Excusez-Moi

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 Jossip.com 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:

Greetings,

I came across your solicitation for a guest blogger(s) via Jossip.com. 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: www.newyorkshitty.com.

Thank you for your time and consideration.

Sincerely,

Miss Heather

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

Reply

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

Instructions

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)

IheartNYPD

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?

Prelude
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.

Crisis
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.

Resolution
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.

Crackmonkey

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.

Post-Script
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 www.newyorkshitty.com 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”.

AND

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 chicapoquita@yahoo.com.

Thanks!

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.

Enjoy!

Yorkville Vs. Greenpoint = No Contest

August 5, 2006 ·
Filed under: Dog Shit, Dog Shit Signage, Dung of the Day, Greenpoint Magic 

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.

The Amy Vanderbilt of Dog Shit Signs

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.

Sharpie Marker + Flat Surface = Effective Signage

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 #1

Dung of the Day #2

Dung of the Day #2

*Frequently closing with “Thanks” or “Thanks Asshole”

Hardcorn

August 2, 2006 ·
Filed under: Area 51, Greenpoint Magic 

I start this post with a little thing I wrote a couple years ago…

MANHATTAN AVENUE, BROOKLYN’S GANGES?

I miss my old next door neighbors. Really I do. You see, my apartment (the back of it anyway) abuts an open cul de sac made by the building next door; I use this area as my “backyard”. Albeit one story up and bereft of grass. What is one (wo)man’s backyard is another man’s sewer. This weird nexus provides personal, entertaining— but treacherous insight into the lives of my neighbors. I learned. The hard way.

I have narrowly avoided being pelted with rancid curry, hot dog weenies, and bread that took a frighteningly long time to decompose (the pigeons would not even eat it). But by far, the best spoils came belching forth onto my refuge after a very vocal fight next door: a whole chicken and a fair amount of porn was enticingly jettisoned outside my bedroom window. Being as it was around Thanksgiving, I felt compelled to ‘rescue’ the chicken, stuff it with porn, and serve it up as a feast. If Thanksgiving is indeed about sharing and good will, why not share this new-found bounty with my best friends?

Instead, I rescued one intact porno tape. A BAD porno at that. But as some would say: it is best to have known bad porn, than to have known no porn at all.

Yesterday evening, I read a National Geographic in my lounge chair I and watched a Teeny Tiny Titty Chicks Vol. 3 dvd languidly roll by an unused packet of duck sauce: a pathetic, yet appropriate, sad vestige of days gone by.

July 24, 2006

I could not tear my husband from the television Sunday for love or money. Until I went behind our apartment and discovered a new bounty of porn goodness. He spent the better part of the afternoon/evening parsing through the Raw Meat dvd I found. After viewing five hours of raw footage my husband complained that it “had no plot”. Sure…

Miss H vs. Sam

The point of origin of this (and previous) porn, rotten food, personal effects, etc., found behind our apartment has been a source of heated debate between my husband and I for a long time. If you have ever seen the movie My Cousin Vinnie, you’ll understand the level of debate (READ: arguing) that goes on in my household: any given task (even one requiring 5 minutes of labor or thought— at best) is only completed after at least one hour’s worth of ‘discussion’ (arguing).

Socially-minded folk often mistake our debates for outright acrimony— and nothing could be further from the truth; much like the Methuselah-esque radiatiors to be found in most New York City apartments, our relationship is grounded firmly on a constant release of steam.

My husband takes great pride from being born and raised in Missouri (mizz-or-rah, as he likes to call it). Missouri, the show me state. I was born in Texas and come from one of the best lines of nobility to be had there: Sam Houston. I’m not too sure what Texas’s catchphrase is nowadays (aside from being the Lone Star State), but if I had to assign one it would be Texas: the I’ll show you state.

Sam Houston showed them.
Charles Whitman showed them.
Lee Harvey Oswald (and Jack Rudy) showed them.
David Koresh (there’s a fun one) showed them.
H.I.M., George W. Bush (fake Texan), is still trying to show them.

My (Tejana) rage (thankfully) is of a more gentle nature. But I still like to serve up some “I showed you” on occasion— especially to my husband.

July 26, 2006

I gathered prima facie evidence as to where the (previous) items are coming from. After shouting at my cats for fifteen minutes, two very hyperactive, very young, very unattended, children (in the apartment behind us, one floor up) volleyed a 2 pound barbell weight and several pieces of Tupperware out the window. I have watched enough episodes of Forensic Files to note that this material was landing along the same trajectory as my previous finds. I recount this finding to my husband.

August 1, 2006

I awoke to the sound of my neighbors throwing more stuff out the window. Groggily, I peered out the window to discover an entire piece of corn on the cob. Perhaps it was lack of sleep or cabin fever, but I thought this was one of the most hilarious things I had ever seen. I thought to myself: I’ll go back to bed and venture out later to take a photo of this choice find. Big mistake. When I did go out— TWENTY MINUTES LATER— the squirrels had totally eviscerated it, cob and all. I am not exaggerating at all when I say that I found this very disquieting.

I did. And still do.

There have been movies made about rats, birds, even C.H.U.D.s, why not squirrels? New York City squirrels. I can easily imagine these voracious creatures making off with small children, skidrow bums or little old ladies.

All I’m saying is that I am gonna to carry a baseball bat when I go out there from now on.

Closing on that note, I have created an interactive feature where you too can experience the first-hand joy of discovering the rich bounty of goodness behind my apartment. This will be an ongoing project of mine, so check back occasionally. Enjoy!

Brevity —and Barbarians— are the soul of wit.

August 2, 2006 ·
Filed under: Area 51, Greenpoint Magic 

Apres moi, le deluge

In less than two weeks I will be a guest author on Only the Blog Knows Brooklyn. This is a very exciting development, as I will be able to send some very special Greenpoint love Park Slope’s direction via the power of the Internet. It’s not like I can do so personally nowadays, with the heat and the ebb and flow of G train service.

Do I plan to use this opportunity to lambaste Park Slopers, you ask?

No, I don’t. If anything, I’ll probably end up ripping on everyone, myself included. Who knows. As Professor Ping said in the movie Barbarella, “genius is mysterious”.

That said, I want to relay something that is probably a literary first. My cover letter (regarding being a guest blogger on OTBKB) was as follows:

Greetings,

I came across your solicitation for a guest blogger(s) via Jossip.com. 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: www.newyorkshitty.com.

Thank you for your time and consideration.

Sincerely,

Miss Heather

This has got to be the first and only time I know of that anyone (much less a WOMAN) who openly purported an affection for a literary kinship to Charles Bukowski and actually landed a(n unpaid) writing gig. Then again, admiration for Mr. Bukowski is a pre-requisite for successful living in Greenpoint: he is to Greenpoint what peanut butter is to jelly: indispensible.

Up

July 27, 2006 ·
Filed under: Area 51, Dog Shit, Dung of the Day, Mission Statement 

It Works

My new template is up and working, hooray! Now I have to sort through my backlog of drafts, edit and post them. In the meantime, I have made some additions here and have uploaded some photos to my Shop Cats page.

Stay tuned, as I have a very special interactive feature in the works about the objects my neighbor’s hyperactive children see fit to throw out the kitchen window. SPOILER/TEASER ALERT— the three essential “P’s” will be showcased therein: pennies, prophylactics and porn.

In the meantime, I leave you with today’s “Dung of the Day” from Franklin Street. I am usually a “size queen” when it comes to dog shit anything, but I find this turd noteworthy due to its uncanny resemblance to the paintbrush tool in PhotoShop. Enjoy!

Paintbrush Turd 222 Franklin St.

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