Hot in the Ass

September 10, 2006 ·
Filed under: (s)Hit Parade, Area 51, Greenpoint Magic 

Last Sunday evening my husband and I took the L train home after knocking around the West Village. Upon entering the car, I noticed that there were a few seats left that no one had not seen fit to take: they chose to stand instead. Shortly after I sat down and the train continued its trek to Canarsie, I found out why.

I plopped my ass down next to an older black gentleman. He was a tad scruffy, but clean and kempt. He was definitely not homeless, just a tad odd. He was rocking some strange mojo and the monologue he gave for the edification of his fellow MTA patrons—from 6th Avenue to Lorimer St. (where we got off)— pretty much proved my intuition to be on the mark. I have yet to decide whether or not this man was insane. I am tilting towards “not” only because he was (a hair’s breadth) too lucid.

I can’t recall everything he rambled about (there was simply too much), but I suspect I speak for most of my fellow L train riders that night when I say we found him quite entertaining. His repartee was a vulgar, rapier-sharp brand of wit seldom found anymore, save unless if one went the local library and leafed through anything written by Rabelais. My favorite part of this man’s diatribe(s) was what I call the “hot in the ass” musings. In a nutshell, he asserted that each and every person riding in our car (and in New York City in general) was “hot in the ass”. He even challenged to us to argue the contrary:

I dare any one of you in this car to raise your hand and say you’re not hot in the ass.

No one did. Point made.

For the last week I have been wondering exactly what it is that makes people feel compelled to ramble endlessly in public spaces (e.g., the rapid transit system). Does New York City simply attract the kind of people who engage in this practice or does New York City drive people to it? I am veering towards the latter because the last few days here at Chateau de Ghetto have been pure, unadulterated HELL.

Not only do the events that follow result in some poor 311 operator getting his ear chewed off, but spending $2.00 to ride the subway and scream at total strangers is starting to look damned appealing to me. When everything comes to pass, it would probably be more effective anyway. I am just a silly idealistic pissant who follows the rules and expects others (landlords) to do the same.

It all started with last Thursday, September 7.

My Thursday morning started at 7:30 a.m. This is when the contractors hired by the MTA to tear up the street in front of our apartment (ostensibly to do something with the G train) fired up the heavy machinery. At 9:30 a.m. I hear yelling. I peer outside to see some goon in an expensive suit getting in the face of one of the contractors because he cannot park his Mercedes-Benz SUV in front of his building. Lovely. I go back to working on the computer.

10:00 a.m.: I hear a very loud sound. Come to think of it, I didn’t just hear a sound: I felt it. “What in god’s name is going on?!?” I asked myself. I wandered to the back of the apartment (from which this din seemed to be originating) to see what’s up. The kitchen floor was vibrating as was damned near everything else that wasn’t nailed down. Not cool. Whilest taking a sip of my coffee, I looked out the window and saw this:


I was aware that the landlord next door was doing renovations to the salon he owns/operates, but never in my wildest dreams nightmares would I have thought it would come to this. When you live in a building with an incompetent, intransigent, and LAZY Super (hence why I call him the “Stupor”), it simply does not cross your mind that other landlords do work on their buildings. Much less that they would do such work voluntarily. The landlord next door is destroying my “Backdoor Crapstavaganza” and as the day wore on, it only got worse…


and worse.

Illegal Construction

The noise was bad. The smell of the roofing materials being removed was worse; it filled our apartment with black dust and a sulphurous odor. But his raising the roof and using shitty construction methods really did it.

Yesterday, September 9, 2006 (SATURDAY from 9:30 a.m. to 6:00 p.m.) I watched, listened and SMELLED this man’s dubious plan unfold. And when the ramifications of this man’s tomfoolery became all too clear, I got (*ahem*) hot in the ass.

My bedroom window

This is my bedroom window. It is one of three windows in our apartment that face this man’s questionable ‘renovation’. Three windows that will be partially ‘blocked’ by his new roof. Well not exactly “blocked”; he has been thoughtful enough to cut niches around them. Niches which will probably pool with rainwater that will LEAK INTO MY APARTMENT.

Here is my one of my neighbor’s windows:

Neighbor's window

I am no expert, but I suspect the FDNY would not like this. The roof is going to obstruct the three windows she has facing this space as well. Three windows which provide the only means of egress from her apartment in the event of a fire other than her front door.

Before calling 311, I had the presence of mind to pull up the Department of Buildings web site and review what (if any) permits this man had open. He has one which allows him to do “Interior Alterations and Plumbing as per PLANS. NO WORK ON FL. 2 TO 4”. I strongly suspect what this man is doing is decidely not what the DOB had in mind when they issued him this permit. A permit, I would like to add, that was issued after the DOB received a complaint that he was operating without a permit. That complaint was dismissed, but that’s okay because now they have a new one: mine.

I was about as nice I could be to the 311 operator (he was very understanding and helpful), given the circumstances. These circumstances included having to shout over all the noise the very people I was trying to report were making. Mind you, I made this call from the other end of our apartment. This did not go unnoticed by the city employee I spoke with.

311 Man (hearing noise): Are they working right now?
Me: Yes, they are. They have been working since 9:30 this morning.
311 Man: Do they have a variance to do work weekends?
Me: Not that I know of.

And then I cited the open DOB permit verbatim all the way down to the permit number. I have also reported this to the Stupor of our building (as I suspected our landlord may find these developments disconcerting). The Stupe didn’t care; this guy is his buddy. Tomorrow I will report this to the Fire Department and anyone else I can think of until I come across someone who does care. This is not a mere matter of inconvenience, it is one of safety. My safety and that of my neighbors are more valuable than the dubious eight feet this man is adding to his roof.

Miss Heather

Hipsters Need Only Apply

August 29, 2006 ·
Filed under: (s)Hit Parade, Area 51, Greenpoint Magic 

Moving Day

I recently noticed that the “for rent” sign has been removed from our apartment building. The apartment in question has been on the market for over two months. It has had no takers (until now, anyway) because it is an overpriced piece of shit.

The landlord has offered this apartment to my husband and me twice, and both times we have declined. We would like a two bedroom apartment so we could convert one of the bedrooms into an office, but this apartment is a ‘two bedroom’ in only the most rigidly academic sense of the term. It has…

  1. two bedrooms: one was about 10′ x 12′, the other was 8′ x 10′ (READ: a glorified walk-in closet)
  2. maybe 100 square feet more than what we have now, probably less
  3. walls that looked like they have been worked over by Keith Moon and then repaired by a circus monkey on crack
  4. one closet

    And last, but not least

  5. a brand-spanking new remote controlled ceiling fan (wtf?)

The asking rent for this ‘palace’ was over $300 a month more than what we are currently paying. It was all I could to to keep from laughing in the Stupor’s face when he told me the price. He was pretty damned proud of that ceiling fan he installed and the rent certainly reflected this. To be fair, it was a very nice ceiling fan, but it looked completely out of place because the rest of the apartment was a complete and total DUMP.

I have been wondering who my new neighbors were going to be what idiot would rent this apartment. Last night I got my answer.

Around 9:00 p.m. I heard something that is music to my ears: the sound of hipsters of moving somewhere else. I like ‘moving day’ because that’s when they throw out lots of cool stuff. Items only someone with no concept whatsoever of what it is like to work for a living would throw away. Nice stuff that only requires a little ‘TLC’, like this…


…and this.

Lite Brite

I never knew Lite Brite even made tricked-out shit like this. The four lights even flash in tandem when you hit the button twice. Way cool! But I digress…

I peered out my window and saw a guy placing an antique lamp out with the trash. I bolted out of my apartment to grab it. When I came back, new score in hand, there was a eighteen-to-twenty year old chick talking to some dude (around the same age) who must have had at least a thousand dollars worth of tats on his arms and NECK. These “J.C. Penney Punks” (as my friend Mark calls them) were standing in front of my apartment.

Me: Excuse me.
Dude (moves, leans on my front door): Sure.
Me: That is my front door.
Dude: (moves)

*end of conversation*

P.T. Barnum has been (erroneously) credited as saying “There is a sucker born every minute”. If this is so, the 1980’s must have had more such ‘minutes’ than any decade to be had before or since. I find it fascinating that as this crappy apartment gets more (and more) ridiculously expensive, the people who rent it get younger and younger. I suspect this is because they have rich parents and do not know any better.

They will learn soon enough.

The apartment they are moving into is the ‘widowmaker’ of this building. No one has lived there for more than one year. It is Greenpoint’s very own “Room 101”— or perhaps “Room 237” from The Shining is more appropriate— as anyone who goes in there soon wants nothing more than to get the fuck out. They arrive here as fresh-faced, arrogant upstarts and they leave with hollowed-out faces completely bereft of any trace of humanity. And after they leave the rest of us get a good laugh and descend upon all the cool stuff they left behind like the vultures we are.

I suspect this cycle will perpetuate itself again next year. In the meantime, I hope these kids get some serious money and/or gifts for Christmas because I saw their possessions as they moved in. It was a bunch of crap even I would not want. ‘Slipster shit’ if I ever saw it.

In closing, I would like to give the following Greenpoint ‘shout-out’ to all you hipsters out there. I do not mind you moving to my ‘hood. Seriously. This is because I know you will leave soon enough, and when you do, I will score some seriously cool stuff. In fact, the only thing that keeps me from stabbing most of you arrogant fucks in the gonads is the prospect of getting free shit. That’s it.

So please do me the courtesy of not moving here unless you have stuff worth taking. There are plenty very nice people elsewhere who will accept items of inferior quality. Most of these people can be found off the Morgan Avenue stop of the L train or just about anywhere off the JMZ line in Brooklyn.

Your immediate attention to this matter is greatly appreciated.


Miss Heather

American Playground Women’s Bathroom

August 24, 2006 ·
Filed under: Area 51, Greenpoint Magic 

As if bumping into Tarzan last Saturday morning wasn’t a big enough mindfuck, the condition of the of the women’s restroom at the American Playground left me absolutely dumbfounded. It was clean. Terrifyingly clean. “Wipe up the blood from the crime scene with bleach so we don’t get caught by the police” clean.

I entered the facilities Saturday morning braced for anything: after all, if the McCarren Park bathroom was disgusting, surely this bathroom will be as bad— if not worse.

Sink and Mirror

WRONG! The bathroom lacked soap, but the sink and mirror appear to have been cleaned recently. And when I say “recently” I mean during this Bush Administration…

Trash Can

A trash that does not require preventative measures against theft?!? Holy shit, this is getting serious!

I approached the solitary bathroom stall with a mix of anticipation and dread. Perhaps the public area of the bathroom is clean so as to lull me into a false sense of security? That way I will be completely thrown off-guard when I open the door to the toilet stall and find a 200 hundred pound shitbeast ready to rip my head off. “Ain’t no way I’m falling for that shit” I thought to myself as I kicked open the door.


AP Toilet


AP toilet paper


For reasons you can probably imagine, I got my ass the hell out of there. I hightailed it home so I could tell my husband my findings.

Me: The garbage can was not chained down, Sam! Anyone, A-N-Y-O-N-E can just walk in there and take it!
Husband: Maybe the people in that part of the neighborhood don’t steal things?
Me: Are you fucking kidding me? This neighborhood is a veritable den of thieves! I swear they are hard-wired for theft, why else would people around here steal all useless shit that they do? If there was a man without an asshole in this neighborhood, he’d be the one caught trying to shoplift fifty Fleet Enemas from Eckerds! Such is the nature of compulsive thievery here. It’s fucking unreal. There are two groups of people in this neighborhood; thieves who have been caught stealing and thieves who have yet to be caught. Simple as that.
Husband: (nods)
Me: Remember when Kerry at “The Thing” caught that old Polish broad* trying to steal an issue of Architectural Digest?
Husband: Oh yeah, I had forgotten about that.
Me: I will never fucking forget it. Magazines only cost fifty cents there for chrissakes— why would someone go to the trouble of stealing something that only costs fifty cents?!? What is an old Polish woman— in GREENPOINT of all PLACES going to do with an issue of Architectual Digest anyway?*
Husband: (nods)
Me: It’s not like she can or will read it.* No one reads here. I betcha she tried to steal that magazine because one of the legs on her coffee table is shorter than the rest and she was going shove that fucker under it to make it level!

Shortly after this conversation, my husband and I agreed that the American Playground toilet facilities require another inspection. And this time we are going to inspect both the men’s and women’s bathroom!

Miss Heather

*I can such crass remarks because I am, indeed, of Polish descent.

Found Magazine

August 22, 2006 ·
Filed under: Area 51, Greenpoint Magic 

After running errands all day I got home, checked my email and am happy to announce that I will have (at least) one of my finds featured in the upcoming issue of Dirty Found.

Mike (from Dirty Found) told me to give him everything I had. He also told me he liked ’em large.

So I gave him everything I had. And I made them large: five finds, three of which are from Greenpoint!* Pretty darned cool, eh?

Miss Heather

*The other two are from Kensington, Brooklyn.

1,000 Points of Blight

August 21, 2006 ·
Filed under: Area 51, Dog Shit, Dung of the Day, Greenpoint Magic 

It is already Monday evening and I am still trying to figure out exactly where my weekend went; it is nothing more than a blur of sheer busyness, lack of sleep and an intense desire for a tube of Flexall and Budweiser to me now. That said, here are few highlights from my weekend for all to enjoy…


I awoke at 5:45 a.m. I creeped out of bed and busied myself cleaning the house. Three hours (and four cups of coffee later) I got restless and went for a walk. The following bar chart summarizes what I found.

Saturday Morning Stats

After perusing this visual aid, you will notice that I saw (or perhaps heard is a more appropriate term) one shirtless man who yodelled “like Tarzan”. I saw this gentleman on Greenpoint Avenue— and of all my six years of living in Greenpoint, this had to be the most infuckingcredible thing I have seen. Ever.

It was 10:00 a.m. and I was headed westbound on Greenpoint Avenue with the intent of going to the American Playground to assess the cleanliness of the women’s restroom.* About three doors shy of reaching Franklin Street, I spy a shirtless man walking out of The Cruz Grocery (at 111 Franklin). After walking about six feet, he abruptly stopped and roared a mighty howl (Johnny Weissmuller style, none of that candyass Disney shit). This mighty Greenpoint Yell reverberated off all the surrounding buildings and everyone— I mean EVERYONE— stopped dead in their tracks and stared.

His point (whatever it was) having been made, “Tarzan” continued walking down the sidewalk as if nothing happened. The rest of us stood there in a state of slack-jawed shock trying to figure out exactly what the fuck had just happened.


I am awakened at 7:30 a.m. to the sound of cats growling and hissing. Our local tomcat, “Clarence”, was making his regular morning visit, the purpose of which is to piss off our cats. And as usual, his effort(s) were a stunning success. I have no complaints; this morning I have to help a friend of mine move his art materials out of his ex-girlfriend’s apartment in Long Island City.

No one enjoys helping someone else move. I certainly do not, anyway. But I have enough foresight to know that helping someone move is neither a task nor a favor: it is an insurance policy towards the time when I have to move.

Besides, my friend’s possessions were in Long Island City and I would just as well have him (and his stuff) somewhere else. I am certain some people find this nabe to be very a very pleasant one. I for one do not. In fact, being in LIC gives me a great deal of anxiety. This is not entirely unreasonable given the fact that the last time I visited this same friend in Long Island Shitty (when he was living with his now ex-girlfriend) I got hit by a car. Sort of.

We were crossing Vernon Boulevard at 46th Avenue. The cross-walk signal indicated that we could cross and we did just that. And while we were doing so an old fuck made a right hand turn off of 46th Avenue, plowing into all three of us. My husband and friend were able to get out of the way, but I had to jump onto this asshole’s car in order to avoid being run over. Thankfully, I landed on my (porcine) ass and was left with nothing more than a bruise.

Stunned, I got off his car and stared at him. He stared at me, drove forward about twenty feet, stopped, and then drove off. Thankfully, I got his license plate number and a good look at his face (when you land on the front of someone’s car you remember such things).

What had started as a social call ended up being a two hour visit to the police department. I filed a report and my friend (a witness) filed a deposition, only to have the police Detective refuse to pursue the matter because I was not “sufficiently injured”. Yeah. Fuck you too, buddy!

A few months later I happened upon this intersection again to discover this:

Push Button for Luck

Push Button For Luck, indeed!

Anyway, we got the U-Haul loaded, fired it up and drove over to my friend’s new studio in Williamsburg Greenpoint on North 12th Street. Unfortunately, someone else was using the loading dock so we had to wait (and wait) until he done. We whiled away the time talking about my friend’s upcoming overseas internship (?) in Holland.

Friend: Yeah, I will be in Holland from September until November. I am going to store all my stuff here and when I come back I’ll figure out where I will live.
Me: That’s not such a bad idea. As things are now, the apartments hereabouts are grossly over-priced. Perhaps by November rental prices will start to correct themselves. The economy is going to shit and finding idiots willing to outlay ??? for an apartment hereabouts isn’t as easy as it used to be.
Friend: You think the economy is going down?
Me: Yes, I do.
Friend: That’s too bad.
Me: Why? (Ed Note: When you have been just as fucked during “boom” cycles as “bust” cycles, like me, the state of the economy is a source of bemusement, little else. “Trickle-down Theory” my poor, over-educated, fat white ass!)
Friend: When the economy is bad, the art market slumps. Sure, some very good art is created during times of economic adversity, but little money is to be had.
Me: That’s why I write about dog shit.
Friend: ?
Me: My endeavors are not dependent upon the economy. Good times or bad, there will always be dog shit.

The previous statement, dear readers, is one of the most profoundly intelligent and piquant observations to ever find its way out of my mouth.

On that note, I leave you with today’s Dung of the Day. I am dedicating this find from 119 North 11th Street to “notme” who wrote the following very thoughtful comment regarding a feature about New York Shitty on

Are you sure that’s dog crap? Probably just more hipsters crapping off the rooftops. It is Monday after all.

Very good point, “notme”. Very, VERY good point…

Hipster Shit

Miss Heather

*My findings will be posted soon. Stay tuned.


August 21, 2006 ·
Filed under: (s)Hit Parade, Area 51, Greenpoint Magic 

This Motherfucking Town

I have been up on the roof relaxing. On a lark, I casted my gaze downward towards the open area behind my apartment— to I discover a new item my neighbors have seen fit to cast out their window! This is truly the most remarkable find I have made to date; my husband can’t wait to get home and check it out himself. It can be found here. Happy Hunting!

Miss Heather

Rocket Queen

August 19, 2006 ·
Filed under: Area 51, Dog Shit, Dung of the Day, Greenpoint Magic 

Poope to you

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…

Welcome to Greenpoint

and look what’s deposited under it.

August 18, 2006 Dung of the Day

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*…
Friend: ?
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

P.S.: I have (finally) edited and posted this story and have added a choice little morsel here.


*My mother videotaped it.

Tots, Art and Wombats

August 17, 2006 ·
Filed under: (s)Hit Parade, Area 51, Greenpoint Magic 

St. Paul the Hermit

For someone who is unemployed (and would presumably have a LOT of free time) I am damned busy.

Last night (until the wee hours of this morning) I researched New York State landlord/tenant case law regarding “Estoppel Agreements” and Rent Stabilization Law. I had to do this because our landlord is refinancing his mortgage and gave us an “Estoppel Agreement” to sign (because he wants to prove that people actually pay rent here). I can’t say I didn’t see this coming: I had the pleasure of showing our apartment to a patronizing sleazeball (Read: real estate appraiser) a few months ago. (I have written about this experience, but have yet to post it here.)

After completing this task, I moderated several internal feline disputes that arose from the local tomcat (who I have named “Clarence”, as in Clarence Thomas) making his regular nocturnal round(s). Ironically, Clarence’s hours of choice (for these social calls) are more akin to Dr. Pepper than Coke (or the pubic hairs contained therein): 10:00 p.m., 2:00 a.m. and 4:00 a.m.

After that, I tried to go to bed— only to be awakened at 5:00 a.m. by female trouble. In true Miss Heather form, I had no feminine hygiene products whatsoever on hand. Thankfully, my best bud Rachael gave me a new pack of pantyliners recently and these tied me over until the local bodega opened.

For all the previous reasons (and a few more) I feel awful and probably look even worse. It’s easy to pull off that “I haven’t gotten any sleep” look when you are in your 20’s. This is because many will assume you look haggard because were out partying, etc. After you hit 30 however, these very same people will pigeon-hole you (for this very same lack of kemptness and thousand-mile whiskey stare) as being “rode hard and put away wet”. Thankfully, I live in a ‘hood where there is ALWAYS someone who looks much worse for wear than I do.

That said, even when I do not feel so low I tend to be a bit of a hermit. This is due to the fact that I am the “homebody’s homebody” (as opposed to being a hardened misanthropist); it takes a lot to induce me to leave the confines of Greenpoint, much less the demented sanctity of my own home. My apartment is my “comfort zone”. I ventured out today for the sole purpose of purchasing the menstrual essentials: maxi pads and wine.

This meager one block trek netted me treasure, nonetheless. Even though I am terrible at making money (but am very good at spending it), the powers that be see fit to throw me crumbs on occasion. Like today.

I scored this object de arte at the intersection of Eagle Street and Manhattan Avenue:


While I am not usually a fan of this type of art, I think it will go nicely in my bathroom (next to the velvet painting of Elvis).

After picking up my new piece of art, I proceeded to the liquor store. I took my bottle of cheap-ass champagne to the cash register and I struck up a conversation with a sales representative for Wombat Hill Winery:

Me (to Sales Rep): Oh yeah, the wine store down the street carries this stuff. I have not tried it yet, but I think those plush wombats are cute as hell.
Me (to Cashier): When this promotion is over, I want one of those guys. They are so cute.
Sales Rep: Of these three wines, which one would you buy?
Me: The Claret.
Cashier: Claret?!?
SR (to Cashier): Clarets are blended wines. The Cabernet/Shiraz bottle here is a Claret.
Cashier: Ohh…
SR (to me): What would be your second choice?
Me: The Shiraz.
SR: So you like red wines?
Me: Yes. To be perfectly honest, I like wine. Period. But I veer towards purchasing whites during warm weather and reds in cooler weather. This is the general rule as I understand it. My father used to be the Chief Financial Officer for a company that imported wine into Texas— and as a result, I have learned a few things about wine.
SR (pulling out brochures): So do you think selling our Chardonnay here is a good idea?
Me: Yes, I do.
SR: Check out this product. It is probably too expensive to market here (at $30.00 a bottle), but you might find it interesting. It’s a boutique wine from Idaho.
Me: Do you mind if I make a note of this winery, as I’d like to pass it along to my dad?
SR: Sure.
Me: Thanks. I agree that this wine is too expensive to sell here. For now anyway. Soon enough there will be plenty of people living here who will be more than willing (and able) to outlay $30.00 for a bottle of wine. This will be good for you, but not for us (pointing to the Cashier and myself).


I pick up my wine and instinctively fumble around for my newfound painting, brushing my hand against the Sales Rep’s bag (which happens to contain eight bottles of wine) in the process. The Sales Rep notices this.

Me: Sorry, when I see a bag full of vino, my first instinct is to grab it.
SR: No problem. Here, have a plush wombat.


SR: Now I know I sell at least one bottle of wine here.
Me: No worries, I probably would purchase one eventually. (pointing to the cashier) Just ask her.

After expending only ten minutes (and ten dollars) I now have a bottle of champagne (with which to self-medicate myself), a new piece of “art”, AND a stuffed wombat. Not a bad haul, if I say so myself.

In closing, my neighbors have seen fit to throw more crap out their window. My new find can be found here. Happy hunting!

Miss Heather

In Praise of Failure

August 16, 2006 ·
Filed under: (s)Hit Parade, Area 51, Greenpoint Magic 


Firstly, I want to thank all you out there for your interest in New York Shitty. In particular, I want to extend special thanks to Jake Dobkin for seeing fit to feature my blog on Gothamist last week, as I strongly suspect this was the reason for my recent windfall of editorial mentions on other web sites. I have failed at many things, so a crumb (or two) of recognition means a lot to me.

On that note, I present to you the following comment “Anonymous” saw fit to post on Curbed regarding a feature about yours truly from August 14.

First off: Who the hell has time to do follow sh**. This blogger must not be from New York.
In New York, DOG doesnt rhyme with LOG or BLOGGER. Its pronounced DAWG, just like LAWENG ISLAND, CAWE-FFE and WAWK.
There are a ‘crap load’ of neighborhoods with this same problem. Why is this of any significant importants over any other ‘crappy’ neighborhood?
SECONDLY: Curbed really needs to stop covering piss and crap stories. Seriously. Who wants to read about crap all over the city? Its a little
immature, dont you think?

And here is my reply:

To answer your questions Mister or Ms. “Anonymous”…

Q: Who the hell has time to do follow sh**.
A: I have time to follow dog shit because I am over-educated and unemployed. I am not ashamed to be in this position: many very wonderful people are on the “same boat” so to speak.

Q: This blogger must not be from New York.
A: No, I’m not. I’m from Texas— and for that reason hell will hold no surprises for me. I have lived in New York City for 9 years, tho.

Q: There are a ‘crap load’ of neighborhoods with this same problem. Why is this of any significant importants over any other ‘crappy’ neighborhood?
A: I emphatically agree. But for the time being, Greenpoint is keeping me pretty busy. Had you perused my site, you would have noticed that I do showcase dog shit from other locales on occasion.


I have no problem whatsoever making light of my (numerous) shortcomings: e.g., being unemployed and from the State of Texas.* I suspect the same cannot be said for “Anonymous”, whoever he (or more likely she) may be. How did I come to this conclusion you ask? Very simple.

  1. “Anonymous” wrote a pretty long missive.
  2. This missive was written during business hours, leading me to believe that this person (a woman in all likelihood) is pretty unhappy at her place of unemployment. I’d wager money she is a low-level Administrative Assistant— or worse: a Receptionist.
  3. I deduced that a woman (probably under 30) wrote the previous because:
  1. Men do not make such a fuss about “immaturity”.**
  2. Women over 30 have accepted “immaturity” as part of the human condition.

It is not my purpose to vilify this person; rather I want to give her some personal advice. As a woman over 30 who has been a Receptionist and pretty miserable— both personally and professionally, on occasion— I offer the following thoughts:

  1. If you are unhappy enough to post such a turd on a comment board (especially while you are on the job), you need to make some life changes.
  2. If you are going to rip on one someone (in this case, and myself) do yourself a favor: do your research before you type.*** You clearly did not do this, and as a result you made a jackass out of yourself. I speak from experience when I say this.
  3. Lighten up and get off your high-horse. You are no better (or worse) than anyone else. Nobody likes a busybody lecturing to them about propriety. As William S. Burroughs said:

    Most of the trouble in this world has been caused by folks who can’t mind their own business, because they have no business of their own to mind, any more than a smallpox virus has.

  4. Revel in your failure. You are in good company: there are many more failures in this world than success stories.

Then again, what would I know? I follow dog sh**, after all.

Miss Heather

*If I do not put myself down, someone else (more likely than not, during the course of a job interview) will do it for me.

**For example, here is an excerpt from a recent email my dad (who just turned 65) sent me regarding his latest rectal assault against water-conservating toilets:

… This morning at 8:15 Mr Dick finally managed to stop up # two toilet.

***This is why I require registration in order to comment on this site. I want people to think before they write and have the courage of their convictions to actually attach their name (even if it is just a first name) to what they submit. That’s it. I do nothing with this information.

Empire State Building

August 16, 2006 ·
Filed under: (s)Hit Parade, Area 51, Greenpoint Magic 

Although it is not the purpose of this blog to showcase the treasure(s) I score at local thrift stores, I am making an exception today. I got this wonderful item at “The Thing” for a cool five bucks.

Empire State Building

As I was exiting the store, George Diaz, a local celebrity, asked me what I was going to do with this five foot replica of the Empire State Building.

My answer: I am not completely certain, but I strongly suspect there will be a puppet show*, rock opera— or most likely, a combination of BOTH featuring it.

Miss Heather

*For Example: after a long day at work, The Empire State Building comes home to his modest row house in Secaucus, New Jersey. His wife, The Chrysler Building, (clad in rollers and a muu-muu) has burnt dinner. Ralph and Alice Cramden-esque repartee is exchanged— which quickly degenerates into Punch and Judy violence.

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