Desperately Seeking Saint Reverend Jen

August 14, 2006 ·
Filed under: Area 51 

I am a true Renaissance woman; I do many things aside from documenting dog shit.

For example, just this last weekend I completed prepping a drawing a dear friend of mine did when she was kid so we can make tee shirt iron-ons.

I cannot convey the unfettered genius of this drawing in words, so I will offer up a picture instead.

The Magic of Budwiser
Saint Reverend Jen has long been an inspiration to us both and we would feel very guilty making such tee shirts for ourselves if she was not given one first as an offering. If anyone out there can help us with this endeavor, we will be eternally grateful.


Miss Heather

Dung of the Day

August 12, 2006 ·
Filed under: Dog Shit, 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.

88 Meserole Avenue

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

McCarren Park Bathroom: Imitation of Gentrification*

August 12, 2006 ·
Filed under: (s)Hit Parade, Area 51, Greenpoint Magic 

* Gowanus Lounge called my tale this and I liked it so much I changed the title.

A few months ago I wrote a post which (among many other things) bemoaned the presence of bar soap at the women’s restroom at McCarren Park. I patronized these facilities (again) this week and am pleased to report that this disturbing indicator of gentrification has since been ‘corrected’. In fact, the new developments at this public bathroom are noteworthy enough to merit dissemination to the general public.

Thursday, August 10, 2006

After walking for over an hour and guzzling copious amounts of water and iced tea, I needed to go to the bathroom. I assessed the situation and deduced that McCarren Park had the closest facilities. Upon entering the bathroom I encountered the fetid and dank smell that is the hallmark of all New York City public bathrooms. This was encouraging.

I attempted to enter the stall on the right, but for a number of (very good) reasons I opted for the left one instead.

Right-hand Toilet Stall

The left-hand stall opened more readily, but toilet paper was chained to it as well.

Paper in Chains

After completing my business, I go to the sink to wash my hands.

No soap

No soap whatsoever was to be found, but paper towels were plentiful and the garbage can was still tethered to the sink with chains.

Can in Chains

I relayed these observations to my husband last night.

Husband: God, what kind of world do we live in?
Me: What do you mean?
Husband: A world where you have to lock up toilet paper so people won’t steal it.
Me: The people who steal toilet paper are not the ones who upset me; the ones who see fit to make toilet paper theft-proof do.
Husband: ???
Me: I have been poor (READ: a temp) many, many times. The meager paychecks I got didn’t cover the cost of living. There was no way I could afford rent, student loan payments, FOOD, and sundries like toilet paper on $10.00 an hour. I coped by eating all the free food I could find (Internet start-ups are were always good for that) and filching the occasional roll of toilet paper. If someone steals toilet paper, he/she really needs toilet paper. It is cruel to deny the needy toilet paper and the people who do so are truly evil in my book.
Husband: (nods in agreement)

After getting this crumb of affirmation, I got on my (semi-illucid, but well-intentioned) soap box…

Me: Take the bar of soap I found a couple of months ago at McCarren Park. That really pissed me off.
Husband: ???
Me: First it’s a bar of soap in the public bathroom and before you know it you have concerned parents raising holy hell because there are rats in the park.
Husband: ???
Me: Remember when we went to Cobble Hill (Carroll Gardens?) and saw that group of concerned parents who rented an inflatable rat to protest the presence of rats at their local park?
Husband: Yes.
Me (working myself into a frenzy): That was a load of shit— and a gross misuse of the ubiqitous inflatable rat. I have been to that park several times; the first time I used the women’s room there they had bar soap.
Husband: Uh-huh…
Me: The second time I went they not only had bar soap, but I had to use the women’s bathroom while a nanny/lackey presided over a little boy using the toilet. This child was at least 10 years old. I am certain he was very capable of going on his own… in the men’s bathroom!
Husband: Ok…
Me: The third time I went they had that fucking rat. Do you honestly think the nanny I saw the previous time was “on the books”? Do you think the family (or families) who employ her are paying a competitive wage, social security taxes, etc? I seriously doubt it— and that’s why it pisses me the hell off that they are using the scab-busting inflatable rat to protest the presence of rats in their precious park! Rats, I might add, that I have never seen! Fucking hypocrites.

My monologue went on…

Me: Complaining about the presence of rats in New York City is like going to France and getting angry because it is populated with Frenchmen.* Where people are to be found you will also find rats, it doesn’t take a fucking rocket scientist to figure that out. If they were so damned upset about rats they should:

  1. dispose of their (children’s) food properly and not let little Lincoln (or Meghan) dribble ice cream all over place
  2. move somewhere that does not have rats (good luck) OR
  3. grow up and deal with it!

And on…

Remember when our neighbors were barbequing and got really drunk last year? It had to be at least 1:00 a.m. when I heard a woman shriek “OMIGAWWWWD, a RAAAT!”** That’s when I pulled you to the window and we watched her (VERY) drunk boyfriend chase it around with a 2 by 4. That was funny as hell.
Husband: Yes it was.

Rats are the foundation for a healthy marriage. Not only did my husband and I enjoy watching this melee (if you’re wondering, our neighbor finally ‘nailed’ it and apologized to us for making so much noise), but after we eloped at Brooklyn Municipal Hall, we announced our marriage by sending out pictures of us standing in front of an inflatable rat that happened to be next door.

There is a point (maybe two) to be found in the previous, hell if I know exactly what it is. But if I had to hazard a guess I’d say that I am happy that McCarren Park bathroom is utterly revolting (and bereft of soap). Because when the inflatable rat shows up here it will mean that I need move somewhere else. Fast.

Miss Heather

*This is/was not intended to be a slur against France or French people; French people live in France, rats live in New York City. Simple as that.

**Gotta love that sexy Long Island honk!

Billy Mays (The Oxi Clean Guy)

August 12, 2006 ·
Filed under: (s)Hit Parade, Area 51 

Over the last two months I have developed a certain fascination with Mr. Mays. If I ever became famous enough to require a spokesperson (or a Greenpoint dog shit tour guide), I would hire him. Money would be no object. Few things would be finer than a group of turistas (clad in walking shorts, Rockports, and customized ‘spin art’ tee shirts) ambling down the streets of Greenpoint, asking where the closest public bathroom is (heh, heh) and listening with rapt interest while Mr. Mays (and his 200+ decibel voice) pontificates about dog shit. My eyes actually tear up at the mere thought of this scenario, to be perfectly honest.

Being an inquisitive person, I went onto the Internet to see if anyone else found Mr. Mays as intriguing as I do. I discovered that he not only has a listing on Wikipedia, but some have actually seen fit to erect fan pages in his honor. It was on this page that I found the following *ahem* enthusiastic praise for Mr. Mays:

Did you ask, “Do you wanna LICK Billy Mays’ Ass?” Well, in any case, the answer would be, “YES!” He is one of the hottest BEARS on the market. I love watching his informercials and every single short commercial that they put on during regular programming. Every time one of his commercials comes on, I make everyone shut up and focus on the Bear God that sits before us. Although I’m not physically able to have his baby, I wouldn’t mind trying for an infinite amount of time. I don’t care what he’s selling as long as the commercials show a lot of him and that gorgeous body. I hope he never shaves that fine beard. I also hope that he’ll start wearing less clothing…at least wear shorts to show off those legs. Maybe they should invent a product for your skin so he can take off his shirt to show us how it works. For anyone who disagrees, “Don’t hate!”

– kybearlover

Thank you “kybearlover” for searing a mental picture onto my brain that will require at least a 6 pack of beer (tallboys) to erase. Dear reader(s), if I have to live my the rest of my life with the knowledge that…

  1. there are people in this world who harbor erotic sentiments about Billy Mays and
  2. are motivated enough to let it be known to total strangers,

so should you!

Miss Heather


August 10, 2006 ·
Filed under: (s)Hit Parade, Area 51, Greenpoint Magic 

I regret to announce that I will not be a guest blogger on Only the Blog Knows Brooklyn. It certainly looked encouraging for awhile, but alas, it simply was not to be.

In 20/20 hindsight, I do not think it was the quality of my writing (or lack thereof) that precipitated my rejection. The content of what I wrote probably did. In spades. Had I known I was submitting material to the woman also known as Smartmom, I might have selected something else to submit— or maybe I wouldn’t have— who knows? But I digress…

For those of you who are unfamiliar with this saga thus far, I will bring you up to date.

About two weeks ago ran a little blurb on their Only in New York section stating that OTBKB was having an open call for guest bloggers this month. I checked out the site (OTBKB), and being the fine-ass Dog Shit Queen of Greenpoint that I am, I felt had something special to contribute.

I sent an email on Friday, July 28, 2006 at 4:30 a.m. (It has been my experience that nothing else but pure literary glory comes from my person at such an ungodly hour.)

It read as follows:


I came across your solicitation for a guest blogger(s) via I do not live in Park Slope; the disruption of G train service of late (and my lack of personal upkeep/finances/self-esteem) prohibit me from going there. Nothing personal.

That said, I do live in Brooklyn: Greenpoint, 11222 to be precise. Your blog purports to serve “Park Slope, New York, and Beyond”. Surely my Charles Bukowski-esque musings fit will within your criteria: most likely under “New York and Beyond”. Greenpoint is a very strange place indeed— and that’s why I love it. I’ve lived here for six years, have a rent-stabilized apartment (near the waterfront) and will only vacate the aforementioned apartment when I am carried out (or get a fat pay-off) — if you know what I mean.

I have neither children (they give me the creeps, carry germs and shit their pants— though strangely, I have a husband and 5 cats who do all the previous, and more— go figure) nor do I have anyone remotely “famous” in or around my ‘hood (alive, anyway). I am, nonetheless, civically-minded. Check out my blog:

Thank you for your time and consideration.


Miss Heather

You can imagine my glee when I checked my email Friday afternoon to find this:


I gave her a date (August 13) and awaited further instructions. Instructions came August 2nd:


August 7th (by my standards) is a pretty tight deadline. What should I write? I asked myself this question. Over and over.

And on Friday, August 4th, I had my ‘eureka’ moment: I should write about what I know and love. Greenpoint, like a sick dog with shingles and rotting teeth or an incontinent relative, is what I know and love.

But alas, I never got a confirmation as to when my post would appear.

Follows is the manuscript (and supplemental jpegs) I submitted. I have put back all the profanity I excised because this is my blog, and as 2 Live Crew would say, I’ll be as nasty as I want to be.

Friday Night in Greenpoint
(I just called the NYPD to say I love you)


If all the sirens I heard are any indication, I’d say that the 94th Precinct had its hands full last night. Maybe it was a full moon, who knows?

The evening unfolded like any other. Around 3 p.m. the neighbors across the street started blasting music I commonly refer to as ‘fornication tunes’. Marc Anthony mostly. I do not want you to be my hero, Marc. You look like the Crypt Keeper. You sound even worse.

Let it be known here and now before I proceed:

A. Firstly, I no longer make any effort to conceal my contempt towards the aforementioned musician or its listeners: I detest them both.

B. Secondly, being forced to listen to this slop (for hours on end, day after day) works me into a black rage.

C. Finally, I dislike the vast majority of people who live in the compost heap that masquerades as the apartment building across the street from my building.

If you walked in my shoes (and lived in my apartment building) the last 4 years, you too would harbor such dark sentiments. Among other things, the residents of that building saw fit to have ‘picnics’ in the public areas of my building, leaving their refuse, chicken bones, etc., for our neighbor cum porter to pick up.

The smooch-a-palooza continued well into the night, blaring from a stereo system whose decibel output was sufficient to make the fillings in my teeth rattle. At 9:00 p.m. Stevie Wonder’s I Just Called to Say I Love You played for everyone’s edification. I thought to myself: GOD I hate that song. Seriously, I REALLY FUCKING HATE THAT SONG.

I tried to go about my business, but to no avail. Not after I heard the shrill call of one very angry greenpointus slatternous screaming over Stevie’s insipid crooning, anyway. Initially I found this amusing, as her rabid caterwauling echoed perfectly the black rage this song was fomenting in my soul. Curiosity, however, got the better part of me and I peered out the window.

A crowd of gawkers had formed. Hmm. “Let me guess”, I thought, “I bet this incident is the bitter fruit borne of a love triangle and a shitload of alcohol.” I have lived in Greenpoint for about 6 years now and I have noticed that most conflicts hereabouts involve drinking and fornicating.

I couldn’t make out much of what this woman was screaming aside from the odd I don’t give a FAWK and Go ahead, CAWL the police, but she seemed to be angry. Very angry. After she belched forth Go ahead, CAWL the police a second time someone did just that.

The seriously imbalanced woman kept ranting, Stevie kept singing, the world kept turning and four NYPD squad cars came a’ patrolling. The first car, apparently oblivious to the bottle-neck made by construction (courtesy of the MTA), pulled into the only remaining lane and parked straddling the curb.

Bad idea. In the maze of one-way streets that is Greenpoint, this officer just created a major snafu. Anyone seeking drugs from the dealers east of Manhattan Avenue or access to the Pulaski bridge— and I assure you there are plenty of the both to be found on a Friday night — are going to meet a major obstacle.

The officer (a woman) got out of the squad car and put on leather gloves. “Oh mama this is gonna get good”, I thought. If I have to be torn away from reading the latest gossip about Lindsay Lohan’s rumored cocaine habit, Ashlee Simpson’s new nose, or Britney Spear’s newest tribulation, I sure as hell expect to be recompensed for my valuable (lost) time with some serious knuckle-dusting.

My appetite for violence was unsatiated, but I was not disappointed.

The female officer took the rabid chick into the vestibule of the apartment building. The other (male) officer pulled a man and a(nother) woman about 20 feet away to get their take on events. The shouting and gesticulating I saw made it pretty clear that this man was indeed sticking his twig and berries into the wrong bushes. Two to be precise.

I elected to call  the Mister (who was out of town). I did not call to say I loved him; I called to tell him about the unfolding circus unfolding outside our living room window. I am no Howard Cossell— or even John Madden— my color commentary (delivered from the fire escape) follows:

Miss H: Oh yeah, the police cut off access to the only lane left. I betcha some fuckwit will pull up behind the parked police car and start honking.

(And lo, one such ‘fuckwit’ did just that! Soon there was a queue of ‘fuckwits’, all of whom were honking feverishly.)

Miss H: Man, now there are at least seven cars backed up— one of them is a police car! These dudes are going to have to back up and turn around. There is no way in hell they are going to get through here.

My suburban upbringing made me oblivious to the possibility that these people may try to pass the parked police car by driving on the sidewalk. Like the petroleum-driven crack monkies they are, this is exactly what they did.


Miss H: Now there’s some idiot trying to pass the police car by driving on our sidewalk. Dude, no two objects can occupy the same space at the same time. Go ahead, try to subvert a widely accepted principle of physics. That crappy sedan of yours does not look like it can make 55 miles per hour, much less the speed of light. Good luck, buddy! He’s going to either hit our fence or the police car. I hope to hell it’s the police car because dammit I want to see someone go to jail.

The first car made it. Barely.

Miss H: Okay, now we have a second one. He isn’t going to make it.

He didn’t. His car door grinded against our fence and pulled the gate off its hinges.

Miss H: HAHAHAHAHA! BRAVO, BRAVO! My god, these people are so FUCKING stupid!

This is when I realized that (in my excitement) I had been speaking quite loudly: a number of onlookers gazed up at me.

Miss H: Uh, I need to go back inside. I’ll call you later.

This incident came to pass a couple months ago. Recently I recounted it to my best friend.

In her sage wisdom, Rachael asked: well, do you like that song any better now?
Me: What do you mean?
Rachael: You said you hated that song. Now that you have an amusing story to associate with it, do you like it any better?
Me: I don’t know. I had never really thought about it.

I have heard this song twice since. I think it was at the grocery store, I honestly cannot recall with any certainty. And it did bring a smile to my face. Rachael was right.

(End of story)

To repeat myself: had I known who I was dealing with, I might have sent something different. I suspect she found a number of passages in my tome disturbing, if not downright loathsome. Passages (for example) such as:

Around 3 p.m. the neighbors across the street started blasting music I commonly refer to as ‘fornication tunes’. I deem music by the likes of Marc Anthony and others of his ilk as such because I strongly suspect the children I see wandering the streets like packs of feral dogs were conceived to it.

Perhaps, as my husband said, “I should have done my research”. I didn’t. Then again, I do not think she did her homework either; how could anyone honestly think a domain like is going to have wholesome family-oriented content? Really?

Maybe she thought I was goofing around or bullshitting?

The Dog Shit Queen of Greenpoint does not bullshit. The Dog Shit Queen of Greenpoint adores Charles Bukowski and truly is “creeped out” by children (and the germs they carry). Big time.

I went to Park Slope last weekend. This is the first time I have done so in at least two years. My husband and I were to meet a coworker of his (and his wife) for dinner. The company was pleasant enough to be certain, but I found the Park Slope/South Slope/Whatever-They-Call-It-Nowadays thoroughly horrifying.

Especially “Maggie Moo’s”.

The coconut sorbet was delicious, but I felt nothing but heartfelt pity for the poor people who had to work there. If I was God and had all the perquisites entailed therein, e.g., having say as to where truly evil people like Hitler, Stalin, Rumsfeld, etc., went after they died; I’d relegate them to slinging ice cream at “Maggie Moo’s”. High-intensity lighting, squirming children, neo-liberal parents and all. Forever.

And ever.

Miss Heather

Chalk Drawing Credit: this work is by my superintendent’s daughter. She is a very sweet girl with loads of “art star” potential. She (obviously) loves the NYPD, but does not like “Elsa” (sic?).

More Shit

August 10, 2006 ·
Filed under: Area 51, Dog Shit, Dog Shit Signage, Dung of the Day, Greenpoint Magic 

I had such a tremendous sense of release* creating the pie chart for this entry, that I set out on a(nother) reconnaisance mission this morning to gather enough data to create another one.

Here is today’s selected area…

August 10, 2006 Beat
and here is a statistical break-down of where I found dog shit.

81006 Crap Stats

Here is today’s “Dung of the Day”…

August 10, 2006

and this. (Words fail me, a picture works better.)

The Citadel

If a dog manages to volley a loaf into this fortification, he (or she) should get a medal, not a “$100 Fine”.


If you have ever wondered (as I have) where talent-free trustifarian art students go after graduation (or when daddy’s money runs out) I found it today: the north-western corner of Greenpoint Avenue and McGuinness Boulevard.

Slipster's Paradise

And without further ado, here is today’s Crap Map!

Miss Heather

*A long time ago I was a “graphic designer” at a management consulting firm in midtown Manhattan. I created PowerPoint presentations for the early twenty-something Ivy League graduates which constituted 90% of the staff. This was a very unpleasant experience. My being the only female staffer who was not a receptionist, secretary, HR hack, or (insert position that entails fluffing the male ego here) put me in a rather tenuous position; when these 20-something-year-old shits with entitlement issues didn’t speak to me like I was mentally-retarded, they would try to pick me up.

It was hell and I got fired for having “an attitude problem”.

Dung of the Day

August 9, 2006 ·
Filed under: Area 51, Dog Shit, Dung of the Day 

After spending about eight hours looking at (or writing about) dog shit, I was simply too tired to select the “Dung of the Day”. I have since narrowed it down to these two.

Representing Manhattan Avenue, we have this turd with some type of bone enticingly encased inside it.

Manhattan Ave.

Representing Eagle Street, we have a dog shit melange topped with a dead wasp.

Eagle St.

I simply cannot make up my mind which one I like better, so I am asking for your help.

Votes can be tendered via email at


Miss Heather

A troll lives in Brooklyn (Menopauso Baggins)

August 8, 2006 ·
Filed under: Area 51 

Although I am trying to redirect the content of this blog towards dog shit, I feel compelled to alert the general public about an honest-to-god troll I encountered recently on the F train.

A troll (as defined by Wikipedia) is:

…a fearsome member of a mythical anthropomorph race from Scandinavian folklore. Their role ranges from fiendish giants – similar to the ogres of English fairy tales – to a devious, more human-like folk of the wilderness, living underground in hills or mounds.

Saturday August 5, 2006

My husband and I hopped on the F train at East Broadway so we could meet a co-worker of his in Park Slope. Unfortunately, what would otherwise be a short and simple journey became a complicated one: at Carroll Street the train stopped. The conductor said there was a “medical emergency” at Smith and 9th Street. We waited.

And waited.

Eventually the conductor came out of his booth and told us to go to the front of the train. I got very excited at the prospect of walking through subway tunnels (I have read The Mole People at least three times), pulled out my camera and adjusted the aperture for low light.

I bolted to the front of the car (my husband lagged 2-3 people behind me) only to get stuck behind a middle-to-old-aged woman (whom I will henceforth refer to as Menopauso Baggins) who could not deduce how to open the door. Fucking amateur. If this woman rode the G or (worse yet) the E train on a regular basis, she’d know damn well how these doors work. Such knowledge makes the crucial difference between residing in the car with the stinky crazy guy or moving on to better (READ: less fetid and potentially dangerous) pastures.

This woman’s ignorance and/or intransigence finally pissed off the conductor enough to motivate him to open the door personally. He did so (cursing the whole time) and then shebig ass, big-ass satchel and all— myself, and numerous others went to the next car. Upon entering the next car, I tested my camera: took a picture. This act of photo-journalistic enthusiasm was sufficient cause for Menopauso Baggins to chew me out.

MB: You shouldn’t be taking pictures!
Me: Yes ma’am!

Menpauso Baggins is obviously acclimatized to lower (younger) creatures posturing in submission in her presence. Not unlike a baboon, she bares her teeth (and flaming red ass) and throws her own feces around in order to get her way. Her advanced age and large stature entitle her to bellow out orders and be an overall pain in the ass.

This is was her winning formula.

You see, Miss Heather spent most of her life in Texas (where children are taught to revere their elders in a manner uncannily similar to Shinto). Miss Heather moved to New York City in order to attend graduate school. The money she had set aside (Texas wages) did not go very far in the rental market. As a result, I she lived two very long years in Morris Park, Bronx.

Two years of getting chewed out by obnoxious old crones (clad in rollers and muu muus) deprogrammed me her of any blind reverence for the elderly. I now understand that insanity (or simple assholism) has no “shelf life”. If anything, assholism only becomes more virulent with age. If you conduct yourself in a respectable fashion, I will respect you; if you demand respect whilst behaving like a raving bitch, I will not.

That said, I’ll continue.

Menopauso Baggins managed to open the door leading to the next car on her own, but she expected me to hold it open so she could negotiate her bigass (bag) through it. After chewing me out no less, that takes balls. I acquiesced.

Sometimes yes is better than no. I held the door open for her, but made sure to let go a little too early so it would slam into that big-ass bag of hers (whose heft led me to believe that it was filled with dead babies for her to eat). I did this each and every time. Smiling.

And she gave me no lip.

I saw no tunnels when I finally emerged, only the Carroll Street subway stop. My husband and I ran late for dinner as well. Nonethless, I came away from this experience pumped.

There’s a new alpha female on the F train, and her name is Miss Heather.

Shitfest 2006

August 8, 2006 ·
Filed under: Area 51, Crap Map, Dog Shit 
After perusing August 7th’s Crap Map, I decided an inspection of the northwestern-most section of Greenpoint was in order. This area has long been under-represented on this blog and (in the interests of a fair and balanced Crap Map) I wanted to correct any irregularities.

The area I covered today is highlighted below. I omitted Eagle Street (between Manhattan Avenue and Franklin Street) because it has cleaned up. A lot.

Northwest Greenpoint

What started as a mission to gather data for a supplemental entry for one Crap Map ended up generating (more than) enough material for another one. I discovered FORTY ONE distinct and identifiable piles of dog shit. This is a conservative figure. I nixed the turds that were too degraded to photograph or were more likely to be of feline origin.

Here is a pie chart that gives a statistical breakdown as to where I found all this dog shit.

August 8, 2006 Crap Stats

Without further ado, I present today’s Crap Map.

Aggregate Crap Map

August 7, 2006 ·
Filed under: Area 51, Crap Map, Dog Shit 

I am proud to present a crap map featuring all the dog shit I have documented in Greenpoint from 7/12/06 through 8/7/06.


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