More Harassment Courtesy of the N.Y.P.D.

Last night I approved a series of comments regarding my recent interaction with New York’s Finest. Among them was this turd posted by “MASKEDMAN”:

Ahhh Miss Heather
But if your house was broken into by someone who had been casing your neighborhood, so upset you would be at the Police Department for not doing there job.
How you would say they were at a donut shop or such, instead of properly investigating a 911 call of a suspicious person.
You say “Was I dressed in a manner that would be construed as menacing? How would the police know that? Because if they thought that, they would be profiling ooohhhh and just think of the story you would have then!!!!
Give the Officers a break really.

To wit I replied:

I have a better idea: they should cut us a break and (as I said in the comment previous to yours) go after real criminals.

It’s easy to criticize when you have not had an experience like mine and I hope you never do. Your cynicism saddens me. Nonetheless, I wish you happy and healthy holiday season.

“MASKEDMAN” got diarrhea of the mouth— or would that be of the keyboard? Either way it is fear-mongering bullshit:

I find it very funny
People riding their bicycles on the sidewalk, people drinking in public. all against the law.
How can you be upset about getting a summons for beaking ther law?
Don’t know if anyone has kids, but have you ever tried to walk on the sidewalk with a stroller while bicycles wiz by you it’s not fun.
Laws are there for a reason, if you want to play, you have to pay my friends.
Oh how everyone would complain if they were sleeping, and some people were outside drinking beers and making noise keeping them up. But I’m sure you weren’t making any noise, right?
Maybe the cops should just do NOTHING.see how you like it then.

Cut you a break for what Miss Heather? Just don’t investigate the complaint. You can’t be serious

Thinking this guy was just some angry jerk-off, I humored him:

If you are going to be abusive, Maskedman I am going to revoke your account. I have gone through enough hell this week. I am the victim in this situation. Not you and certainly not the NYPD. Simple as that.

Here is his piquant reply:

Well Miss Heather, I’m sorry you took me as abusive, I was simply asking a question and not trying to be abusive.
But, if you think that is abuse, NOW I can understand why simple questions by the Police to understand your actions causes you to call the Officer names like Barney Fife. You’re way too sensitive.
By the way, you should really THANK the Police for the job they have done there in the 94 Pct. THEY are the reason you can walk around that precinct looking at decorations, instaed of looking at hookers, pimps and drug dealers (as it was years ago). But instead you get mad at them for simply doing their job.
Victim? Victim of what?
You really have to think about this Miss Heather.

PS Please don’t assume you know me, or know my experiences, as I quote you “when you have not had an experience like mine”. I was pulled over by the Police all the time when I first started driving because I looked so young. They would pull me over, ask me for ID, question me, then send me on my way. I didn’t mind, ya know why? because I wasn’t doing anything wrong, I had NOTHING to worry about and they were just doing their job. Have a very Merry Christmas Miss Heather, and enjoy your New Year.

I did “think” about this. I also looked up “MASKEDMAN’S” I.P. address. Guess what? He and the N.Y.P.D. are one and the same:


“MASKEDMAN” writes:

Please don’t assume you know me, or know my experiences…

The sentiment is mutual: I do not want you to know me or my experiences. Ever read the Bill of Rights “MASKEDMAN”? I suspect you haven’t so here it is via Wikipedia:

The Preamble to the Bill of Rights

Congress of the United States begun and held at the City of New York, on Wednesday the fourth of March, one thousand seven hundred and eighty nine.

The Conventions of a number of the States, having at the time of their adopting the Constitution, expressed a desire, in order to prevent misconstruction or abuse of its powers, that further declaratory and restrictive clauses should be added: And as extending the ground of public confidence in the Government, will best ensure the beneficent ends of its institution.

RESOLVED by the Senate and House of Representatives of the United States of America, in Congress assembled, two thirds of both Houses concurring, that the following Articles be proposed to the Legislatures of the several States, as amendments to the Constitution of the United States, all, or any of which Articles, when ratified by three fourths of the said Legislatures, to be valid to all intents and purposes, as part of the said Constitution; viz.

ARTICLES in addition to, and Amendment of the Constitution of the United States of America, proposed by Congress, and ratified by the Legislatures of the several States, pursuant to the fifth Article of the original Constitution.

First Amendment: Establishment clause, freedom of religion, speech, and press, and peaceable assembly as well as the right to petition the government. Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

Second Amendment:
Right to keep and bear arms. A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.

Third Amendment: Protection from quartering of troops. No Soldier shall, in time of peace be quartered in any house, without the consent of the Owner, nor in time of war, but in a manner to be prescribed by law.

Fourth Amendment:
Protection from unreasonable search and seizure. The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no Warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by Oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized.

Fifth Amendment: Due process, double jeopardy, self-incrimination, eminent domain. No person shall be held to answer for any capital, or otherwise infamous crime, unless on a presentment or indictment of a Grand Jury, except in cases arising in the land or naval forces, or in the Militia, when in actual service in time of War or public danger; nor shall any person be subject for the same offence to be twice put in jeopardy of life or limb; nor shall be compelled in any criminal case to be a witness against himself, nor be deprived of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor shall private property be taken for public use, without just compensation.

Sixth Amendment: Trial by jury and other rights of the accused. In all criminal prosecutions, the accused shall enjoy the right to a speedy and public trial, by an impartial jury of the State and district where in the crime shall have been committed, which district shall have been previously ascertained by law, and to be informed of the nature and cause of the accusation; to be confronted with the witnesses against him; to have compulsory process for obtaining witnesses in his favor, and to have the Assistance of Counsel for his defense.

Seventh Amendment: Civil trial by jury. In suits at common law, where the value in controversy shall exceed twenty dollars, the right of trial by jury shall be preserved, and no fact tried by a jury, shall be otherwise reexamined in any court of the United States, than according to the rules of the common law.

Eighth Amendment
: Prohibition of excessive bail, as well as cruel and unusual punishment. Excessive bail shall not be required, nor excessive fines imposed, nor cruel and unusual punishments inflicted.

Ninth Amendment: Protection of rights not specifically enumerated in the Bill of Rights. The enumeration in the Constitution, of certain rights, shall not be construed to deny or disparage others retained by the people.

Tenth Amendment: Powers of states and people. The powers not delegated to the United States by the Constitution, nor prohibited by it to the states, are reserved to the states respectively, or to the people.

Now that my history lesson is over, I’ll tell you something: I forwarded “MASKEDMAN’s” IP address to a lot of people. Here’s what one anonymous tipster had to say:

Good for you for putting word out.

I think he is probably harmless — the kind of guy who won’t hear anything critical about the police force. Interesting, though, that he is spending considerable amounts of time reading and posting to blogs from his office.

Have you seen this? The NYPD censoring this Wikipedia page with more or less the same IP info and location. (They also apparently notified the NYTimes–see Wiki comments.)

also naming Sara Berger & male colleague (albeit a different one) in NDSS room 701
maybe Sarah and the lads are just “techs.” But the room appears to be the “we watch the internet” room. Who knew?

I guess it’s probable that’s the location of NYPD’s IT and they’re not really in room 701.
It still raises the question of why maskedman isn’t doing some work.

Isn’t it nice to know your tax dollars are paying “MASKEDMAN” to surf the Internet and harass civilians who have the temerity to stand up for themselves? The timing of “MASKEDMAN’s” missives is also interesting: they came to pass after a lot of negative press via the ‘blogosphere’ and on THE SAME DAY Channel 12 contacted the 94 Precinct regarding my “incident”.

Miss Heather

What Would Guido Do?

I created a little controversy recently when I referred to the Rat Man’s stomping grounds as being in Greenpoint. Addrobinson, a frequent New York Shitty commenter, noted:

Its funny you know him as the “rat maniac”, because to me & my friends he is “The Pigeon Maniac”. I always just assume that he was feeding the Pigeons and the rats took care of what the birds left behind. I also find it very odd that you consider that area to be “southeastern Greenpoint”, in all the years I have lived here that is the first time I’ve heard anyone even use that term, let alone call that area it.

What constitutes Greenpoint? This is a very contentious question. If you ask an old timer, as another commenter (Zeebah) suggested, he or she will tell you the area in question (Kingsland Avenue near Frost Street) is in Greenpoint. If you ask a real estate agent, he (or she) will call it Williamsburg. It is simply a matter of who benefits. Which brings me to this:

Martone’s Dairy

This rather nifty old photo can be seen at De Stefano’s Restaurant. Note the location where the picture was taken: Graham Avenue between Devoe and Metropolitan Avenue. Now let’s take a closer look at the neighborhood inscribed on this photo, shall we?

Greenpoint, Brooklyn, NY

Interesting. My curiosity piqued, I asked the owner of the restaurant about this unusual piece of taxonomy. He explained to me that when he was a kid no one who lived in this area called it Williamsburg. That neighborhood was considered distasteful. Greenpoint, therefore, was used because it was considered to be “more classy”. So there have you.

What do I consider to be Greenpoint? Well, this map should give you a general idea.

What is Greenpoint?

The semi-transparent red line indicates the boundaries of the 11222 zip code. The additional shaded sections are areas I consider to be Greenpoint that fall outside this zip code. The more eagle-eyed among you will notice that the Greenpoint Hospital would be considered by many not to be in Greenpoint at all. It is also very telling to note that the engraved text (which read “Greenpoint Hospital”) which once graced the entrance of this building has been removed. I have little doubt this was done at the behest of a real estate professional. Perhaps the developer plans on having “East Williamsburg Hospital” inscribed its place?

I suppose there is no clear cut means of determining what constitutes Greenpoint— or any neighborhood, for that matter. Or is there? As daskol observed:

Guido, the mayor of Withers Street, will kick your ass if you refer to this area as Williamsburg. He might change his tune when it’s time to list his property.

I think it is time for us to stop bickering and ask ourselves a much more important question:

What would Guido do?

Miss Heather

Williamsburg Needs Neuticles!

NEUTICLES!

I came across the above sticker yesterday on Maspeth Avenue west of Olive Street. Amused, I took a photo of it. I had my suspicions as to what “Neuticles” were, so upon arriving home I immediately Googled it. They were exactly what I thought they would be (from neuticles.com):

Over 225,000 caring pet owners Worldwide have selected Neuticles as a safe, practical and inexpensive option when neutering.

Neuticles allowing your pet to retain his natural look, self esteem and aids in the trauma associated with neutering.

I spent an hour perusing this web site. I advise you, dear readers, to do the same. It is a comedy goldmine:

Neuticles are just plain neat!
—Rush Limbaugh

I wonder when Rush saw fit to lavish this praise upon Neuticles? Was it before or after he got caught with that illicit bottle of Viagra? If he had followed his own advice and got himself some Neuticles Rush might not have found himself in the previous predicament. He also would have spared the American people a lot of pain and suffering thinking about his bloated sack of pus hot air having sex.

Believe it or not, the “satisfied customers section” is even better:

I’ve put off neutering “Crooked Joe” for months and when I found out about Neuticles and spoke to them it made me feel better about neutering. Joe not only looks the same now- but dosen’t know he’s missing anything.

He’s a guy and I wanted him to remain looking like one.

And my personal favorite:

Frodo never knew he lost anything and is just a happier little dog since he’s been neutered with Neuticles.

Perhaps the previous pet owner should rename her canine companion Scroto Baggins? Just a thought.

Those of you who are interested in this product should be advised that the (s)experts at Neuticles have a vast assortment of nut bags for you to choose from. The budget conscious ball sack connoisseur can purchase the basic, no frills “Original” model, the more effete testicular snob can spend a little extra and get the “Ultraplus” model with Scargard.

Sizes range from XL, for pets weighing 110-190 pounds (in which case one nut will cost you $189 or you can get a pair for $269) to XS, for pets weighing 3-8 pounds (in which case one nutlet will set you back $59 or a pair can be had for a measly $94). What a bargain!

Cat owners, don’t despair: they have the perfect pair of balls for your pussy. All you need to do is grab that mouse, point and click! All major credit cards are accepted.

In closing, I have to confess that I have developed Neuticle envy while writing this post. Yesterday I walked to Artist & Craftsman Supply to buy some paper mache. Such is the real estate hoax of pimping Greenpoint as being an ‘artistic’ neighborhood: artists may reside here, but there are no longer any stores here to facilitate their (my, our) habit. North Brooklyn:

Be an artist or just look like one!

So off to East Williamsburg I went. And in so doing, I became the unwitting (and unwilling) object of affection for a number of fellows along the way. Hisses, whistles and yelling greeted me as I approached the BQE. As I recounted to a friend of mine later:

…my trek to the art supply store on Metropolitan Avenue and back was a gauntlet of hisses and whistles. One especially creepy guy beckoned for me to come over to his van (!!!) and talk to him. This was on Meeker (by the BQE), which made the situation even creepier. I am fucking 30-something years old. I am NOT going to walk over to some stranger’s van and to talk to him. Much less by the BQE. The previous scenario has “coming to the back of a milk carton near you” written all over it.

Perhaps if I had a pair of Neuticles, the previous chap would have left me alone? I don’t want the “XS” model either. I want ’em SO BIG I’ll need a handtruck to carry them.

Miss Heather

Miss Heather’s Apartment Share Inferno

New York Shitty is a metropolis of pissers and moaners. Crappy jobs/job interviews, crappy dates, crappy landlords: someone has written a lengthy (and usually pithy) missive (or two) about them all. Yet no one has written about a subject that encapsulates all the previous and more: apartment shares and the people who offer them. Until today.

I care not for landlords, first dates or job interviews— but at least I know what all the previous involve: me getting fucked. Be it metaphorically, physically or both. The same cannot be said about apartment share interviews, as I learned several years ago.

The purpose of this post is to showcase the three worst (and/or weirdest) apartment share interviews I have ever had. I have even taken the liberty of creating a handy checklist to track the depths of depravity I endured. Nothing says “you’ve arrived” (in HELL) like PowerPoint, after all.

CASE STUDY #1: THE DUNGEON

The Dungeon

Vital Statistics

Location: Meserole Street and Graham Avenue
Rent: $450 a month
The Catch: It’s a SRO

Truth be told, I was not very jazzed about the location of this share. Sure, it is a beautiful building, but I am a Greenpoint gal through and through. However, when one is dirt-ass broke, she cannot afford to be choosy, so I checked it out.

When I arrived at the front door I was greeted by a young woman. I think she was from Belgium, though it was hard to tell. She was a very pleasant and elegantly dressed lady— which made up for the decidedly NON-elegant setting.

As she led me through the front door (of her section) of the SRO, a man donning a dragon mask and reeking of marijuana popped out of another door and started giggling inanely. “Okay”, I thought “So he likes to party a little on a Sunday afternoon. Who doesn’t? No problem.”

The room she showed me was very spacious. I’ve seen many apartments smaller than this space, which probably measured around 400 square feet. I even liked the shade of lilac the walls were painted. Very pretty. I even told her so and she thanked me. She had picked out the paint herself.

Then I saw something I have never seen in any apartment/share space before: leather restraints, paddles and heavy chains anchored to the wall by mollies. Given that this was a three month sublease, the presence of these implements was non-negotiable. I could honestly not care less what this woman did (professionally?), but I don’t think I could have handled waking up every morning to the sight of Medieval torture devices. I was offered this sublet, but turned it down.

All things considered this experience was pretty mild (as I later would learn). What’s more, she was really likable and clearly not out to rip me off so I give this share a rating of…

SRO of Pain

CASE STUDY #2: MESEROLE STREET SUICIDE SHARE

Suicide Hall

Vital Statistics

Location: Meserole and Leonard Street
Rent: $500 a month
The Catch: Too many to summarize

The only reason I agreed to an interview at this share was because I confused “Meserole Street” with “Meserole Avenue”. After my interview at this hellhole I have never confused the two thoroughfares since.

I knocked on the door, a smallish red-haired man answered and ushered me in. It was dark. It was dirty. It was the bachelor pad date rape central replete with a disemboweled motorcycle in the living area. Although something about the “head roomie” was unsettling to me, I liked the other guy and heard them out. He was nice.

Then the shoes dropped, one after the other.

  1. Once the “Head Roomie” stood by the bathroom area (which was better lit) I recognized him; this shithead had I.M.ed me on Nerve a month ago. And being a freak (him more so than, me), I dissed him. Whoops.
  2. After making the previous discovery he showed me the room. It was okay, I guess. Then he pulled out a photo album and pointed to a picture of 20-something brunette chap.

See this guy?

I answered: yes.

He used to live in that space. Really nice guy, always laughing. We didn’t realize he had problems.

Me: Really, what kind of problems?

After not hearing from him a couple of days we went into his room and discovered that he had shot himself in the head hanged himself.

Me: I’m sorry to hear that.

What the hell do you say to something like that? How can one NOT notice a DEAD BODY for TWO WHOLE DAYS??? These are both very good questions. I kept them to myself.

I feel that people need to know about this, you know.

He said.

Let’s see: this was either the most diabolical form of revenge ever exacted (Where’s Candid Camera?) or this guy is being honest. Given the lack of overall intelligence he demonstrated on Nerve, I’m leaning towards the latter. I bet he is still trolling the Internets for leg too. My advice: no woman in her right mind is going to put out in a place that reeks of motor oil.

When I took the above the photo a meathead busy recycling beer bottles shouted:

Take a picture of the building across the street, it’s much nicer!

Leonard Street Fedders Special

And, inasmuch as I hate to say it, I agree. At least no one has blown his (or her) brains out here hanged him (or herself) there.

Yet.

With so many different factors at play, I am going to stick with simple suicide on this one and give this share a…

Meserole Street Suicide Den

At last! We are down to our last contender from the Universe’s very own Garden Spot: Greenpoint, Brooklyn U.S.A.!

CASE STUDY #3: STONER SPECIAL

Nassau Ave Bachelor Pad

Vital Statistics

Location: Nassau Avenue and Monitor Street
Rent: $600 a month
The Catch: It’s total fucking rip-off… and more!

I slog my ass over to this place. It stinks. Literally. Only a block away from Kingsland Avenue, the corner where this building is situated sports a perfume I like to call Petro le Um #5. Being the eager little domicile hunter I was (because I have a strong distaste about being homeless) I go in.

It is a loft. I do not like lofts. Inasmuch as the real estate industry likes to throw around the buzz phrase “artist loft” my experience has been that “artists” generally do not inhabit such spaces. I write this as an artist. 252 Norman Avenue was no exception.

I look around and note the “stoner special” layout of the living area: three really big, threadbare sofas encircling a very expensive widescreen television set. I am shown the room that is for rent: it is (maybe) eight by ten feet. It has no windows whatsoever. They are asking $600 a month for this piece of shit. In 2001.

I am then subjected to a gauntlet of questions by the residents of this place. I smile and answer them politely. Then I go home.

A weeks goes by and I get a phone call. It is one of the fellows from this apartment.

Me: So did I get the share?
Dude: No, but I thought you were cute and wondered if you’d like to go out on a date.

WTF!?!

When I told my buddy Larry about this recently, he opined:

You should have gone out with the guy and moved in with him. That way you will have a place to live and not have to pay rent.

Funny man, that Larry.

That said, there is something so utterly WRONG about using apartment share interviews to pick up chicks. It takes real chutzpah to call someone, tell her she did NOT get the share and then ask her on a date. Truth be told, it gave me the fucking creeps. So I give this jerk a…

Stoner Special

In case you are wondering, I ended up putting all my shit in storage and sofa surfing until I found a place of my own. I can honestly say that one month of sofa-surfing wasn’t that bad when faced with my alternatives.

Miss Heather

Penile Endowment & Pete’s Candy Store

July 29, 2007 ·
Filed under: 11211, Area 51, Greenpoint Magic, Williamsburg, Williamsburg Brooklyn 

Someone put a pubic hair in my Coke!

As I was reading The Gowanus Lounge this morning I found myself taking a psychedelic trip down down the rabbit hole to my days as a single woman about town.

Yes, I am talking about “Missed Connection” post about Pete’s Candy Store. To the best of my knowledge the chap I met there did not have two penises. If he did, both tools were NOT located below the belt, if you know what I mean.

He was special. Very special. And given some of the VERY special peeps I have dated, this is no small accomplishment. To crack the top five in the smash-jaw world of Miss Heather’s all-time favorite male suitors is sort of like being the most retarded kid on the short bus. It is a dubious distinction to be certain, but a distinction it is nonetheless.

In a kingdom of the ‘tards, he who wears the crash helmet with a thick lucite mouth guard is king. This chap was the Hannibal Lechter of my dreams (whose type are only had by my person after eating a lot of spicy food before going to bed).

It was a sultry summer day in 2002…

My big fat dyke best bud Rachael and I were in a particularly rambunctious mood. Our friendship is a never-ending folie à deux sans the body count. Unless of course you include the male ego as an animal of prey: in which case our faces would be found in every god damned post office in this country. Possibly every milk carton too, but I digress…

We had quite a busy evening ahead of us. First a barbecue party in East Williamsburg, then a night of bar crawling. To this end Rachael showed up at my apartment with a diaper bag full of provisions, among the goods contained in this bag were a container of baby wipes (because New York Shitty is a very dirty place) and an electronic bull horn. After futzing around with the latter for fifteen minutes (and playing “The Yellow Rose of Texas” for my neighbors’ edification) we took our show on the road. We walked.

As we strolled down Manhattan Avenue I would turn on the megaphone and announce every stop of the G train replete with “stand clear of the closing doors”. The people at Greenpoint Avenue were confused by this. The folks at Nassau Avenue were amused by this. A woman at Metropolitan Avenue complimented me on my flawless recitation of the transfers available to the Canarsie and 8th Avenue bound L train. I thanked her and told her that I had done much research on the subject.

We arrived at the barbecue and quickly found ourselves getting bored. This is not criticize the hosts, Mark and Heather, they were terrific. Rather, Rachael and I had an itch to scratch and our fine fettle would be wasted at such an informal function. I was rocking a fuzzy pink tube top, furry pink platform shower thongs and rhinestone earrings shaped like dollar signs. I, in the clarity of hindsight, looked ridiculous.

I was Greenpoint Fabulous, albeit bereft of the usual “whale tail” and “camel toe” one sees in the ‘Pernt with disquieting frequency. In my humble opinion the Garden Spot is the Camel Toe Capital of the universe. If you’re into this kind of thing, brave the G train and come here. You’ll feel like a kid in a candy store.

So my buddy Rach and I headed to Williamsburg without delay. After hitting Union Pool (LAME), Sweetwater (and bumping into someone I went to undergrad school with back in Texas), walking by a school and acquiring a child’s desk we headed to Pete’s. We stopped to catch our breath. Carrying a desk, even one clearly designed for a kindergartner, is pretty tiring. We looked up and noticed a buddy of ours waving at us. We went in, desk in hand.

It was our buddy “Hunter”. That’s not his real name— I can’t remember what it is at the moment— but he bears a striking resemblance to Hunter S. Thompson. The moniker works so let’s roll with it, okay? He was seated with a motley crew of dudes we had never met. A chap who called himself “Snowflake” seated himself in our newly-acquired desk. He fit too.

Despite our best efforts Rachael and I kept calling him “Snowball”. I suspect this was probably the result of watching Clerks and reading Animal Farm one too many times. No offense was intended and none seemed to be taken: he invited us to go home with him later. We declined.

Next to me sat a rheumy-eyed dude whose name (also) eludes me. He probably told me what it was but it didn’t register. My intoxication was not to blame either; this dude was one beer and a bong hit shy of becoming Terri Schiavo. Frankly, I was amazed he could even sit up straight. Despite this handicap, he put on his best moves.

TS (looking at my earrings): Ssssssssso, I see it you’re in it for the bennies?

Me: What?

TS: The bennies, the benjamins.

Me: Benjamins?

TS: $100 bills babe, money.

Me: If I was I wouldn’t be so fucking poor, dude.

TS (while pulling out a one-hitter and stuffing it with grass): Really? Why did you break up with your last boyfriend?

Me: He smoked so much grass he couldn’t keep it up.

(He puts his one-hitter away.)

TS: Let me tell you something…

Me: Yes, and that is???

TS: I’ve got the biggesssssssst dick and the mossssssst money of any man in thisssss entire bar.

Me (raising an eyebrow): Really? Now that is interesting. Are you serious?

TS: Yes, I’ve got the biggessssssst dick and the mosssssst money of any dude in thissssss whole barrrrrr.

Me (to Rachael): Hey Rach, could you hand me the bag?

Rachel hands me the bag and I pull out the megaphone. Even though my suitor’s lips whispered “no”, everyone around us said “yes”. So, as Nike suggests, I just did it.

Me: Hey everybody!

(The dull roar of cocktail conversation and flirtation abruptly stops.)

Me: This guy has the biggest dick and the most money of any man in this bar!

After five full seconds of silence, everyone resumed their respective conversations and this chap got the point.

When Rachael and I left two very touchy feely gals were draped on his shoulders. Although I suspect they were more interested in each other than him, my act of mischief probably gave him ample material to submit to Penthouse Forum the next day. Or he awakened to discover that someone stole one of his kidneys. Either way, it’s a happy ending.

Miss Heather

Best Job Interview Ever

January 15, 2007 ·
Filed under: 11211, Area 51, Dog Shit, Dung of the Day, Williamsburg, Williamsburg Brooklyn 

Although I take pride and derive much satisfaction from being the proprietress of New York Shitty, it does have its complications. My desire to expand my Shitty Empire (and pay off student loan debt) has necessitated that I seek permanent part-time employment. I suspect I speak for a number of people when I say that my accomplishments (thus far) merit praise and prove my worthiness to be the Mayor of this fine city (or at least hold a seat on Community Board 1). However, The Dog Shit Queen of Greenpoint (with all the responsibilities, powers and privileges vested therein) is not exactly the kind of position one can cite on a resume— or explain to some HR hack.

Or is it?

Recently I came across a “Help Wanted” advertisement on Craigslist for a dog walker. Follows is a condensed version of the job requirements (my comments in boldface):

I want to hear from you if:

# You are a 100% reliable person. No “no shows” or last minute “call ins.”
# You must love animals – particularly the canines. Experience with dog walking, ASPCA, shelters is preferred.
# This is an outside job that can be dirty sometimes. If you are resilient to rain, wind,snow,(soon) sun, cold, poop and have a keen eye for chicken bones read on…if not please don’t apply. WAIT— I have a keen eye for chicken bones!
# You must have a cellphone, digi camera or cellcam and a computer with internet
After some thought I finally concluded that this woman probably wants photographic evidence that “Fluffy” or “Fido” did a deuce. God, what is this world coming to???
# You must be a US citizen
Illegals do just about every other crappy job (no pun intended) in this country, why are you being so choosy?
# You will submit to a criminal background check
# I prefer you live in Williamsburg, Greenpoint or Bushwick maybe Clinton Hill. This is a part time job so a long commute makes no sense.
# I need you to be available M-F 11:30 am to 4:00 pm. There may be some weekend work too but I will only hire someone who is available during weekdays.

Please copy, paste and answer all of the following questions into your response. The Subject line must read “Part Time Dog Walker” – if it says anything else it will not be opened. Um, this is a dog walker ad, it’s not the fucking SAT for chrissakes!

Subject Line : Part Time Dog Walker
(Just in case you didn’t get it the first time.)

# 1.Your full name:
# 2 Your cell phone#:
# 3.Tell me why you want to be a dog walker?
Let’s cut the crap: no one wants to be a dog walker. It has been my observation that people WORK so they have a roof over their head and food in their stomachs.
# 4.What experience with animal care, if any, do you have?
Five cats and one husband. A good friend of mine asks me to walk her dog when her regular dog walker calls out sick; she says I am the only other person her dog will poop for. My presence encourages defecation. I have the face that launched a thousand shits. I’ve even had a pigeon crap on my head once. That sucked.

# 5.Will you submit to a background check?
Sure, why not? I’ve always had the presence of mind NOT to get caught.
# 6.Are you always available M-F 11:30am to 4pm?
# 7.What neighborhood do you live in? What train line do you live near?
# 8.Do you own a bicycle? A camera?
I do not own a bicycle but I DO own a digital camera. In fact, I had to upgrade my Flick’r account because I had over 200 pictures of dog shit and ran out of space. Does this count?
# 9.What is the highest level of education you have completed? I have a Master’s Degree in Fine Art from Parsons School of Design and graduated magna cum laude with a BFA in Fine Art and a minor in History. Both of the previous degrees are suicide pacts with poverty. However, I am ready, willing and able to converse with “Fido” about art theory, Lacan, Heidegger, Spanish History, Latin American History and (for your leftist chicano canine clientele) Liberation Theology.
# 10.Are you planning any vacations in the next 3 months? WTF? If I go on a trip will I get paged to pick up some errant piece of crap on Ainslie Street or something?
# 11.This is a part time job (7 to 12 hrs week). Are you employed elsewhere? What do you do?
# 12.Last one! Tell me what hobbies/interests you have, what you’re about.
*A-hem*

* Location: williamsburg

* Compensation: $100 to $150 per week. 7 hours to 12 hours week. Approx.

After doing the math, I deduced that this job pays between $12.00 and $14.00 an hour. Most of the part-time Administrative jobs I have found (that am qualified to hold) pay less. MUCH LESS. Suffice it to say that I find it oh so refreshing to see that unpaid interns (READ: slave labor) have become such an integral part of the administrative workforce.

Truth be told, ALL work entails shoveling shit, be it literally or figuratively. Picking up dog shit appears to be the more lucrative use of my time. This is a pretty damning indictment of our society (and the values it espouses) if you ask me. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised given our nation’s increasing reliance on a service-based job growth: scooping up designer dog dung cannot be “outsourced”. Yet, anyway.

I did not reply to this ad. Although I am OK with dog shit, own a digital camera, have Internet access and a “keen eye for chicken bones”, I know damned well the first time a dog under my care wretches up/shits out parasites I will lose both my composure and my lunch! Living in Greenpoint (and NYC in general) has given me a strong stomach. Shit (canine, feline or hominid), puke, stink, noise, public masturbation, the G train, crazy homeless people and self-important rich people, while annoying, are manageable to me. Roundworms, tape worms, pin worms, etc., freak my ass out. These things are, to use Orwellian parlance, my “Room 101”.

I did, however, send a resume and cover letter regarding Help Wanted ad posted by a local publication seeking an Administrative Assistant. Not only was I qualified for this position, but I felt my being The Dog Shit Queen of Greenpoint made me one cut above my fellow applicants. It did: during the interview I had for this job last Friday.

After a slow and fitful start, my potential employer posited the following question to me:

Give me an example from your personal life that demonstrates your ability to organize.

Here’s what I told him:

As you may or may not be aware, I have a web site: New York Shitty. This web site is (mostly) about the dog shit problem in Greenpoint. I frequently take walks, though I prefer to call them “fact finding missions”, to ascertain the amount of unattended dog shit in any given area. Sometimes I cover a designated area (when I get a tip), other times I merely cover an area I happen knocking around in on that given day. I take photos of the dog shit I find, note the address where it is located and use this data to generate Crap Maps.

One time I inspected far north Greenpoint. This is area is notorious for having a lot of dog shit. As it happens, there is a retirement home that straddles Eagle and Dupont Street and I discovered that dog owners are pretty fond of taking their dogs behind this establishment and letting them shit all over the place. There must have been at least twenty pieces of dog crap there. This required particularly rigorous record-keeping on my part. Sometimes I’d make a written annotation about a noteworthy piece of poop, other times I made qualitative observations about a one piece of shit or another, etc. When you upload fifty plus pieces of pictures of poop on any given day (like I do), you need to ensure that each piece of shit corresponds to the correct address. Otherwise, the “Crap Map” will be inaccurate.

I prefer to take the time to keep exhaustive records so I can dedicate the rest of my time to constructing “Crap Maps” or doing fun stuff like making customized shit-shaped bullets for my “Poopipoint” presentations.

A lengthy and enjoyable scatological/philosophical discussion followed. Some of the topics covered were: hobo porn (“smegmen”), garbage (“offal”), the night I ended up hanging out at the Briarwood Police Station because a dude was jerking off in front of me on the N train, and of course, how I may (or may not) fit into this organizational structure. I must have been there for at least an hour.

I sent a follow-up email the next day. This email had a jpg of today’s “Dung of the Day” attached to it. Part of it read as follows:

…I thought you might enjoy the dog shit assemblage I found at a parking lot after we met. As always, I took a photo and noted the location: across the street from 212 Grand Street. After doing a little research (Google Maps and the Department of Buildings BIS database are excellent resources when a piece of property is not clearly demarcated) I deduced it that this turd was located at 215 Grand Street. I may be demented but I am detail-oriented…

Marlboro Brown

I have yet to hear back. Maybe I will, maybe I won’t. Then again, the satisfaction I got from talking about dog shit in a job interview is a reward unto itself. And you can’t put a price on that.

Miss Heather

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