Boss Heather

April 5, 2007 by
Filed under: Area 51, Greenpoint Magic 

My father once told me that I have no ambition. Not only did I find this statement to be hurtful, but it was (and is) also untrue. I do, indeed, have ambition; it is simply of a very idiosyncratic bent.

I have never been attracted to the conventional, be it in art or life. Anyone can be a doctor, lawyer, professor or the president of the United States nowadays, big damned deal. Miss Heather craves a bona fide challenge. This is why I aspire to be not only the Dog Shit Queen of Greenpoint (and the greater NYShitty metropolitan area), but also its local ‘boss’.

If there was ever a time this ‘hood needed the likes of Peter J. McGuinness, it is now. If Pete could only see the shit going on around here (READ: luxury condos and coke-addled trustifarian hipsters). Man oh man would he get pissed. Heads would roll and asses (sorely in need of a good kicking) would get kicked. Repeatedly.

While I cannot profess to be another Pete McGuinness (and this is probably just as well), I think I could fill his (long vacated) shoes with both competence and style. The previous assertion can only be proven after I have secured the sinecure of “Ward Boss”, but follows is a little taste of things to come…


Every boss needs an ‘office’: a place to meet with other politicos and entertain visiting dignitaries. I am going to take a page from the book of Arthur Fonzarelli* and locate mine in the McGolrick Park women’s bathroom. After the park employees have been ejected from this facility (preferably in the most violent and degrading fashion possible— think of the mailman in Goodfellas), I will set up shop. My social secretary (a local tough) will be stationed at the entrance to meet and greet visitors.


If that stuck-up snobatorium across the East River (that calls itself New York City) can shack up its head honcho at Gracie Mansion, certainly a suitable residence can be provided for yours truly. Although I am very fond of 128 Beadel Street, it is located too far afield from Miss Heather’s four essentials: the Garden, a liquor store, “The Thing” and the Franklin Corner Store. This residence (located at 76 Green Street) fits the bill perfectly.

House of Log

I have had a fixation on this domicile for some time. I call it the “Babushka House” because it is one very old house nested inside of another pretty damned old house. Take a look at this close-up of the doorway (which is ALWAYS OPEN) and you’ll see what I mean.

The Babushka House is not only bereft of so much as a single square angle (which for me, is a big plus), but I always find some strange item discarded out front. Two days ago it was a rather large log (as seen in the above photo), the Sunday before that it was a half-consumed bottle of Puerto Rican rum and an unopened jar of Vlasic pickles. I like this building’s mojo. All it needs is a fierce paint job and lots of fringe.


A good ward boss is not some thug who extorts money from those under his (or her) care. Much to the contrary, any ward boss worth his (or her) salt takes the money he or she has extorted from outside the community and shares it with the citizens he (or she) serves. Everyone gets a little piece of the pie. Those of you do-gooders out there who bristle at the thought of “extortion”, “embezzlement” or “graft” are only fooling yourselves: all the previous are very alive and well in Greenpoint. The only real crime being perpetrated is that we are not getting our cut. Simple as that.

I seek to redress this miscarriage of justice. All because something is illegal does not necessarily mean it is also immoral (and vice versa: if something is legal that does not automatically mean it is moral). This is Miss Heather’s platform. I will be the lovably crooked woman of influence (under the influence) who resides in the lovably crooked house on Green Street. My front door will always be open to my constituency— especially if they happen to bring beer.


In return (for your patronage), I will provide a number of festive events. To this end, I would like to announce The First Annual Greenpoint Dog Shit Parade.

WHERE: I envision this event transpiring on either DuPont Street (between Manhattan Avenue and Franklin Street) or West Street (between Eagle Street and Greenpoint Avenue). I am open to suggestions.
WHEN: TBA. I am looking into how to get a parade permit. Looks like I have to call 311— that’s what says, anyway. That said, I am leaning towards September of this year.
WHY: If you have to ask this question, you are not worthy of participating.
HOW: This soiree will require much in the way of planning and hard work. A marching band is simply a must. The Greenpoint Peoples’ Local Auxiliary Pooper Scoop Regiment needs to be created and start drilling. And, most importantly of all, scantily clad women (and/or men dressed as women) are needed to be chorines for the Greenpoint Turdettes.

Is anyone with me on this? I am dead fucking serious. This needs to happen.

Miss Heather

*Am I the only person who found Mr. Fonzarelli’s loitering in the men’s bathroom of Al’s really peculiar? The lavatory at a greasy spoon would probably stink to high heaven with the bouquet of blocked colon mixed with urinal cake and just a hint of stale piss. The previous leads me to believe that the Fonz had a slightly ulterior motive for spending so much time there: he liked to watch the young men pee. Under that tough guy exterior this homeboy was just another flaming queen.


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