Ghetto-gate Update

September 15, 2006 ·
Filed under: Area 51, Greenpoint Magic 


After seven days of construction constriction, I am finally regaining my sense of humor. I have no doubt that sleep deprivation and consuming ample amounts of Budweiser* have helped me get back to my usual beatific state. There is a certain dark humor to be found in my predicament: the recent ‘improvements’ going on around me (in the name of ‘gentrification’) are the very reason for my diminished quality of life. “Progress” has my rendered my apartment (which one would presume to be my place of refuge) downright unbearable of late.

Thankfully, the rain has given me a reprieve from any construction-related rooftop hijinks the last 24 hours. Other than the soapy smell of glue** wafting from the untreated plywood behind my apartment or the occasional “pop” made by a(nother) piece of plywood warping, it has been fairly peaceful. I have even managed to get some work done.

Mr. Markowitz, I have the Dog Shit Queen of Greenpoint on line one…
After running errands this morning I arrived home to find an email from a Ms. Luyando from the Brooklyn Borough President’s office in my inbox. I had honestly forgotten about the crazed missive I had sent to Mr. Markowitz’s office last Saturday, so this was a pleasant surprise. Ms. Luyando asked me for some additional information (which in my rage I had forgotten to provide, but then again jpegs like this speak for themselves) and she gave me a case number. I gave her the information she requested and told her she could consult my blog ( for images of the questionable construction I was complaining about.

I can only hope she (or one of her assistants) did so. If I were (still) a civil servant I would be overjoyed at the prospect of being paid to parse through pictures of dog crap and blog posts with titles as “Hot in the Ass”.

Otherwise, I am going back on the beat and am currently planning a trek to a very special part of Greenpoint. I spent two (LONG) years of my life in the area I plan to showcase and suspect it will be quite the fruitful snootful. (It was awful then and I see no reason why it would be any better now.) I also plan to do some much needed troubleshooting/maintenance to New York Shitty and add new links to my blogroll this weekend, so stay tuned!

Miss Heather

*The Dog Shit Queen of Greenpoint’s drink of choice is the King of Beers. For obvious reasons.

**My husband says it is formaldehyde. He was a finish carpenter once, so I guess he would know.

Photo Credit: I found this genuine vomi de l’artiste (the presence of red wine is a dead giveaway) in front of 123-125 Green Street.

Nature: 1, Landlord: 0

September 14, 2006 ·
Filed under: Area 51, Greenpoint Magic 

For reasons one can only imagine, the landlord next door did not see fit to protect the untreated wood on his new roof against the rain. Perhaps he had planned to do so yesterday but the visit from the Fire Marshal threw a monkey wrench in his plans, who knows? In any case, it’s becoming a real mess back there. The last time I saw something as bucked and wonky as this, it was the result of British dentistry.

Uh Oh...

I wonder what the Building Inspector is going to think about this? I will find out soon enough.

Otherwise, he is back at work and concealing his DOB Permits (AGAIN).


I wonder if the man wearing a jacket reading “Bureau of Fire Prevention” I saw standing across the street noticed this?

Miss Heather

Miss Heather: 1, Landlord: 1

September 13, 2006 ·
Filed under: Area 51, Greenpoint Magic 

Fuck you up
I returned from running errands this morning to find a fire truck— an honest to god FIRE TRUCK gaggle of New York’s Bravest and handful of chromosomally-disadvantaged onlookers in front of the building next door.

When the Fire Marshal cometh, I guess he likes to make an entrance. If that was his intention, it worked. Ever since the Greenpoint Terminal Market caught on fire, the local yokels around here get very interested when a fire truck shows up on their block.

I have no idea what transpired, but the landlord next door has gone back to work completing his new ghetto-ass roof with two notable changes:

  1. The openings made around several of my windows and those of belonging to my neighbor have been enlarged.
  2. His DOB permit is in plain view.

I guess it is a “draw”. But there is one question I can’t get out of my mind: if this man had to file plans with the Department of Buildings in order to get permission to make these ‘renovations’, why weren’t the fire code violations (which would presumably be manifest in his ‘plan’) caught earlier?


Miss Heather

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.

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