The recent torrential downpour(s) have made “Dung of the Day” pickins’ pretty slim. But “dog shit” isn’t merely canine effluvia, it’s a state of mind. Which brings me to this steaming pile of shit my husband and I happened across last night at 198 Green Street…
Who the? What the? OH MY GOD!!! As if the facade’s strong resemblance to a sub-zero refrigerator isn’t bad enough, check out the front door…
And exactly who (or what) will live behind this door? Frau Blucher immediately comes to mind. This isn’t a house, it’s a fucking fortification— which may not be such a bad idea given that some neighborhood (wannabe) toughs hurled an object in my direction as I gawked at this atrocity. Frankly, it makes me want to hurl something at (or my dinner on) it too.
I’m guessing this is a light fixture. The first of three to be installed along the top of this building. I for one would like to propose that upon completion these be used as gallows for the owner of this property, the ‘designer’ responsible for this ‘design concept’ and the contractor who enabled it to happen.
I apologize for the lack of posts lately, but be assured that I have been very busy consolidating and planning the expansion of my “shit empire”.
In the (hopefully) near future you can expect:
1. The birth of the “crap map”. I have been busy collecting pix and data, the only thing holding me back now is technology (or my lack of mastery thereof). Ideally, this map will be not unlike Gawker’s “Gawker Stalker” map. We’ll see.
2. Expansion of subject matter: the last few weeks working on this blog has made me realize that there are so many topics which, hitherto until now, remain sorely unexplored. The creation of a “Chicken Bone Gallery” is one such example of how I am going to address this problem. Anyone who has lived in New York City, much less Greenpoint, long enough knows that discarded fried chicken bones are a pervasive, gross and for dog owners, DANGEROUS, phenomena.
3. Expansion of territory: although this is contingent on getting the “crap map” launched, I am eyeing expansion into Williamsburg and Bushwick. Naturally, I will be heavily reliant upon contributions from you, the public, to make this happen.
4. Amusing anecdotes from myself and others, such as a story about a guy my friend and I call “Scoop Dogg”. This dude is more than a little dogmatic (bad pun, but I had to make it) about how one scoops the poop.
More to follow soon…
Miss Heather (Your Shit Master)
Filed under: Dung of the Day
I found this monstrousity on the northeast corner of Huron Street and Manhattan Avenue. I am going back tomorrow to measure it— it’s friggin HUGE! The dog that pinched this loaf is probably bigger than my great aunt’s old Delta 88. YIKES!
5/15/06: The rain has winnowed it down a bit, but here it is…
5/18/06: After (even) more rain, most of it is still there. This isn’t mere dog shit, it’s fucking strontium 90!
Filed under: Dung of the Day
After you look at dog shit long enough you notice that each turd has its own ‘personality’, if you will.
As a result, each of my daily walks has become a free-style Rorschach Test, e.g., this one looks like a bunny rabbit, that one looks like clown, etc… You get the idea.
Today’s “Dung of the Day” (found at the southeastern corner of Manhattan Avenue and Eagle Street) looks like a… um, well… I’ll let you figure it out on your own…
A few days ago I put up (yet another) post about the all the friggin’ dog shit on my block. The following is the closing line from this post:
But the question that nags at me is this: do these people simply not notice all the dog shit in front of their buildings or do they not care?
The check my mouth cut to kismet May 8th was cashed May 10th, dear readers. So much for ‘float’. Anyhoo… today around 12:30 p.m. I headed down to the Greenpoint Coffee House to get some iced tea. When I reached 93 Green Street this is what I found:
1. an unattended (lonely and unleashed) dog and…
2. a bunch of dog shit.
Now jump forward to 8:00 p.m. this same day…
My husband, a friend of ours from out of town and I were walking down Green Street (again). We reached 97 Green Street and this is what we saw:
1. May 8th’s “Dung of the Day” kicked into the street and…
I am happy to know someone (other than myself) gives a damn, but he/she should consult this guy for sign-making tips.
***UPDATE 5/13/06*** The sign is gone and so is the dog shit. HOORAY!
Filed under: Dung of the Day
Rare are the days when I see something repulsive enough to make me wince.
I have lived in New York City long enough to build-up a certain ‘immunity’ to things that would give someone in, say, Idaho, an apoplexic fit. I understand what Frank Sinatra meant when he sang that song about the “city that never sleeps”; one does not get much sleep when surrounded by 8+ million OTHER people pissing, shitting, puking, brawling, drinking, fornicating, masturbating, etc., in every nook and cranny to be found AROUND THE CLOCK. Conversely, there is not much sleep to be had if one is engaged in pissing, shitting, puking, brawling, drinking, fornicating, masturbating, etc., ad nauseum. To summarize: it can get a wee bit messy here and I have
adjusted lowered my expectations accordingly.
That said, today was one of those days when I saw something that made me go “ewwww!“.
I found this on Huron Street between Manhattan Avenue and McGuinness Boulevard. I apologize for the blurry image, as I was cringing when I took this photo.
I would be remiss if I didn’t comment on the (yet unexplored but brilliant) concept of actually eating the toilet paper so it will ‘wipe’ your ass later when you ‘pass’ it.
This would be perfect for a roommate I had once who too lazy to do anything, including jerking off. (“Too much work” he said.) Proper rectal hygiene was apparently also too time-consuming to merit any attention on his part.
Sadly, I know the previous to be a fact because he once left a skid-marked pair of panties on bathroom floor for 2 days. Having had enough, I put on a pair of rubbler gloves, placed the panties in a ziploc bag, and taped this at eye level on the refrigerator (with the ‘business’ showing, naturally). It never happened again.
Filed under: Dung of the Day
On May 4th I wrote a post about the proliferation of dog crap to be found in and around the lofts here on Green St. This situation has not changed. In fact, there is even more shit to be found there.
Yesterday I watched a woman exit her loft with TWO big dogs, oblivious to the (following) “Ron Jeremy” of canine bowel movements within ten feet of her front door. In all fairness, walking two big dogs requires 101% of one’s attention— AND this woman had baggies for the poo, so she was at least being a responsible dog walker. But the question that nags at me is this: do these people simply not notice all the dog shit in front of their buildings or do they not care?
Like any upstanding red-blooded American, my husband and I went out last night and dined on Mexican food. I had been invited to an art opening this particular evening, but there is no way I am going to listen to some (andro-american) artist pontificate about gifs when my time can be spent celebrating the overthrow of tyrants by guzzling sangria and eating beans. I have my priorities. They may not be good ones, but they are priorities nonetheless.
On our walk down to Cafe Mexicano II, I got an eyeful (and noseful) of Greenpoint goodness…
The person disposing of said mattress was not only kind enough to advise potential dumpster divers of this item’s latent defects, but also employed a “Jolly Roger” to drive the point home. I like pirates. Kudos.
You could see this from a couple blocks away… and you could smell it from twenty feet away. In case you are wondering, it smells exactly like it looks: BAD.
As I was taking pictures of this choice piece of ‘street art’, a local working-class Joe came up and told me the story behind it. This mess was made by the Department of Sanitation and he has been calling 311 for a couple of days requesting that it the D.O.S. pick it up. Let’s go over the previous one more time in case you missed it: this man is calling the city to request that the Department of Sanitation clean up the garbage they dumped in front of his house.
I feel for this guy. Not only does he live two blocks downwind from the smoldering Greenpoint Market Terminal, but now he has a rotten pile of tomatoes in front of his house. That really sucks.
Looks like I found another work by the Greenpoint dog doo sign-maker (and if you are reading this PLEASE contact me). The arrow is a nice touch; it clears up any ambiguity as to which “asshole” this order (?) is directed to. In a city of eight million+ people (many of whom answer to the moniker “asshole”) such clarifications are necessary.
Having more or less completed today’s Greenpoint (s)hit parade, I’d like to close with this image (from the women’s bathroom at McCarren Park) and an essay…
There are a number of people (family mostly) who wonder why the hell I want to live in New York City. Many more people (who reside in New York City) are perplexed as to why I like living in Greenpoint. I ask myself both of the previous questions on occasion— and fortunately when the specter of doubt darkens my soul, I come across something (like the above gem) which brings everything into focus.
I grew up in the ‘burbs. For those of you not in the know, the suburbs are not the restful pastures of refuge they purport to be. No sir; under the veneer of neighborhood associations, SUVs, and each tract home struggling to assert its individuality, lies dark neurosis and rage. This neurosis manifests itself in the maniacal pursuit of perfection and pointing out the shortcomings of others. There is no better example of this phenomenon than the inordinate attention and time dedicated to proper lawn care. I will illustrate this point with the following two anecdotes from my coming of age in Richardson, Texas.
Newton’s Third Law, Suburban Style: for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction
It was a hot summer afternoon and my father was preening our front yard bereft of sunblock while drinking beer. From the sanctity of my air-conditioned and storm-windowed bedroom I watched the following unfold:
Two dogs cantering down the block towards our house. “Dog #1″ (who is roughly 20 feet ahead of “Dog #2″) parked his ass in front of our mailbox (which my father had saw fit to paint like the then West German flag which is odd given that his surname is of Polish/Lithuanian derivation) and took a dump. My dad noticed this and started cursing. This sight was only made more amusing by the fact that I cannot hear a single fucking word he is saying.
Take any Sylvester Stallone, Steven Seagal, or Jean Claude van Damme movie from the 1980’s and watch it without sound; they’re funny as hell. Once you remove plot and dialogue, the only thing left is an angry white male with veins pulsating on his beet-red temples shaking his fist and yelling. Over and over.
While my father bellowed profanity, “Dog #2″ rebounded and ate the butt dumplins’ dispensed by “Dog #1″. After reassessing the situation, my dad (perplexed, but a lot less angry) went back about his work.
Not in my neighborhood: Newtonian Backwash
In any given subdivision that panders tract homes to the (diminishing) middle-class, you will find a trailer park graduate: a family whose financial means have enabled them to leave the trailer park, but the ‘trailer park’ has clearly NOT left them. My neighborhood was no exception. My father developed an unhealthy fixation OBSESSION with a house literally on the opposite end of the development from our own. The offenses committed by the homeowner in question are as follows:
- The house was painted with the exact same colors used by “What-A-Burger”: aqua blue, BRIGHT orange and beige. It was pretty fucking ugly, but at least they were maintaining the paint job and allowing it to crack and peel.
- The garden beds on their front lawn were cordoned off with beer bottles. Old tires were used as planters.
- Their front lawn had (*gasp*) weeds. Lots of ’em.
For approximately six months my father drove by this house each and every time we went out to get groceries, shop, eat, etc. And each and every time, coming and going, my father saw fit to rant about this house for my mother’s and my own edification.
My mother (being the subtle operator she is) started ‘volunteering’ to drive us to and from the grocery store, mall, etc. This was no small sacrifice, as my father is also a verbose ‘backseat driver’. Mysteriously enough, my mother always saw fit to take a less circuitous and controversial route from and to our house. Eventually my father caught on to her ruse and requested that she drive his ‘old’ route. My mother refused. My father pushed, got an earful, and neither my father nor my mother ever drove by that house again.
That’s what life is like in the ‘burbs my friends and it’s time to wrap this up…
Greenpoint is neither praised for inviting lawns nor pleasing aesthetics. There are virtually no front yards here and most that can be found employ old tires, bathtubs, or toilets as lawn ornaments. The buildings here are usually sheathed in vinyl siding.
The primary virtue of Greenpoint is that she is forthright with her ugliness. I like this. There is no race to perfection here: ‘good enough’ carries the day. And ‘good enough’ is exactly what it implies: a simplified, occasionally ugly, but effective solution to a complex problem.
This concept gives one more free time for other pursuits. Sure, this time might be devoted to getting shitfaced, making art, creating a blog about dog shit or other marginally productive activities, but any of the previous avocations are harmless when compared to getting worked into a black rage over (a lack of) lawn maintenance or your neighbor’s ugly-ass house. And while I like the public bathrooms I patronize to have amenities such as running water, toilet paper and paper towels, I distrust any neighborhood whose public bathrooms have bar soap and does not to tether its garbage can to the sink with heavy chains. This is a sure sign of conformity and an overall lack of creativity/mischief in the community at large.
UPDATE 5/18/06: I was patronizing the McCarren Park ladie’s room when I found this:
As you can imagine, I was pretty alarmed by this development. However, my anxieties were assuaged when I discovered:
- how difficult using the only operational spigot is when both hands are lathered with soap
- no paper towels
Filed under: Dung of the Day
Like most people who have more important things to do and too much time on their hands, I frequently find myself drifting off into flights of fancy. Usually this manifests itself in small ways, such as making art work or researching monkies. Other times I find myself brainstorming about inventions I would like to see created.
Today I find myself wishing that someone would come up with a way to make customized ‘scratch and sniff’ postcards. If the technology was available, I’d make a postcard using the image below and the acrid odor wafting from the Greenpoint Market Terminal (two blocks away from where I found this pile of dog shit).
Filed under: Dog Shit
Yesterday evening when I left my apartment to check out what is left of the Greenpoint Terminal Market I discovered that our Superintendent’s daughter had been quite busy decorating our sidewalk with chalk drawings. I am not a person who is big on kids, but I have to admit that the mural she created was damned cute. Aside from writing “I (heart) NY” over and over, she wrote more cryptic messages, like the one below.
As I proceeded down the sidewalk towards Franklin, however, this message took on an entirely different meaning: from 143 to 101 Green Street I came across a bounty of ‘sidewalk spuds’. Be advised that this is the short list; I have excluded turds that are already documented (and are still to be found at this location).
I have never caught anyone in the act, but I have a pretty clear idea of who the offenders are. One need not be Sherlock Holmes (or even Inspector Clouseau) to observe that ALL of this dog shit is localized in front and adjacent to lofts where dogs (and their owners) reside. This is not conjecture on my part; I have seen the owners and their dogs hanging out in front of these buildings many, many times.
I know very little about the people who live in these lofts aside from the fact that most (if not all) are hipsters in their 20’s and are clearly from out-of-state. It is probably not unreasonable to surmise that their rent is being subsidized, if not paid for outright, by their parents.
That said, I seriously doubt their parents (and the community organizations they undoubtedly belong to) back in suburban wherever would look kindly on this behavior. Why should it be any different here?
Perhaps these peeps have always had someone to pick up their shit and wipe their bottoms?
Perhaps they are acting out because mommy and daddy do not love them enough to pony up the money needed to live on Bedford Avenue?
Perhaps they were raised by wolves?
I’m chocking this up to LAZINESS and ENTITLEMENT. Wake up and smell the dog shit. It’s time to grow up and assume some shred of responsibility kiddos!