Filed under: Area 51
I am not too certain how I came across this. Just be happy I did.
Yesterday my pal Judy McGuire featured a rather choice item about a man who is despoiling the British rail system with his rectal ordnance. Apparently he has struck thirty times since August of this year. Impressive.
Granted, this person is engaging in some serious anti-social behavior, but I have to chuckle at the level of seriousness with which our friends ‘across the pond’ are approaching this problem. Not only do those of us who live in New York Shitty accept human defecation in public spaces as an occupational hazard, but we find it downright hilarious under the right circumstances. A few years ago I even wrote a little ditty about a man whose avocation was smearing shit all over the men’s bathroom at my friend’s place of employment.
I can only hope the previous acts were a new manifestion of dialectical materialism the pundits have yet to expound upon.
For the above reasons (and many more) I have decided to officially feature “Bum Shit” on this blog. Greenpoint has staggering amounts of bum poo, which brings me to today’s “Dung of the Day” from 259 Banker Street…
I do not like them on a street called Box.
I do not like them with phat rocks.
I do not like them in my house.
I do not like them with a louse.
I do not like them anywhere.
I do not like bum shit and wipes.
I do not like them, 311 operator (to whom I gripe).*
*Yes, Doctor Seuss is probably rolling in his grave somewhere.
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
I have been in a surly mood of late. There are numerous reasons for this and I care not to bore you with the details. Suffice it to say that I have autumn doldrums.
That said, I have (out of idle curiosity/vanity) researched who (if any) famous people share my birthday: January 7. I am sure many of you have done this, even if you will not openly admit to doing so.
It’s ‘psychic lotto by proxy’: you (some lowly cube-monkey earning slave wages) scratch away at a ticket with hopes that the stars will affirm that you are designated for something better in life other than shovelling shit. Or collating copies. Same difference.
I know who my birthday buds are and it ain’t pretty. Butterfly McQueen, Charles Addams (as in The Addams Family) and Paul Clemens number in my ranks, but the others suck. Big time.
- Millard Fillmore: one of the worst Presidents this country has ever had. I suspect our current Chimp in Chief will take him down a notch. This will only provide further proof as to how much Millard Fillmore sucked.
- Nicholas Cage: I was pretty down with Nick at first (Fast Times at Ridgemont High), but nowadays he’s just plain creepy. You can’t tell the difference between a wax statue of him and the real thing. Gross.
- Katie Couric: She offends me the most. I suspect this is due to the ‘perkiness factor’. I am rarely perky. “Perky” is a word neither my friends nor my enemies would use to describe me. When I appear to be remotely “perky” (and my husband can/will attest to this) it is because I am up to some type of anti-social activity. Think Wednesday Addams— or better yet— Uncle Fester or Lurch.
In closing, I have been in a rather shitty mood today. Until I saw this ‘modified’ advertisement on the front of a B61 bus headed down Manhattan Avenue.
This made my day. I wonder if this is what Katie looks like before being Photo-shopped? Fuck, I look like that every day.
P.S.: The other thing that sucks about being born January 7 is that most people fuck it up and think that you were born January 8 (like Elvis or David Bowie). I HATE Elvis, but Bowie rocks.
I have decided to grace Manhattan with my presence today. Among other things, I need to go to the Sanrio store on 42nd Street and buy a Badtz Maru plush. One of my latest projects is to make him over as Abu Masab al-Zarqawi. Cut me some slack, this is important!
Anyhoo, here’s a fun little bit of nonsense I completed this week.
Here is today’s “Dung of the Day” from 96 Scholes Street.
And here is something I happened across yesterday on Union Avenue. Does anyone out there know the story behind this? It’s damned cool.
Filed under: Dog Shit Signage
When I knock around the Italian area of Williamsburg (south of the BQE) I usually stroll along Graham Avenue or Manhattan Avenue. Now I realize that I have been doing myself (and my readership) a considerable disservice by neglecting Leonard Street. Not only are there lots of dog bombs to be found along this strip, but there is a person residing there who is clearly fed up with people not picking up after their dogs. He/she has seen fit to erect four signs to this effect.
These signs can be found on Leonard Street just north of Metropolitan Avenue. I can only hope this person is taking pictures of the dogs (and the people who walk them) who are despoiling his/her property.
Filed under: Area 51
I have been housesitting my friend’s apartment over in Bushwick the last six days. Every day after I get back to my craptastic apartment in Greenpoint I thank my lucky stars that I do not live over there. Sure, Greenpoint has dog shit, bums, and Slipsters, but they have shit over that defies description. Shit like the following…
Leonard Street between Scholes and Meserole Streets
October 16, 2006
Two lids and a plate lay out to dry.
The dishwasher is churning away.
Mmmmm! Just like mom used to make!
A toaster oven?!? This al fresco kitchen has better amenities than my rent-stabilized piece of shit. My landlord is going to hear about this.
One hour later…
Rice-A-Roni, The Leonard Street Treat!
I see Fresh Direct has arrived…
and a lid has disappeared.
E coli: it’s what’s for dinner.
Filed under: Area 51
It’s a clock! The jewels around the rim of the flower pot mark the hour (“12” is purple) and the flowers serve as the second hand. The “plant” makes a full revolution every 60 seconds. Pretty damned neat if I say so myself. I suspect this item will find its way to my online store at Esty.com sometime later this week.
Yesterday’s jaunt to Bushwick was incredibly fruitful. I found so much ‘eye candy’ that today will be a new first for New York Shitty: there are three “Dung of the Days”! Let’s get started…
Representing Greenpoint, we have a nice pile of bum shit (with asswipe!!!) next to some swank-tastic condos.
Representing Williamsburg, we have this mashed-up pile(s?) of shit gracing the front of the Key Food grocery store at 575 Grand Street.
And last— but not least— representing Bushwick, we have this festive group of butt dumplings which can be found at 91 Montrose Avenue.
This week I will be house-sitting for a friend of mine who lives in Bushwick. I am pretty jazzed about this because I have long wanted to peruse her hood for “dog bombs” and any other weird shit to be found. My friend has seen many choice things there over the years, including a man lacquering chicken feet on the sidewalk and some dude using a running fire hydrant to wash the fish he caught (from the East River???). He gutted them right there on the street and left the guts for all the enjoy. Yummy.
I did not see anything too out of the ordinary today, but I spied my very first piece of Bushwick dog shit signage…
and found today’s “Dung of the Day” in front of William J. Gaynor Junior High School at 223 Graham Avenue.
It sort of looks like Barney— enough to merit a very special PhotoShop project. Hmm…
P.S.: Today’s “Dung of the Day” is dedicated to the fine men and women who have taken on the onerous task of educating New York City’s youth. It has been my observation that few places (other than retirement homes) have as much dog shit piled around them than public schools. You folks get no respect whatsoever.
Filed under: Area 51
Recently I recounted a story from my “Dallas days” to one of my husband’s coworkers. We got on the subject of Hare Krishnas; he had a (VERY) funny tale to tell, as did I. It’s a long story (one which I care not go to into at this time), but it got me thinking about the various men I dated before I got married.
This has been on my mind of late because my wedding anniversary is this month: October 31. Our civil ceremony/quasi-elopement did not go over well with my Southern Baptist inlaws. They sent me a rather turgid email (not even a phone call) stating “Congratulations on formalizing your commitment”.
At the time I thought this was funny as hell. I still do: “formalizing (my) commitment” sounds like being thrown into a mental institution. Then again, I live in New York Shitty, have a cat named “Frances” (as in Frances Farmer) and operate a blog (mostly) about dog shit. I am the self-elected inmate of my own prison of sin. In their eyes anyway; I prefer to call it freedom.
Humor me, the levity helps me laugh off the money I lost by not having the requisite “dog and pony” show in a church.
While my husband was out of town this week, I pondered the motley crew who (at one time or another and of their own free will) CHOSE to take on my manic antics. This group is a veritable rogue’s gallery of manhood, I assure you. Water reaches its own level: freaks beget freaks. Some of them were nice, others not so much, but none of them were boring. I feel sorry for a few of them sometimes.
I parsed through the “coulda-haves”, “shouldn’t-haves”, “mighta-haves” and the “what the-fucks” and have declared a winner— or more appropriately— a runner-up. (I am married now, after all.)
The year was 2000 and I was a temp. I met a guy on the job (we’ll call him “Mike”) and we hit it off. (Yes, I realize that dating in the office is not advisable, but then again, we did not work with each other in any way.) Mike was a comedian who worked a day job to support his passion, I was a nascent Dog Shit Queen and full-time smartass. Do the
We bantered a lot, hung-out a lot, but went out only once. I didn’t get home until 4:00 a.m. that night. Nothing naughty happened, we just had so much fun bullshitting we lost track of time.
After that, nothing. We still emailed each other on occasion, but it was pretty weird. This really got to me at first, but I got over it and moved on.
(Jump forward two years)
I swung by this office to say “Hi” to my old supervisor and asked if Mike was around.
Old Supervisor (sheepishly): Uh, he is not here— didn’t you hear?
Fellow (former) Co-worker: He had a breakdown or something and had to be hospitalized.
F.F.C: He thought his roommates were watching him or something. It was a real mess.
Being the inquisitive person I am, I got to the bottom of this mystery: I emailed Mike. We met for dinner and I got the scoop.
Mike was clearly medicated, but was still very much the charming and incredibly witty man I knew several years before. The story (as I understand it) is as follows:
Mike thought his roommates were videotaping him. He had a nervous breakdown and was incarcerated at Bellevue. One day he managed to escape and (for reasons one can only imagine) decided to go back to work. And work Mike did— until a few men from Bellevue came to collect him. No one in the office thought anything of him being there.
If the previous anecdote is not sufficient evidence that working in a cubicle farm either encourages or requires insanity, I don’t know what is. Something distinctly weird and BAD happens when you throw people together like that.
I left our dinner date sad. To this day I cannot exactly pin down why I feel this way, save the fact that Mike has a long, hard road before him and being ostracized by his former coworkers is not going to help matters.
Wherever you are now Mike, I am rooting for you.
Mike’s musings about other Bellevue residents (to me):
They were really nice people, artists mostly. Like you.
This is one of nicest compliments I have gotten to this day.
(Drawing Credit*: Miss Heather)
*This rendering does not depict anyone mentioned in this post in any way whatsoever. I just felt like including it.