Last night my husband and I walked to Williamsburg to get some dinner. We strolled down Kent Avenue because it has always proven to give me ample amounts of dog shit to document. This particular evening was no exception, and as I stopped to document a new pile of dog crap my husband asked: are we still in Greenpoint?
Me: Yes, we are.
Husband: where does Greenpoint end and Williamsburg begin?
Me: Here (Kent Avenue and North 13th Street) seems to be as good as place as any, look at what’s written on this light pole…
and look what’s deposited under it.
Satisfied with this answer, we continued our trek to Williamsburg. Our journey was pretty unremarkable— that is, until we found the following masterpiece on North 6th Street near Bedford Avenue.
I realize this is a bit difficult to read, so I have gone to the trouble to transcribe it (crazy capitalization, absence of punctuation, etc.) below:
When it comes to my cAt. MINd your busiNess Do Not tRy to hAVe my cAt fixed.. If so I, Woody would ReArANge your fACe. CONSider me as O.J. Simpson. So Nicole Simpson And RON GoldMAN StAy AwAy fRom my CAT. ANd I WANt my Kittens thAt you stole bAcK
Woody AKA OJ
Hmm… looks like (yet another) person in Billyburg got his coke mixed-up with his anthrax (again).
This has got to be the first time I have ever seen someone (willfully and deliberately) draw a parallel between his person and O.J. Simpson. I suspect I speak for most people when I say that I have a very dim view of the “Juice Man” and it is for this reason I find this sign unusual: why in god’s name would anyone in their right mind want to liken himself to O.J.?
That said, I think it is safe to say that we are not dealing with a “normal” person here. Only a certifiable asshole would refuse to neuter a cat. And given that this cat was standing next to this hastily scrawled out missive (which one can safely presume is posted on
Woody’s OJ’s property), perhaps this simile is an appropriate one. Both “O.J.’s” are murderers. This poor animal is undoubtedly one of the many homeless and/or soon to be euthanized cats this man is responsible for bringing into this world. She is living a slow and painful death; you can see it from the look in her eyes. She broke my heart.
Saddened by the sight of this kitty, my husband and I continued our walk in silence. A silence broken upon reaching Bedford Avenue and bumping into a friend of mine from art school (Parsons School of Resign), Mark. Back in the day Mark was always the one who had the greatest zest for living and (god bless his soul) he has not changed his ways. He was in particularly good form this Friday evening (READ: drunk as skunk).
Mark gave me a giant bear hug and introduced me to his friend, who also happened to be very intoxicated. His friend smiled, and in so doing, revealed a greyish front tooth that had rotted down to a nubbin; it looked exactly like a stalactite. And like a deer caught in headlights, I stared at it with both a mixture of wide-eyed wonderment and absolute revulsion.
Mark (shouting to his friend who is standing only a foot away): This is my friend Heather. She is one of the best artists I know! I haven’t seen what she has done lately, but she launches dildoes*…
Mark (wildly gesticulating): …big ones, little ones… it makes no difference. She’ll launch ’em.
Friend: Was it vibrating when you launched it?
Me: No, I had to remove the motor in order to get it light enough to take flight using a size “c” rocket engine. It probably shot upwards of 25 feet.
Friend (nodding): Ohh…
Me (to Mark): I have a web site now. I write about dog shit. You should check it out.
Friend: You launch dog shit?
Me: No. I launch dildoes; I write about dog shit.
Friend (nodding): Ohh…
After chatting a few more minutes, we parted ways. They went to go party (some more), we continued on our quest to get some dinner and my life reassumed its (highly) relative sense of normalcy.
— Miss Heather
*My mother videotaped it.