Greenpoint
Lorven Pharmacy
Culture on the Cheap
Kibbles and Shits
Today I got my very first reader submission and it is a nice one. “Ash” wrote:
I found this little gem of a composition on Jewel Street, just off of Nassau. The address was probably like 47 or 49 or something around there. I liked the wet cat food nearby… gives it that special something, no?
The date was September 6th. My dog showed no interest, but she rarely shows interest in shit. Which I guess is a blessing.
Yes indeedy.
Miss Heather
September 5, 2006 Dung of the Day
I found this gargantuan pile (?) of shit at 222 Franklin St. Even I would not go near this one (as Dirty Harry would say “a good woman always knows her limitations”), but to give you a sense of scale, most of it is piled atop a 2″ x 6″.
It’s a big one alright— and by far the most repulsive specimen I have found to date. Given that I have spent over five months tracking dog shit*, that is saying something.
Miss Heather
*and coming across the occasional human bowel movement, like this one.
Dung of the Day: 124 Green St.
Dog #1 (to Dog #2): You got your chocolate in my peanut butter!
Dog #2 (to Dog #1): No, you got your peanut butter in my chocolate!
Dog #1 and #2 (after sniffing each other’s butts, in unison): mmmmmm, DELICIOUS!
Miss Heather
August 31, 2006 Dung of the Day
Here it is.
Before some of you (and you know who you are) get your ethnically sensitive panties in a wad, I’d like to point out:
- I am only making light of this turd’s resemblance to a piece of statuary which represents a stereotypical sleeping Mexican.
- This is a lawn ornament which some (still) see fit to put in their front yards. Even in New England.
- So who is the bigger bigot, me or the people who actually sell/buy this shit? Why not throw in a few ‘coolies’, watermelon-eating ‘pickanninies’ or artificially thin, fake titted/fake blond broads for good measure? It’s all the same to me: degradation, exploitation and stereotypes.
Miss Heather
August 30, 2006 Crap Map
As promised, here is the Crap Map for August 30, 2006.
Here is a map which highlights my primary area of interest…
…and here is a pie chart that gives a general run-down of where I found dog shit.
Although I did not conduct my fact-finding mission at the time my tipster recommended (9:30 p.m.), it was still a pretty substantial haul in terms of both quantity and sheer mass. I will definitely keep my eye on this area from now on!
Miss Heather
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
Hipsters Need Only Apply
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…
- two bedrooms: one was about 10′ x 12′, the other was 8′ x 10′ (READ: a glorified walk-in closet)
- maybe 100 square feet more than what we have now, probably less
- walls that looked like they have been worked over by Keith Moon and then repaired by a circus monkey on crack
- one closet
And last, but not least…
- 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.
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.
Sincerely,
Miss Heather
Year of the Dog
Filed under: Area 51
I was born in the Year of the Dog.
2006, the year I conceived and developed this blog, is the Year of the Dog.
A blog about dog shit created during the Year of the Dog, by someone born on the Year of the Dog seems strangely fitting.
For the above reason(s), it is ironic that my first and only upbraiding by a New York City Parks employee to date would be at the behest of a dog.
Aside from the “Latina Chicks with Dirty Old Geezers” dvd I recently found behind our apartment, I gave my husband the very best birthday present of all last week: I landed an interview for a job. But in true Miss Heather fashion, this did not come to pass without incident.
Being the punctuality freak that I am, I left Greenpoint at 12:00 p.m. in order to make sure that my well-groomed white-trash ass got to Union Square by 1:00 p.m. I got there at 12:20 p.m. Damn.
I decided to knock around Union Square awhile and what happened next merited a phone call to my husband.
Me: I just got my ass reamed out by an employee of the New York City Parks Department for having a dog in a public bathroom.
Husband: (laughing)
Mind you. We do not have a dog.
I had consumed a lot of water and tea before I left the house, so I sought out a public bathroom. Union Square does have such facilities. They are pretty disgusting, but I really needed to go, so I ventured inside.
The ‘handicapped’ stall appeared to be occupied, so I selected the other one. Pissing away in a state of bliss that can only be had after drinking at least a gallon of water, in August, and riding the L train, I looked downward to find a dog. An old Boxer was peering up at me.
“This is weird”, I thought to myself.
I do not like anyone watching me ‘do my business’, so to speak. Then again, a dog is probably the least of all evils I can possibly encounter in a New York City public bathroom, so I tinkled away. Eventually I heard a woman’s voice from the adjacent stall say “O.K. Betty, are you ready to go?”
“This is getting really fucking weird” I thought to myself.
The word “go” has a very distinct meaning in a bathroom. I sat on the bowl as he/she/it/they exited the adjacent stall. I heard the door to the women’s bathroom open, and shortly thereafter, a banshee-like scream.
A.
LOUD.
ASS.
SHRILL.
SCREAM.
Imagine Yoko Ono getting buggered with a fire hydrant and you’ll get the general idea. It was not a pleasant sound. My bum-gut instinctively sealed itself shut, so I ‘adjusted myself’ and ventured out of the stall. I found a homeless woman washing herself while her dog waited patiently.
Homeless Woman: Why the fuck do these people get so freaked out by dogs?
Me: Hell if I know, but if I had to take a guess I’d say it’s because most people expect large dogs to be mean. Your dog (Betty?) is nice enough, she doesn’t bother me. Boxers are good dogs. They’re being assholes.
As the homeless woman washed herself and I waited, a NYC Parks Employee started beating furiously at the door. “Betty” started to get restless, so I placed my shoe firmly upon her leash so she would not try to bolt out of the door.
NYC Emp (opening the door and looking at me): You MUST get that dog OUT OF HERE!
Me: But…
NYC Imp: GET THAT DOG OUT OF HERE, A WOMAN HAS COMPLAINED ABOUT IT ALREADY!
Me: But it is not my dog…
NYC Imp: ?
Me (pointing to the Homeless Woman) : It’s her’s.
NYC Imp (in a soft voice, to the Homeless Woman): You need to get your dog out of the bathroom. There’s a woman out here who will not go into the bathroom while it’s in there.
Me (exiting the bathroom and thinking to myself): FUCK YOU!
Even homeless people get more respect than I do. Wherever Rodney Dangerfield is now, I am certain he is weeping tears of sympathy. Perhaps even tears of envy.
Then again, getting a good dressing-down before a job interview is not such a bad thing. It actually made everything that followed rather anti-climactic, if not downright pleasant. I arrived at my potential new employer’s place of business with a renewed sense of humility. A placid state that can only be had from extreme paranoia.
And when I got home I made a very long, very overdue and very gratifying visit to the bathroom.
Cats were afoot everywhere and yet no one screamed.
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
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