Tots, Art and Wombats

August 17, 2006 ·
Filed under: (s)Hit Parade, Area 51, Greenpoint Magic 

St. Paul the Hermit

For someone who is unemployed (and would presumably have a LOT of free time) I am damned busy.

Last night (until the wee hours of this morning) I researched New York State landlord/tenant case law regarding “Estoppel Agreements” and Rent Stabilization Law. I had to do this because our landlord is refinancing his mortgage and gave us an “Estoppel Agreement” to sign (because he wants to prove that people actually pay rent here). I can’t say I didn’t see this coming: I had the pleasure of showing our apartment to a patronizing sleazeball (Read: real estate appraiser) a few months ago. (I have written about this experience, but have yet to post it here.)

After completing this task, I moderated several internal feline disputes that arose from the local tomcat (who I have named “Clarence”, as in Clarence Thomas) making his regular nocturnal round(s). Ironically, Clarence’s hours of choice (for these social calls) are more akin to Dr. Pepper than Coke (or the pubic hairs contained therein): 10:00 p.m., 2:00 a.m. and 4:00 a.m.

After that, I tried to go to bed— only to be awakened at 5:00 a.m. by female trouble. In true Miss Heather form, I had no feminine hygiene products whatsoever on hand. Thankfully, my best bud Rachael gave me a new pack of pantyliners recently and these tied me over until the local bodega opened.

For all the previous reasons (and a few more) I feel awful and probably look even worse. It’s easy to pull off that “I haven’t gotten any sleep” look when you are in your 20’s. This is because many will assume you look haggard because were out partying, etc. After you hit 30 however, these very same people will pigeon-hole you (for this very same lack of kemptness and thousand-mile whiskey stare) as being “rode hard and put away wet”. Thankfully, I live in a ‘hood where there is ALWAYS someone who looks much worse for wear than I do.

That said, even when I do not feel so low I tend to be a bit of a hermit. This is due to the fact that I am the “homebody’s homebody” (as opposed to being a hardened misanthropist); it takes a lot to induce me to leave the confines of Greenpoint, much less the demented sanctity of my own home. My apartment is my “comfort zone”. I ventured out today for the sole purpose of purchasing the menstrual essentials: maxi pads and wine.

This meager one block trek netted me treasure, nonetheless. Even though I am terrible at making money (but am very good at spending it), the powers that be see fit to throw me crumbs on occasion. Like today.

I scored this object de arte at the intersection of Eagle Street and Manhattan Avenue:

Art

While I am not usually a fan of this type of art, I think it will go nicely in my bathroom (next to the velvet painting of Elvis).

After picking up my new piece of art, I proceeded to the liquor store. I took my bottle of cheap-ass champagne to the cash register and I struck up a conversation with a sales representative for Wombat Hill Winery:

Me (to Sales Rep): Oh yeah, the wine store down the street carries this stuff. I have not tried it yet, but I think those plush wombats are cute as hell.
Me (to Cashier): When this promotion is over, I want one of those guys. They are so cute.
Sales Rep: Of these three wines, which one would you buy?
Me: The Claret.
Cashier: Claret?!?
SR (to Cashier): Clarets are blended wines. The Cabernet/Shiraz bottle here is a Claret.
Cashier: Ohh…
SR (to me): What would be your second choice?
Me: The Shiraz.
SR: So you like red wines?
Me: Yes. To be perfectly honest, I like wine. Period. But I veer towards purchasing whites during warm weather and reds in cooler weather. This is the general rule as I understand it. My father used to be the Chief Financial Officer for a company that imported wine into Texas— and as a result, I have learned a few things about wine.
SR (pulling out brochures): So do you think selling our Chardonnay here is a good idea?
Me: Yes, I do.
SR: Check out this product. It is probably too expensive to market here (at $30.00 a bottle), but you might find it interesting. It’s a boutique wine from Idaho.
Me: Do you mind if I make a note of this winery, as I’d like to pass it along to my dad?
SR: Sure.
Me: Thanks. I agree that this wine is too expensive to sell here. For now anyway. Soon enough there will be plenty of people living here who will be more than willing (and able) to outlay $30.00 for a bottle of wine. This will be good for you, but not for us (pointing to the Cashier and myself).

*Laughter*

I pick up my wine and instinctively fumble around for my newfound painting, brushing my hand against the Sales Rep’s bag (which happens to contain eight bottles of wine) in the process. The Sales Rep notices this.

Me: Sorry, when I see a bag full of vino, my first instinct is to grab it.
SR: No problem. Here, have a plush wombat.

WOMBAT!

Me: THANKS!
SR: Now I know I sell at least one bottle of wine here.
Me: No worries, I probably would purchase one eventually. (pointing to the cashier) Just ask her.

After expending only ten minutes (and ten dollars) I now have a bottle of champagne (with which to self-medicate myself), a new piece of “art”, AND a stuffed wombat. Not a bad haul, if I say so myself.

In closing, my neighbors have seen fit to throw more crap out their window. My new find can be found here. Happy hunting!

Miss Heather

Dung of the Day

August 16, 2006 ·
Filed under: Dog Shit, 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).

214 McGuinness

In Praise of Failure

August 16, 2006 ·
Filed under: (s)Hit Parade, Area 51, Greenpoint Magic 

Whoops

Firstly, I want to thank all you out there for your interest in New York Shitty. In particular, I want to extend special thanks to Jake Dobkin for seeing fit to feature my blog on Gothamist last week, as I strongly suspect this was the reason for my recent windfall of editorial mentions on other web sites. I have failed at many things, so a crumb (or two) of recognition means a lot to me.

On that note, I present to you the following comment “Anonymous” saw fit to post on Curbed regarding a feature about yours truly from August 14.

First off: Who the hell has time to do follow sh**. This blogger must not be from New York.
In New York, DOG doesnt rhyme with LOG or BLOGGER. Its pronounced DAWG, just like LAWENG ISLAND, CAWE-FFE and WAWK.
There are a ‘crap load’ of neighborhoods with this same problem. Why is this of any significant importants over any other ‘crappy’ neighborhood?
SECONDLY: Curbed really needs to stop covering piss and crap stories. Seriously. Who wants to read about crap all over the city? Its a little
immature, dont you think?

And here is my reply:

To answer your questions Mister or Ms. “Anonymous”…

Q: Who the hell has time to do follow sh**.
A: I have time to follow dog shit because I am over-educated and unemployed. I am not ashamed to be in this position: many very wonderful people are on the “same boat” so to speak.

Q: This blogger must not be from New York.
A: No, I’m not. I’m from Texas— and for that reason hell will hold no surprises for me. I have lived in New York City for 9 years, tho.

Q: There are a ‘crap load’ of neighborhoods with this same problem. Why is this of any significant importants over any other ‘crappy’ neighborhood?
A: I emphatically agree. But for the time being, Greenpoint is keeping me pretty busy. Had you perused my site, you would have noticed that I do showcase dog shit from other locales on occasion.

H

I have no problem whatsoever making light of my (numerous) shortcomings: e.g., being unemployed and from the State of Texas.* I suspect the same cannot be said for “Anonymous”, whoever he (or more likely she) may be. How did I come to this conclusion you ask? Very simple.

  1. “Anonymous” wrote a pretty long missive.
  2. This missive was written during business hours, leading me to believe that this person (a woman in all likelihood) is pretty unhappy at her place of unemployment. I’d wager money she is a low-level Administrative Assistant— or worse: a Receptionist.
  3. I deduced that a woman (probably under 30) wrote the previous because:
  1. Men do not make such a fuss about “immaturity”.**
  2. Women over 30 have accepted “immaturity” as part of the human condition.

It is not my purpose to vilify this person; rather I want to give her some personal advice. As a woman over 30 who has been a Receptionist and pretty miserable— both personally and professionally, on occasion— I offer the following thoughts:

  1. If you are unhappy enough to post such a turd on a comment board (especially while you are on the job), you need to make some life changes.
  2. If you are going to rip on one someone (in this case, Curbed.com and myself) do yourself a favor: do your research before you type.*** You clearly did not do this, and as a result you made a jackass out of yourself. I speak from experience when I say this.
  3. Lighten up and get off your high-horse. You are no better (or worse) than anyone else. Nobody likes a busybody lecturing to them about propriety. As William S. Burroughs said:

    Most of the trouble in this world has been caused by folks who can’t mind their own business, because they have no business of their own to mind, any more than a smallpox virus has.

  4. Revel in your failure. You are in good company: there are many more failures in this world than success stories.

Then again, what would I know? I follow dog sh**, after all.

Miss Heather

*If I do not put myself down, someone else (more likely than not, during the course of a job interview) will do it for me.

**For example, here is an excerpt from a recent email my dad (who just turned 65) sent me regarding his latest rectal assault against water-conservating toilets:

… This morning at 8:15 Mr Dick finally managed to stop up # two toilet.

***This is why I require registration in order to comment on this site. I want people to think before they write and have the courage of their convictions to actually attach their name (even if it is just a first name) to what they submit. That’s it. I do nothing with this information.

Empire State Building

August 16, 2006 ·
Filed under: (s)Hit Parade, Area 51, Greenpoint Magic 

Although it is not the purpose of this blog to showcase the treasure(s) I score at local thrift stores, I am making an exception today. I got this wonderful item at “The Thing” for a cool five bucks.

Empire State Building

As I was exiting the store, George Diaz, a local celebrity, asked me what I was going to do with this five foot replica of the Empire State Building.

My answer: I am not completely certain, but I strongly suspect there will be a puppet show*, rock opera— or most likely, a combination of BOTH featuring it.

Miss Heather

*For Example: after a long day at work, The Empire State Building comes home to his modest row house in Secaucus, New Jersey. His wife, The Chrysler Building, (clad in rollers and a muu-muu) has burnt dinner. Ralph and Alice Cramden-esque repartee is exchanged— which quickly degenerates into Punch and Judy violence.

Of Camus and Crap

August 16, 2006 ·
Filed under: Crap Map, Dog Shit, Greenpoint Magic 

His Imperial Majesty, GW Bush II

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:

August 14, 2006 Route

Here are the Crap Stats.

August 14, 2006 Crap Stats

And here is a bar graph illustrating an unusual statistic I discovered.

Camus Chart

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: 205 Huron St.

August 15, 2006 ·
Filed under: Area 51, Dog Shit, Dung of the Day 

205 Huron St.

(priceless)

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.

Thanks,

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 
I'M BILLY MAYS

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

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