sublease, the presence of these implements was non-negotiable. I could honestly not care less what this woman did (professionally?), but I don’t think I could have handled waking up every morning to the sight of Medieval torture devices. I was offered this sublet, but turned it down.

All things considered this experience was pretty mild (as I later would learn). What’s more, she was really likable and clearly not out to rip me off so I give this share a rating of…

SRO of Pain

CASE STUDY #2: MESEROLE STREET SUICIDE SHARE

Suicide Hall

Vital Statistics

Location: Meserole and Leonard Street
Rent: $500 a month
The Catch: Too many to summarize

The only reason I agreed to an interview at this share was because I confused “Meserole Street” with “Meserole Avenue”. After my interview at this hellhole I have never confused the two thoroughfares since.

I knocked on the door, a smallish red-haired man answered and ushered me in. It was dark. It was dirty. It was the bachelor pad date rape central replete with a disemboweled motorcycle in the living area. Although something about the “head roomie” was unsettling to me, I liked the other guy and heard them out. He was nice.

Then the shoes dropped, one after the other.

  1. Once the “Head Roomie” stood by the bathroom area (which was better lit) I recognized him; this shithead had I.M.ed me on Nerve a month ago. And being a freak (him more so than, me), I dissed him. Whoops.
  2. After making the previous discovery he showed me the room. It was okay, I guess. Then he pulled out a photo album and pointed to a picture of 20-something brunette chap.

See this guy?

I answered: yes.

He used to live in that space. Really nice guy, always laughing. We didn’t realize he had problems.

Me: Really, what kind of problems?

After not hearing from him a couple of days we went into his room and discovered that he had shot himself in the head hanged himself.

Me: I’m sorry to hear that.

What the hell do you say to something like that? How can one NOT notice a DEAD BODY for TWO WHOLE DAYS??? These are both very good questions. I kept them to myself.

I feel that people need to know about this, you know.

He said.

Let’s see: this was either the most diabolical form of revenge ever exacted (Where’s Candid Camera?) or this guy is being honest. Given the lack of overall intelligence he demonstrated on Nerve, I’m leaning towards the latter. I bet he is still trolling the Internets for leg too. My advice: no woman in her right mind is going to put out in a place that reeks of motor oil.

When I took the above the photo a meathead busy recycling beer bottles shouted:

Take a picture of the building across the street, it’s much nicer!

Leonard Street Fedders Special

And, inasmuch as I hate to say it, I agree. At least no one has blown his (or her) brains out here hanged him (or herself) there.

Yet.

With so many different factors at play, I am going to stick with simple suicide on this one and give this share a…

Meserole Street Suicide Den

At last! We are down to our last contender from the Universe’s very own Garden Spot: Greenpoint, Brooklyn U.S.A.!

CASE STUDY #3: STONER SPECIAL

Nassau Ave Bachelor Pad

Vital Statistics

Location: Nassau Avenue and Monitor Street
Rent: $600 a month
The Catch: It’s total fucking rip-off… and more!

I slog my ass over to this place. It stinks. Literally. Only a block away from Kingsland Avenue, the corner where this building is situated sports a perfume I like to call Petro le Um #5. Being the eager little domicile hunter I was (because I have a strong distaste about being homeless) I go in.

It is a loft. I do not like lofts. Inasmuch as the real estate industry likes to throw around the buzz phrase “artist loft” my experience has been that “artists” generally do not inhabit such spaces. I write this as an artist. 252 Norman Avenue was no exception.

I look around and note the “stoner special” layout of the living area: three really big, threadbare sofas encircling a very expensive widescreen television set. I am shown the room that is for rent: it is (maybe) eight by ten feet. It has no windows whatsoever. They are asking $600 a month for this piece of shit. In 2001.

I am then subjected to a gauntlet of questions by the residents of this place. I smile and answer them politely. Then I go home.

A weeks goes by and I get a phone call. It is one of the fellows from this apartment.

Me: So did I get the share?
Dude: No, but I thought you were cute and wondered if you’d like to go out on a date.

WTF!?!

When I told my buddy Larry about this recently, he opined:

You should have gone out with the guy and moved in with him. That way you will have a place to live and not have to pay rent.

Funny man, that Larry.

That said, there is something so utterly WRONG about using apartment share interviews to pick up chicks. It takes real chutzpah to call someone, tell her she did NOT get the share and then ask her on a date. Truth be told, it gave me the fucking creeps. So I give this jerk a…

Stoner Special

In case you are wondering, I ended up putting all my shit in storage and sofa surfing until I found a place of my own. I can honestly say that one month of sofa-surfing wasn’t that bad when faced with my alternatives.

Miss Heather

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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