Diary Of A Boobifier

Boobification is much more than merely strapping a pair of fake breasts to something. It’s a way of life. One which requires a person to constantly hone her craft. Just as Tiger Woods practices his swing— or A-Rod hits the batting booth (or Madonna)— I have to “limber up” to make that hole-in-one or double-play. But practice doesn’t necessarily make perfect. I now realize that in addition to sheer perspiration, true boobification requires preparation and inspiration. To the latter most end today I went to Bushwick. On foot.

In order to get “in the zone” I need a big ball of rage in my belly. The best means by which I can achieve this state is to walk down Vandervoort and Morgan Avenue. These unprepossessing strips of industriana might strike the uninitiated as being a wasteland. In my experience they are a minefield of male privilege, e.g.; the entitlement to scream, hiss, honk and whistle at women (READ: me) with total orgiastic abandon.

I was not disappointed. Two gents in a truck with Pennsylvania plates were kind enough to creep along beside me for thirty feet and ask me (or some woman called “sweet lady”) if I/she wanted a ride. Given that I was the only woman present I deduced “sweet lady” was me.

I am certain the namesake of their home state, William Penn, would have found their act of charity touching. I didn’t. I thought they were creeps. I made this known by shooting them the finger. Nonplussed they drove off. Hopefully, to “Pumps”. Where they’ll have to pay for play— behind shower curtains.

It was at this point —at long last— I achieved the proper mindset to practice my dark craft: rage.

I call this photograph “Tuff Stuff” (after the lock on the above fixture) because nothing says I’m a real man like stalking a total stranger who is (at best) half his size from a pick-up truck. On Morgan Avenue.

From Bogart Street. No explanation required.

One of the challenges I encountered in Bushwick was most of the objects that caught my discerning eye were located in playgrounds. Playgrounds = children. Having had the pleasure of being detained by the N.Y.P.D. for taking photographs under the auspices of the patriot act*, I limited my activities to parks where minors were not present. If taking pictures of Christmas decorations merits police intervention I imagine despoiling a child’s mind with breast imagery in this day and age would merit a one way ticket to Gitmo.

This fella (from Noll Street) presented me with a challenge. I had a vision, but alas, the string gracing my girls broke while trying to make it happen. I rummaged around my backpack for a “quick fix”. I found one. Call me a Macgyver with tits. Four of them to be precise— and a paper clip.

It took me roughly ten minutes to make this work. The whole time I was struggling to strap tits on this (polar?) bear a chap was beating a tree trunk with an aluminum baseball bat behind me. Vigorously. Once he realized what I was doing he left. No questions asked. That’s one of the things I love about New York City: people mind their own damned business. He went Ty Cobb on a tree, I strapped tits on a polar bear; we each understood the other’s need to work out “anger”.

And last —but hardly least —the tits de résistance. They hail from Public School 145 on George Street.

I cannot come up with a title for this one. Suggestions, anyone?

Now if you don’t mind I’m off to rehabilitate my boobs.

Miss Heather

*Not capitalized on purpose.

P.S.: The photograph gracing the beginning of this post hails from Humboldt Street in Greenpoint. I’d like to dedicate it to John McCain. For some inexplicable reason it makes me think of him.