East Williamsburg Photos Du Jour: Meet The Graham Avenue Meat

February 24, 2009 ·
Filed under: Area 51, Bum Shit, Bushwick, Dog Shit, Dung of the Day, Other Shit, Vomit, Williamsburg 


Meat on the inside…


and WTF on the out.

When Mr. Heather got home from work I asked him what he thought the above-depicted thing was. He said (in his unprofessional opinion) it was vomit from a dog who had eaten sausage with a lot of red dye in it (because he has seen this happen before). All I know is whoever (or WHATEVER) discharged this (one of the most revolting things I have ever seen in New York City— and this is really saying something) should probably visit a doctor…

or an exorcist.

Miss Heather

P.S.: I puked a little inside while writing this post.

A Very Special Dung Of The Day: Street Art

January 27, 2009 ·
Filed under: Dung of the Day, Other Shit, Williamsburg 

I am certain many of you hereabouts are familiar with Paul Richard. He is the guy that goes around putting his signature on stuff and calls it art. I have never been a big fan of his work (in fact I detest it). That is, until I saw this.


This delightful image comes courtesy of my Flickr contact AP. He writes:

…this was on bedford (surprise), i think between maybe N5th and 6th…just leaning against a wall.

Is it art? I don’t know. However I have only the utmost respect for someone who has the chutzpah to touch this mattress. Shit stain aside, I’d be terrified of taking a few friends home if you know what I mean! Otherwise if the former owner of this mattress is reading this, you might want to pay a visit to the Bedwetting Store.

Miss Heather

Reader Contribution Du Jour Part I: My Oh My At The Y!

January 7, 2009 ·
Filed under: Dung of the Day, Greenpoint Magic, Other Shit 

Very few topics are verboten for discussion at the junk shop. This was certainly the case at the junk shop last weekend when the subject of the stomach bug floating around here came up. Larry da Junkman got it. I did as well.

It was a less than pleasant experience. I could go into the particulars using color commentary but quite frankly I’d like to put the whole thing behind me (no pun intended). Besides George Diaz, a local celebrity of sorts and the brains behind Latino Laughter (as seen at the far left) gives a better description than I could ever hope muster.

What I found fascinating about George’s testimony about the havoc cumin wreaks on his digestive system (and rest assured the previous footage is but a fraction of it) is that none of the customers seemed to mind. They went about their quest for knick-knacks on the cheap undeterred. As I was filming the following gentleman recounting his worst gastronomical ailment one chap even asked me for the price of a small vase.

Yes, the ailment I have dubbed the “Greenpoint Gut Wrencher” is quite something. Perhaps the only thing worse than having it is encountering its aftermath in the men’s bathroom at the local Y.M.C.A. Which brings me to this.

Noel writes (in an email entitled “YMCA Accident”:

I came upon this delightful scene the other day it the Greenpoint YMCA gym basement.

I could extol upon the many fascinating (and downright repulsive) elements of this photograph —but I won’t. It pretty much speaks for itself. Rather, I would like to share an experience I had at the women’s bathroom at this very same establishment.

The year was 2001— or was is 2002? I had just completed my regimen of weight training and twenty minutes on the stair climber. Those of you who engage in this kind of routine on a regular basis can attest to the importance of proper hydration. To this end I had consumed well over a liter of water. I very much needed to go to the bathroom afterward.

The women’s dressing room at the Y.M.C.A. is for the most part no different than any other dressing room to be found at any other gym. Save perhaps it is disproportionately patronized by older Polish women who fancy water aerobics. The previous along with the fluorescent lighting, institutional green walls and stench of chlorine gave the place a curiously pre-Perestroika feel. As did the woeful lack of the following necessity: toilets. The Greenpoint Y.M.C.A.’s women’s locker room had two. One of which was usually desecrated beyond the point of any possible usefulness.

Call me a self-hating feminist. It has been my experience that women are the WORST offenders when it comes to dawdling in the bathroom. Sorry ladies. I don’t know what some of you do in there —and for the record I don’t want to know— I simply wish you’d do it a little faster. Some of us need to visit the bathroom for its intended purpose: to use the toilet.

Which is what I very badly needed to do on that fateful day. I stood and I waited. The sound of children splashing in the pool, showers running and sight of water puddles on the floor did not make this task very easy. The sight, sounds, and yes, smell of water were all around me. What’s more, I had a good liter more of the stuff in my bladder.

Someone was in the stall. This I knew. I heard the rustle of toilet paper. Things were looking encouraging. I heard the toilet flush. I became flush with excitement. Then nothing. I hear rustling. Then a little more rustling. I was getting fed up.

It takes a lot to move yours truly to snoop around the cracks of a toilet stall. Some people pay good money for this kind of thing. I am not one of them. But sometimes in the course of human events one needs to know what the fuck is going on no matter how distasteful the means might be. Yeah, I looked.

What I discovered was this: a 40-something woman whose physical description would be best described as “soccer mom” pulling a baggie of cocaine out of her purse. Then out came a plastic Bic pen cap*. Into the baggie it goes and up this woman’s nose it went. Whether or not this was a pre or post workout pick-me-up I do not know. In any case it strikes me as sort of being counter-intuitive to the concept of patronizing a health club—ACROSS THE STREET FROM A POLICE STATION. I could contain myself no more:


I bellowed. Eventually she came out and I experienced sweet relief. To this day I still cannot get this image out of my mind. It is now and forever, for better or worse, ingrained in my memory.

Miss Heather

*Whatever happened to having the proper accoutrements for one’s drug of choice? This is tantamount to swilling Dom Perignon out of a Dixie cup. Don’t do the vice if you can’t pay the price (of keeping up one’s appearances).

Reader Contribution Du Jour: G Is For…


This evening I received a most curious email from a gentleman named Angel. It was entitled “A step up from Dog Shit, as seen on the G on Court Sq.” and it read as follows:

Here’s my 2 cents for NewYorkShitty.com before 08 comes to an end…

Me and my family saw this (and laughed hard as I took out the camera without hesitation) on our way into the first G car on Court Sq. (headed towards Greenpoint of course) First thing that came to my mind. “This is so NewYorkShitty.com material”

Intrigued, I clicked my way over to Gubatron’s flickr page. The following is what awaited my delectation.

I have to confess: this image gave me goosebumps. They were not of the warm and fuzzy “I just had my first kiss” variety. Rather, it was more like the onset of a case of stomach flu —which I suspect is what the person who left this, the most piquant and direct critique of Crosstown Local service I have ever beheld, was probably experiencing. What’s more, it is one of the most disgusting things I have ever seen on the G train. And for the record, that includes two subway masturbators and this.


The next time, dear readers, you get angry because you didn’t get a seat while commuting on our very own G train think of the above image. Sometimes it’s just better to stand.

Miss Heather

Photo Credit: Gubatron

Williamsburg Photo du Jour: Grand Street

November 24, 2008 ·
Filed under: Abjectecture, Dung of the Day, Other Shit, Williamsburg 

I knew something was up when the Mister and I were walking down Grand Street (to dine at Santorini).

I spied this work of art gracing a construction fence, so I took a photograph of it. As we progressed further down the block I noticed more. Being hungry— VERY HUNGRY— I paid them no mind. Thankfully I bumped into Bitchcakes afterward and she told me the good news about this.

Speaking as someone who has taught art (and have seen one too many “projects” utilizing doll parts in my day) I found this utterly hilarious.

The fact it graces the construction fence of this derelict property where a fifteen story behemoth designed by North Brooklyn’s gift that keeps on giving— none other than Karl Fischer— was slated to be erected makes it all the more amusing. The downzone (and fetid economy) pretty much kiboshed that from happening. Now we have this instead.

Shit happens.

Miss Heather

Marketing To Hipsters: A Primer

November 17, 2008 ·
Filed under: Dung of the Day, Greenpoint Magic, Other Shit 

1. Be sure to incorporate an iconic image of the “cool hipster dad” in your ad campaign.
2. Your proud hipster papa simply MUST close with a snarky remark.
3. Take care to thoroughly saturate subway stations along Crosstown Local with your advertising.

4. But don’t stop there: saturate the trains as well. That way they will have no other choice than to pay attention to your message. The longer the delay or the later at night, the more likely living in Downtown Brooklyn will seem like a good idea. Right?

5. Oh yeah, and incorporate the word “hip” AS MUCH AS POSSIBLE. They love praise!

Now if you don’t mind I need to throw up.

Miss Heather

Williamsburg Photo du Jour: P-Doody

September 21, 2008 ·
Filed under: Dung of the Day, Other Shit, Williamsburg 

This image hails from North 12th Street and goes out to my pal P-Diddy. My advice to you Mr. Combs: watch where you walk.

Miss Heather

Labor Day At The Nature Walk

September 2, 2008 ·
Filed under: Bum Shit, Dung of the Day, Greenpoint Magic, Long Island City, Other Shit 

Most New Yorkers like to go out of town over Labor Day weekend. I don’t; I stay home and savor the silence. I sojourned to City Island on Saturday and did ABSOLUTELY NOTHING on Sunday.* When I got up yesterday morning, Labor Day, I asked myself:

What do I want to do today?

My “little voice” said:

Go to the park!

I have learned to trust my “little voice”. So I threw on some shorts and sunblock and proceeded to the closest park: the Newtown Creek Nature Walk. I was hoping to find a discarded rubber or get some nice photographs of the skyline. I was disappointed in regards to the previous but I got the latter…

(I am contributing a big phat juicy print of this to the Greenpoint 100!) and more.

Someone clearly experienced some serious gastronomical distress and saw fit to use the Nature Walk as a toilet. He (or she) is neither the first nor the last person to use Greenpoint in such a manner: Newtown Creek is the pissoir for the masses. When some jocular he-man ties off a used rubber in Murray Hill and flushes it down the toilet… guess who gets it? We do! Go Team Greenpoint!

Thank you, cum again!

But I digress…

I am guessing the above stick was employed as a primitive form of toilet paper. After taking the above photograph (using my cell phone to establish a sense of scale) I discovered a number of other revolting things at the Nature Walk. I carefully documented them and called the “authorities”. Hilarity ensued.

I initially planned to do a series of “a minute in (insert neighborhood/place here)”. But after experiencing this level of ASS** I decided a comparison of Gantry Park (in luxury waterfront condoville, Long Island City) and the Nature Walk (in decidedly NOT luxury waterfront condoville, Greenpoint) would be a more appropriate use of this footage. The lesson here (as best as I can comprehend it) is: if a neighborhood acquiesces to having an ENORMOUS luxury enclave on her waterfront (READ: Long Island City) said residents get a nice park. Otherwise, you can eat look at shit.

Miss Heather

*Save a rather rancorous post about Sarah “June Cleaver/Coupon Clipper” Palin getting the Vice Presidential nomination. I felt sort of bad about calling her a “bimbo” so I Googled “alaska” “bimbo” “v.p.” Here’s what I found:

Clearly I was not alone when I made the assessment that Ms. Palin is, in fact, a bimbo. Nonetheless my inner feminist was upset. She asked me:

Would you have called Sarah Palin a bimbo if she was not a woman?

My answer:

Yes. We, as a nation, got our first bhimbo for Veep in 1988. His name was Dan Quayle.

And with that reply my “inner feminist” vanished in a puff of logic.

I was delighted to learn that Ms. Palin is against sex education. What could school possibly teach her daughter Bristol? It is pretty clear that Bristie pulled herself up by her own boot straps and figured out the fundamental mechanics on her own (with a little help from a friend). Now she is going to be a teenage mother! Bristol “Jamie Lynn Spears” Palin should be teaching the rest of us!

**The man on the phone asked what county this was in. After some hesitation I said “Kings” (Newtown Creek does, after all, straddle two: Kings and Queens). Then he asked me what FUCKING CITY I lived in! I said Greenpoint. Then I pointed out that Greenpoint is part of Brooklyn. And Brooklyn is part of New York City. At one point my polite (if utterly useless) phone pal apologized and confessed he was in the Adirondacks had no knowledge of New York City geography. With civil servants like this who needs enemies?

Crapped And Tapped

August 27, 2008 ·
Filed under: Bed-Stuy, Bum Shit, Dung of the Day, Long Island City, Other Shit, Queens 

I have a predilection for documenting shit: be it human, canine or sub-standard construction. I also have a fascination for public pay phones rendered useless by human abuse. But alas of late I have become jaded.

This paltry specimen from Bed Stuy didn’t impress me. The receiver is gone, someone lost his shirt, yada, yada, yada

I wanted MORE.

I got it...

courtesy of Queensboro Plaza. I can’t honestly say I will miss this eyesore. But the construction fences demarcating what is arguably one of the UGLIEST BUILDINGS in New York City leaves much to the imagination…

and the incontinent. It reeks.

Note the happy people gracing this pay phone kiosk. They’re all “thumbs up”— not unlike our fearless leader. Neither they nor King George the Second (fighting the war on terror overseas) would want to pick up— much less use— the phone contained therein.

Which is worse: a crapped phone* or a tapped phone? Go to Queens Plaza and figure it out for yourself.

Miss Heather

*That is shit. Trust me. How the hell they got it ON the phone is beyond me.

My Trip Up Shit Creek: Part Deux

I learned a funny thing yesterday. A “friend” will invite you on a boat ride of Newtown Creek. He will later even laud the photographs and the footage you shot. That is, until some person at Channel 13 (who hired said boat and seems to think all the intellectual/creative property gathered from it is his) raises a stink:

Hey Heather,

I’m glad you enjoyed the trip on Newtown Creek the other day. I’m not sure if we officially met but I know you talked to my associate Daniel. I’m writing because I was checking out your blog and I noticed you’d posted several videos of the trip. I don’t mean to be any sort of stickler but it makes me a little uncomfortable to have other people reporting on the same thing which I hired a boat to capture. I don’t have any problem with you posting photos or stories about the trip but the video just happens to be exactly why we were there and sort of crosses lines of exclusivity. So, let me profusely apologize for having to ask but I would really appreciate it if you would take the videos down.

So, my other question would be how you knew about the trip. I didn’t have any problem with people coming out with us as long as they were out of the way but no one told me we should be expecting guests so I don’t really know how that came about.

Anyway, sorry again. If you’d like to chat about it, feel free to give me a call or email back.

Thanks much,

I’m not a chatty kind of gal. Just ask my parents. I rarely answer the phone, much less pick it up and call some condescending chap who wants to “chat” about why my seven minutes of film footage does not undermine his “vision”.

Dear old dad taught me a few things about anger management, albeit accidentally. One of them was I can channel anger in a constructive manner whose effect, in turn, is actually quite the opposite: destructive. Call what I am about to do passive/aggressive or one of life’s little ethical loopholes and/or gray areas. Call it whatever you want. Sure, I yanked the “video” showcasing said “exclusive material” —and I replaced it with another one. This. Now I am bringing back the original.

Pa Heather, this one goes out to you. You know better than anyone that no one can make me shut up.

Miss Heather

P.S.: I’m not taking this one down. If the peeps at Channel 13 have some special interest in publicly humiliating my husband (or training him to recycle correctly) I want a piece of the action. Simple as that.

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