Two words: WATCH THIS.
This morning my cup-o-coffee ritual was interrupted by a salvo of feline vomit that had to be experienced to be believed. One minute I am rubbing my eyes trying to wake up, the next I was running for cover. It was like something out of a bad war movie: INCOMING ORDNANCE! Ka-BOOM!
Our youngest cat, Bodhi, was standing on the counter top when he started to jerk violently. Then he made a face like this and I got the FUCK OUTTA Dodge. When I went back into the kitchen later it looked like “The Exorcist” had been filmed in there. How such a small cat could generate that much puke is both disquieting and amazing.
Shortly thereafter, a fire truck filled with New York’s Bravest pulled up in front of our apartment building. After hitting every goddamned buzzer this building has (and freaking out all the tenants contained therein, myself included), they figured out that the building across the street was the source of the problem. Perhaps if ‘management’ would to outlay the OUTRAGEOUS sum of 99 cents per numeric character (instead of Sharpie Marker) to label the front door of my building, this disturbing inconvenience could have been avoided. Fires freak people out here. BIG TIME. Especially after the Green Terminal Warehouse fire.
My day has been fucked up ever since. That said.
- The results from my latest “fact-finding mission” will be posted by Monday.
- I have (somewhat) organized my outgoing links. Among the newer additions are “Rev. Spyro’s Snakeoil Emporium” and (for the sake of shameless self-promotion) my online store: Chateau de Ghetto. The former features piquant (and hilarious) rants from the taller-half of my pal, Judy McGuire; the latter features an array of lovely (and NON dogshit-related) dry goods made by yours truly.
- Even though I could not muster the proper attire (and chutzpah) to check out my man
Clorox BoraxBorixon last night, I did find this choice video on You Tube. Be it borscht, bling, booze, blunts or fine-ass bitches— Borixon has you covered. Enjoy!
- For reasons one can only imagine, I have had to moderate a lot of comments recently. (For my little pissant blog, anyway.) Maybe I am on my way to becoming an Art Star/Dog Shit Czar(ina), who knows? What I do know is one commentor wrote something profound enough to merit mention.
The difference between walking dogs and working in an office: if the dog shits in the middle of the room, he doesnâ€™t blame you.
Last weekend my husband and I took a day trip to Long Island. Not only was our destination eerily bereft of dog shit (or any kind of shit, for that matter), but it did not have the bountiful array of exotic (and noxious) aromas and sounds I have grown to savor. In other words: it was nice. A little too nice.
This sentiment was later confirmed when I read the local newspaper. It is my belief that:
- Most people need to be kept occupied at all times, otherwise they will find the least constructive means possible to busy themselves and
- having no greater problems to tackle, most people will become pathologically fixated some bit of minutiae which (for some god-forsaken reason) they feel compelled to share with others via the local media.
The end product (to an outsider like me) is downright hilarious by virtue of its sincerity, hyperbole and syntactical fuzziness. Case in point:
I have found things much more disturbing than “a strange dog” outside my back door. In fact, most creatures that scare the piss out of me have two legs, not four. Perhaps it is New York City’s failing school system, but I was under the impression that dogs can’t read. Therefore, a sign admonishing them to stay off school property is useless.
The “Crime Blotter” section offered up this choice morsel.
Render unto Caesar the things which are Caesarâ€™s, and unto God the things that are Godâ€™s.
But if you want the son of God gracing your front yard it will cost you $100. Master Card and Visa accepted. No checks.
And as with any society you get malcontents: brave and inbalanced souls who persist against overwhelming odds in ripping the man (and his bullshit sense of propriety) a new asshole. My kind of people, like this fine gentleman.
I think Mr. Greenwald needs to find his way to Greenpoint. We have numerous yellers here (Spanish-speaking, Polish-speaking and English-speaking) he can exchange yelling tips with or talk shouting shop. Perhaps he can apprentice to become a bi-(or tri-)lingual yeller? This would expand his aural abuse potential tremendously. Who knows, he might even find a nice yelling woman to settle down with, have a few l’il yellers and they’ll shout away into (at?) the sunset together. (And husband says I am not the romantic type. PAW!)
As it happens, my very own block (Green Street) has a yeller-in-residence. He makes his presence known about once a month. What this man is so worked-up about is anyone’s guess; his oratory sounds like something belched out by the “Walrus Man” in the movie “Star Wars”. Completely unintelligible, but laden with heart-felt emotion.
Last week “Walrus Man” demonstrated his newfound command of pronouns. At 11:00 p.m…
Fuck you! (loud crash) Fuck this!
and 12:15 a.m.
Fuck it! (loud banging) Fuck you!
I craned my head out the window, but couldn’t see him. The next morning, however, I found this next door to our building. This man is such a BAD ASS that even his imaginary friends draw blood.
Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, Long Island!
This afternoon I came across an especially jaunty turd on my walk to the Franklin Corner Store (to procure refreshments). Being a pretty breezy and chilly day, I immediately went home and got some head protection for my new little friend.
I give this creation (which can be viewed at 125 Green Street) two enthusiastic thumbs up.
Today’s “Dung of the Day” comes from 96 Dupont Street. At a distance the bottle of deodorant looked like an “adult novelty item”. Maybe it was employed for that purpose, who knows? I don’t put anything past anyone anymore.
As I was taking the above photo a local meathead* (repairing his pick-up truck) shouted “You think that (picture) will end up hanging in a museum?”
My answer: I hope so.
And I do. If for no other reason because the dean of my graduate school would be forced to publicly kiss my butt (in the hopes of getting a little alumni cash/publicity). He ran the fine arts department like it was his own little banana republic: summoning and cancelling “mandatory” meetings with no regard for the schedules of his
After he did this one too many times, I brought a puppet to an inter-departmental meeting and fielded all my questions/comments to him through her. Talk to the hand (or in this case, the puppet). And he did: in front of 40+ people, including a couple professors.
I still have “Rat Girl“. She has a few (more) things she’d like to say to him.
*This is not meant as an insult. I like meatheads. I find their prosaic, yet razor-sharp, take on things refreshing.
Filed under: Dog Shit Signage
Boy am I happy I got today’s dog shit fact-finding trip done this morning: it’s starting to snow! Above one of the MANY piles of shit I documented was a new dog doo sign to add to my collection!
Yes, it is GROSS.
Stay tuned: a new “Crap Map” and numerous pie charts are in the works!
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
I saw this poster on the way to the post office this morning. After laughing my ass off (for too many reasons to list here) I thought to myself: I bet this
‘festival’ testosterone-a-thon would be fucking hilarious to check out.
I can already smell the gallons of Axe cologne not-so-effectively concealing the fruity vanilla undertones of B.O., stale beer and illegal steriods. Perhaps it’ll be ladies’ night? And by “Ladies’ Night” I mean the bartender will give women GHB gratis so they can spike their own drinks. This would cut out the ‘middle-man’ and save precious time often wasted on chit-chat or learning someone’s name.
“Borixon” particularly intrigues me. I imagine this word (phrase?) probably means something especially tough in Polish, but to my virgin ears it sounds like something you’d slather on a rash or use to clean your toilet. Seriously. He might as well call himself “MC Milky Discharge” (and his “Klymidia Kru”), “DJ CLo-ROXXX” or “MC Scrubbing Bubble”.
Say— I like the ring of that last one! I wonder if I can find a jeweler around here who can knock out a blinged-out gold medallion with my new ‘street name’ on it before the 19th? I best start looking now, time is running out!
Miss Heather (AKA “MC Scrubbing Bubble”)
Today’s “Dung of the Day” hails from 1031 Manhattan Avenue. Although it is not my general practice to give turds ‘titles’, I am going to make an exception for this extraordinary fecal find. Henceforth this melange of shit, toilet paper and a solitary toy soldier (all conveniently located near the bus stop for the B61 and B43!) is “Stay the Course”.
Filed under: Area 51
It seems like every fucking subway station I have been to lately is plastered posters pimping “The Real Housewives of Orange County”. I am getting VERY tired at looking at these women’s faces. Faces that have undoubtedly been made uglier by spending enough money on cosmetic surgery to feed a third-world nation.
One of the many reasons I live in Greenpoint is to get away from these kind of people. Merely being on the other side of the continent isn’t distance enough; I want the Hudson and the East Rivers between us for good measure.
Needless to say, I was happy to discover that somebody else shares my sentiment. I found the following upgraded “Housewives” poster at 45 St./Court Square this weekend.
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.
* 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 shouldnâ€™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…
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.