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Culture on the Cheap
August 30, 2006 Dung of the Day
I recently got a tip to check out Norman Avenue between Guernsey Street and Banker Street. Today I did just that and I did not leave disappointed. They must have dogs the size of Oldsmobiles down there because I beheld some of biggest piles of dog shit I have encountered to date!
Unbe-fucking-lieveable. Naturally, a Crap Map will be forthcoming…
Miss Heather
New York Shitty is taking submissions!
Filed under: Dog Shit
I genuinely care about my readership. And for that reason I am inaugurating a new feature: you can now email me pictures of dog shit from your ‘hood! I will inspect your submissions and write a weekly critique/synopsis.
My specs are as follows:
- 150 dpi jpegs. I understand that a number of you will have no option other than 72 dpi and that’s cool. 150 dpi is preferred, but not necessary. Nothing larger, PLEASE!
- Keep the images around 400 x 300 pixels.
- Indicate where you found it. I prefer a street address, but an intersection is OK.
- Indicate when you found it.
- If there is a good story behind your submission, include it. If there is one thing I have learned from living in NYC, it is that there are few things people enjoy more than the pure Schadenfreudesque hilarity that can result from an errant piece of dog (or bum) shit.
Send your shit to: missheather@newyorkshitty.com
I look forward to seeing (and not smelling) what you guys find!
Miss Heather
August 27, 2006 Crap Map
Like a number of you, I frequently wonder about who (or perhaps more accurately, what) my neighbors are. These musings are usually preceded by my:
- finding a new piece porn (homemade or professional, I have found both— on several occasions).
- watching the police perform their duties. “To protect and serve” hereabouts seems to mean breaking up melees fueled by alcohol, infidelity and abject stupidity. OR
- hopscotching over ungodly amounts of dog shit.
Yesterday I did #3. What I assumed would be a one block trek in the rain to get me a bottle of Ito-En tea from the Franklin Corner Store ended up being a slush-ridden gauntlet through dog shit hell. It was a veritable sea of fly-ridden shit soup!
It was gross. VERY GROSS. A little backwash of vomit even crept up my throat while I photographed some of this shit. No joke.
Conclusion: my neighbors are inconsiderate, lazy pigs. my neighbors are sexually perverse, inconsiderate, lazy pigs.
Miss Heather
Planet of the Shits
I found today’s Dung of the Day this morning at 959 Manhattan Avenue.
The resemblance is rather uncanny if I say so myself…
Miss Heather
Dung of the Day
Boy people seem to be very, very angry today. In that spirit, I give you today’s Dung of the Day which is located at 214 McGuinness Boulevard (in front of the Key Food).
Of Camus and Crap
Some of you who have looked at today’s New York Times might have read Maureen Dowd’s Op-Ed piece, “Camus Comes to Crawford”. The fact that Mr. Bush is trying to wrap his head around The Stranger is probably disturbing enough for most people, but my latest dog doo recon mission casts this development in an even more sinister light.
My route was as follows:
Here are the Crap Stats.
And here is a bar graph illustrating an unusual statistic I discovered.
As you have probably noticed, the block that has a portrait of Albert Camus on it also has a significantly elevated amount of dog crap. It would appear that there is a certain level of attraction between Mr. Camus and dog shit. And if you have read Ms. Dowd’s column today, you can (via deductive reasoning) draw yet another conclusion…
Today’s Crap Map can be found here.
Miss Heather
Dung of the Day
Boy have I been busy!
I have parsed through at least 100 pieces of dog shit this week. Seriously. I have two one Crap Map to construct (the one I just finished can be found here), a shitload of data to sort, and pie charts to create. At least I copped a wine rack, sleeping bag, and lamp from these jaunts as compensation for my efforts.
Despite my ‘shitigue’, I can muster enough just energy to post August 12, 2006’s the Dung of the Day.
I have long hoped for (but never found) dog shit in front of the 94th Precinct Station of the NYPD. I suspect the lack of dog shit there is due to the fact that New York’s Finest are always parked out front (and take smoke breaks there). But tonight I discovered some trampled dog shit across the street (at 88 Meserole Avenue). And for the time being, it will have to do.
Otherwise, one gent in Sunset Park has seen fit to link to me on his blog. I am listed as “greenpoint dog shit queen”. I have no problem with this (his blog seems to be a good one) save the fact that I would prefer to be listed as “The Greenpoint dog shit queen”.
To do otherwise would imply that there are other pretenders to my throne and that is simply unacceptable.
Those of you who are familiar with the movie Pink Flamingos know all too well what transpired after Divine received a birthday present (via the USPS) from Connie and Raymond Marble. THE filthiest people alive, THE Greenpoint dog shit queen: in the scheme of things they or more less the same.
I love John Waters.
Mr. Waters, H.L. Mencken and the antics of Spiro Agnew are only the reason(s) why Maryland would/should exist as far as I am concerned.
God bless you, John Waters. Come to Greenpoint, you’ll love it. I’ll be your personal tour guide. Dog shit and all. (Just don’t expect me to eat it.)
Miss Heather
Yorkville Vs. Greenpoint = No Contest
My mother came to visit about three months ago. After one of our shopping jaunts in Manhattan, I took her to where my husband works: Rockefeller University.
Before I continue, I want to point out that there is a certain irony to be found by my (our) living in Greenpoint and my husband (the primary solitary breadwinner) working at Rockefeller University. John D. Rockefeller I is, after all, the reason there is a rather large oil spill under my community. Thankfully, we live in the more industrialized (READ: less desirable) part of the neighborhood. This area happens to be bereft of underground oil, the ‘nicer’ areas are the ones affected. (All our ‘pollution’ is above ground, if you know what I mean.) Nonetheless, my husband and I live off the largesse of Mr. Rockefeller. Life is funny that way.
I had mentioned to my mother that Yorkville is a pretty reasonable place to live (rent-wise) and she got very jazzed when she saw how nice the area is. This was when she asked (the inevitable question): would you and your husband consider living here for “the long-term“?
Me: No. We’re not ruling out future possibilities, but we are very happy in Greenpoint. Thanks.
Ben Franklin uttered something once about New Jersey being a valley of humility between two giants. The same can be said for Greenpoint, a working-class enclave nestled amongst three giants: Manhattan; Williamsburg, Brooklyn and Long Island City, Queens. Living in Greenpoint (and riding the G train) will make you humble. (And very angry— Ed. Note)
My mouth and attitude (both inherited from my dear old dad— a man so utterly uncool that he is on the cutting edge of ‘hip’) housed in my feeble female body were two major contributing factors to my seeking refuge in New York City. After 30-odd years of service in this mortal coil, knocking through Texas, New Mexico, California, and yes, New York City (Bronx, Queens and Brooklyn— in that order) I finally feel at home. I can flaunt my mastery of the “f” word (and all its numerous conjugations and subtle nuances) with total abandon in Greenpoint. Frequently, Loudly, and with a measure of appreciation/admiration/ affirmation from my peers. In an uncertain world, this very comforting indeed.
That said, why would/should I unfurl the solitary pearl that is my truly creative and innovative vulgar style of language before unappreciative swine? Swine, I add, who may very well call the police because they may (mis)take my joie de vivre (in its copious, robust and abject glory) a wee bit too seriously. No way Jose. They can have their side of the East River, I can have mine and we each can do as we see fit.
My latest trip to Yorkville July 31, 2006 netted my first example of Upper East Side dog shit signage. This can be found on the west side of York Avenue at 64th Street.
I am not one to let my two art degrees, indoctrination in semiotics (a hip art fad in the late 90’s), and draconian student loan payments go to waste. My critique is as follows:
Someone put time, money, but alas, too little thought into this. He/she went to the trouble of having the sign made professionally and the execution is nice. Too nice. The same can be said about the wording; this is the Amy Vanderbilt solution to a dog doo predicament if I have ever seen one.
The person who saw fit to have such a sign manufactured clearly thought (mistakenly) that slick presentation and polite chiding would move intransigent dog owners to “do the right thing”. If the sheer amount of dog shit I saw walking on York Avenue from 68th Street to 60th Street is any indication I’d say it ain’t working.
Rating: 4 (out of 10)
Now I present this gem found on Greenpoint Avenue between Franklin and West Street.
This sign does not pertain to dog shit per se, but this does not diminish its relevance. What we have here is a solid, no-frills, no-nonsense sign. The metaphorical Honda Civic (or Yugo) of signage: direct, utilitarian and inexpensively executed (save perhaps the odd police citation for vandalism). This appeals to my plebian sensibilities. I like it.
Speaking as someone who is familiar with this person’s body of work, this is a pretty standard example:
- Medium: Sharpie marker on (any) flat surface
- Message: “Pick up your (insert word/s here)”*
- Enlarged and inappropriately capitalized “k”s
Per the book Handwriting Analysis by Karen Amend and Mary S. Ruiz, this graphological eccentricity is characteristic of a person who is prone to “impulsive outbursts” and is “rebellious to authority figures and traditional values”.
The previous example is remarkable in one respect: lack of profanity. While I applaud the author’s use of restraint, the virtuostic mastery of foul language and threat(s) of physical violence are what make his/her oeuvre truly noteworthy. Regardless, there is a decided absence of litter (and dog shit) in front of this sign, so it must be working.
Rating: 7 (out of 10)
After writing all the previous pretentious and sophistic bullshit, I am worn out! I’m going to take a very hot shower to clean off the smarm. Before I do so, I will leave you with two “Dung(s) of the Day”: one is from Yorkville, the other is from Greenpoint. I am not going to bother indicating where each came from, as it is (painfully) obvious.
Dung of the Day #1
Dung of the Day #2
*Frequently closing with “Thanks” or “Thanks Asshole”
Feces… possibly of canine origin…
My career (if you can call it that) is one that is firmly grounded in the customer service industry. This is not so much the result of conscious decision-making as it is the consequence of having two degrees in a field that no one on the outside (of the field) gives a damn about: fine art. I find this ironic, as the sophism bullshit I beheld in the many student critiques I have had the (mis)fortune of attending over the years in art school, can does qualify me to work in the upper echelons of public service. There is no better place to learn how to spin shit into Shinola than art school. Period. That said, I do not think even I could (or even care to try to) redress the damage our current Chimp in Chief has unfurled on the international community. So it goes.
While the pay to be had working in customer service is generally poor, as are the working conditions (disgrunted lunatics yelling at you 40+ hours a week), it is not entirely without its benefits.
Case in point:
Having nine months to burn between completing my BFA and starting my MFA, I entered the world of temporary employment. The first (and only) assignment I had was in a workmens compensation unit whose clientele consisted of fast food restaurant employees. This unit had gone through at least five temps (one of which went into labor on her first day and another arrived one day wearing a tiara); I (with my stellar 35 words per minute typing speed) proved to be the right “fit”. The people I worked with were fantastic, by far the best I have ever had encountered— which was a good thing, given the (bull)shit we all had to deal with every day.
It is a commonly held belief that fast food workers are not the brightest bulbs to be found. My experiences at this job did absolutely nothing to refute this. If anything, it (re)affirmed this urban myth in spades. Every day I fielded phone calls and retrieved the new claims that copiously spewed forth from the fax machine. A few of my all time faves are as follows:
- An employee who (for reasons one can only imagine) burned his ass with oven cleaner.
- A fist fight between two female employees who harbored amorous sentiments towards the store manager.
- A drive-thru window employee who got punched out (through the drive-in window) by a customer.
The list goes on and on…
I also handled a lot of inquiries that were erroneously sent to my unit’s office. Customer claims, mostly. I do not think I will ever forget the day I was eating my lunch (Mexican food) at my desk when a call came in: it was a manager asking who he should contact regarding a customer’s complaint of having “explosive fits of diarrhea” after eating his restaurant’s product. After ditching the remains of my lunch in the garbage can, I told him who to call. But this pales in comparison to the following “turd” that circulated in my department.
Per the nastygram I opened from some attorney’s office, it seems that a woman in Rio Rancho, New Mexico bought a take out meal from Taco Culo* and took it home to her family. After taking a second bite into her taco, mamasan discovered a bad taste and “unusual” texture. Not being able to decipher the source of said bad taste or unusual texture on her own, she summoned the professionals: the New Mexico Department of Health. Being the crack professionals that they are, the NMDOH concluded that the foreign object in this taco malo was a “long piece of feces… probably of feline origin”.
My husband and I (collectively) have five cats. Yes, cinco gatos. And to this day I (still) find it incomprehensible that anyone, A-N-Y-O-N-E, would require more than a sniff— much less, more than one bite— of a food item in order to determine that it has cat shit in it.
Which brings me to the “Dung of the Day”. I found this big boy next door to our apartment building. My husband says it’s human, but I’m not too sure. It looks too firm to be bum shit. Enjoy!
*As it happened, years later my parents moved to Albuquerque, New Mexico. One of the first things I did when I visited there was dine at this very establishment. My mother drove me, as I did not have a valid driver’s license. There was no shit, human, feline, canine, or otherwise, to be found in my food. Then again, I was very, VERY polite to the restaurant staff. I didn’t even complain when they fucked up my order.
A Crap Map is Born!
Unless you have been living under a rock (perhaps one volleyed from 34 E. 62nd Street), I’m sure you’ve heard about this guy. I am sure I will regret what I am about to write, but I’m going to write it anyway…
I do not condone blowing up buildings; I really feel for those who lost their homes or were injured due to Mr. Bartha’s hijinks. That said, the tale does say something about tenacity and follow-through: here’s a man who said he was going to destroy his house (so as not to fork over it in a divorce settlement) and he actually did it. In Texas there is a saying: Don’t cut checks with your mouth that you ass can’t cash. He cut and cashed his own “check”. That takes balls. Texas-sized balls.
I’ll forgive the suicide angle. Nobody’s perfect (he’s a doctor, not a demolition expert after all). Besides, Mr. Bartha might want to live after doubling the value of his property. I for one hope some of that money goes towards getting the psychiatrist he so clearly needs.
On that note (tenacity and follow-through), I am proud to offer you the following “Test” Crap Map: Dog Shit on Kent Street. It isn’t a Google Map, but it will do until I (or more likely, my husband the “IT” professional) fix a few very vexatious problems. Admittedly this is long overdue, but upgrades on this blog get done the same way anything in my apartment gets repaired: slow, sloppy, and not up to code.
More to follow…
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