Let’s see: after running around like crazy, making phone calls, sending emails, etc., I finally have a little time to contemplate my lint-ridden navel.
As this post indicated, I recently had a birthday. I have been so busy I haven’t even had the time to celebrate it, but rest assured this will come to pass. Instead, I spent my birthday peacefully and for that I am grateful. Once you have become grounded FIRMLY in your thirties the novelty wears off, trust me.
Lackadaisically touching-up my hair has become a thing of the past; I have one petulant grey hair in the middle of my forehead that serves as constant reminder of this fact. One of these days I’ll name it. I’ve been tossing around the notion of naming this hair after one of my shitty ex-boyfriends (because I have no doubt that one of them is responsible for it), but shitty exes are to me what child molesters are to NAMBLA: there are many. Too many.
No, sir: getting older doesn’t bother me much (it’s not like I can do anything about it anyway). Being sneered at by the affluent nubiles who are rapidly (and vapidly) colonializing my ‘hood doesn’t bother me much either. I
suspect know I did the same thing when I was their age and now it’s their turn. The only thing that does piss me off about getting older is being gently reminded about it by people who are OLDER than me. Misguided attempts to shame me into behaving like a responsible adult, about this I have no doubt. I have tried to be an ‘adult’: it was the worst two years of my life.
To date my favorite example of this not-so-subtle (familial) chiding was a turd of a message my husband’s aunt left on our answering machine a few months ago (for my husband’s birthday):
Hello, this is your aunt Judy wishing you a happy birthday. I suppose you’re both out painting the town red. Better enjoy it while you can because you’ll both be forty soon.
WTF?!? Perhaps I am in denial, but I find this woman (who is nearing retirement) stating (OVER A FUCKING ANSWERING MACHINE) that I’m getting old a bit hypocritical— and foolish. Unlike my husband (who is painfully nice), I have a mean streak. A mean streak, I will add, that has only gotten more virulent with age. Experience has taught me how to exact the maximum amount of punishment for the various and sundry offenses perpetrated against my person with the minimal amount of effort.
God has it ever.
Thankfully, that bag of Polaroids my buddy Racheal gave me has proven to be a veritable arsenal for my vengeance. It has become to me what the “magic bag of tricks” is to Felix the Cat. Only meaner. Much meaner.
Guess what “Aunt Judy” is going to find in her inbox when she retires this April? Don’t everyone answer all at once…
P.S.: I love the bottle of booze under his left arm. I wonder if this is some secret Greenpoint burial ritual I don’t know about?
Filed under: Dog Shit
Thanks to Gawker, the “Dog Poop Brigade” has been brought to my attention. It looks like I need to make a fact-finding mission to Prospect Heights and FAST. In the meantime, I would love to see some pictures of the “big brown skidmark” on St. John’s Place— for research purposes, mind you.
UPDATE 1/11/07, Early pm: I have posted a solicitation for dog shit pictures on the Brooklynian. I have yet to receive any feedback, but the day is still young. I’ll even generate a “Crap Map” if they give me enough material.
Also— I’d like to give a big shout of thanks to The Gowanus Lounge for publicizing my desire to have photographic evidence of the alleged “skidmark” on St. John’s Place.
Last weekend I came across this flyer advertising a vigil against landlord harassment. I strongly recommend that anyone who has been denied essential services (such as heat or hot water) or has otherwise been harassed or intimidated by a crooked landlord should attend. The details are as follows:
Vigil Against Harassment
1/11/07, 6:00-7:30 p.m.
202 Franklin Street
Today’s (admittedly FOUL) “Dung of the Day” hails near the recently-deceased Greenpoint Terminal Market. Be sure to click on the photo if you want to behold all the diarrific details. Enjoy!
Or: Miss Heather’s Birthday Comes a Day Early
Shortly after completing the previous post I received a call from my good buddy Rachael. This surprised me a bit because my birthday is tomorrow, not today. She told she was walking down Diamond Street on the way to work and had found something I must have. I asked her what it was— and honestly I thought what she told me next sounded too good to be true.
The man in this photo bears an uncanny resemblance to my husband, save the solitary (but important) fact that I know of no time when my husband has been duct-taped to a chair. Maybe this transpired when I wasn’t around, who knows? Even the khakis and undershirt are right on the mark. In fact, the only thing that is amiss are the empty White Castle boxes in the background. My husband eats all manner and variety of repulsive foodstuffs but even he thinks White Castle is disgusting.
I pointed out the likeness to my husband. He didn’t seem to derive the same amount of amusement from it that I did (and still do). Maybe this photo dredges up dark memories from his past? Regardless, I am going to email this photo to his mother just to see what happens. Hell, I’ll send it to my mother as well just for shits and giggles.
After getting these photos from my friend, I asked her where she found them. She said she found them on Diamond Street in a box with a pair of walkie talkies. When I went there I did find such a box —but what cracked my ass up was the label on it. It read “Readywrap Deluxe“. Very appropriate.
At this location I also found one of the most disgusting piles of bum shit I have ever seen. To my recollection, only this mountain of effluvia would (could?) qualify as being worse. On the other hand, the bits of apple peel in today’s specimen lend a substantial measure “added-value” to it… Hmmm…
P.S.: This photo (and the others she gave me) were found across the street from a film studio. I suspect hope that’s where they came from.
UPDATE: I sent an email to my mother, my father and my husband’s parents with said “gimp” photo attached. It went as follows:
Looks like Sam is into some really weird stuff. I s’pose the wife is always the last to know…
I got two emails back from my mother. The first one was blank. I suspect she freaked out and hit the “send” button before writing anything. The second email, however, said this:
I just about pissed my pants laughing. Thankfully my husband thought I was laughing at the television, which was belching “The Lawrence Welk Show” into our living room at the time. My mother is an intelligent person and I love her. The only reason she would fall for this ruse is:
- The man in the photo DOES look like my husband and
- I have dated enough degenerates and freaks that anything goes.
As it happened, my husband called his parents tonight and I spoke to to his mother. I told her to check her email, as she would find something “very interesting”. She told me she wouldn’t have email access ’til Tuesday, but that she would check it ASAP.
To be continued…
This week I had the pleasure of going to the Post Office. Anyone truly in the know will tell you that going to the Greenpoint Post Office SUCKS. On any given visit you, the patron, can expect one (or more) of the following:
- A person who speaks no English whatsoever, but continues yelling at the Postal clerk anyway. These folks have the mistaken belief that 80+ decibels will enable the person on the recieving end to understand the salvos of Spanish/Russian/Polish/What-the-fuck being volleyed at them. It doesn’t.
- Someone who seeks to pick up a package without tendering ID and becomes outraged when he/she becomes aware that the rules do, indeed, apply to them too.
- A person trying to mail a package that might as well have “Fragile: anthrax inside” written on it. My favorite example of this phenomenon came right before last Christmas. I had to wait behind a woman who had brought in one of the sorriest-looking packages I have ever seen in my life. She had taken a mashed-up box, covered it with butcher paper AND THEN haphazardly wrapped it with duct tape. When confronted about this by an employee at the Post Office, this woman reverted to behavior #1 featured on this list.
This trip was no better, but it simply paled in comparision to the treasure trove I found on my way home (on Leonard Street).
Dog shit and plugs. Or if you prefer…
plugs and dog shit.
Call it whatever you want, it’s still a whole bunch of “what the fuck” if you ask me. A dude (talking on a cell phone) watched me as I took these pictures. I suppose my behavior struck him as being strange. And it probably is. But I suspect my eccentricities are nothing compared to the story behind this creation.
I was awakened at 6:00 a.m. New Year’s Day by music. Music from the Mark Bar, which (unfortunately) blights my block. Little Richard’s “Tutti Frutti”, to be exact.
I did not call the police (like the time they blared Elvis at 4:37 a.m.).
I do NOT like Elvis.
(Buddy Holly is far superior.)
Waking up to Little Richard in the morning (literally or figuratively) makes my morning (and New Year) much more provocative. At least the night before would be interesting— I spent my New Year’s Eve watching the “Twilight Zone” marathon on the Sci Fi Channel. WOO HOO!
That said, here is today’s “Dung of the Day” from Franklin Street (between Huron and India Street). It says “Your Music Sucks.”
Filed under: Area 51
My husband and I found this masterpiece a few feet away from the Hoyt-Schermerhorn exit of the G train recently. Although it does not pertain to dog shit, I believe this sign has that special something that demands recognition and admiration. The menacing eye at the bottom is a nice touch too.
Breaking and entering into a building to steal locks?!? Genius. Pure fucking GENIUS.
I found this ready-to-serve plate ‘o’ poop next to the Key Food parking lot on Newel Street.
Mmmm! Just like mom used to make!
Filed under: Greenpoint Magic
Is that a banana in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?
SHIT! Freud would have a fucking field day with this one. Why didn’t the man who did this (and I can assure you only a man would do this) just wear a sign reading “Ask me about my castration anxiety” instead? He would have saved a lot of money on paint. Not that I am complaining mind you… I like it! I give it two enthusiastic
thumbs dongs up.
I bet the United States Postal Service employee on this route derives a great deal of satisfaction from giving King Dong his daily priapism. (Or hand job.)