Bed Stuy Photo du Jour: A Word Meaning Female Dog

From Macon Street.

Miss Heather

The Pay Phones of Bedford Stuyvesant

Every neighborhood has its defining characteristics. This is what I have learned as I have expanded my geographical horizons and begun exploring more neighborhoods. Bushwick can be trusted to possess virtually no garbage cans whatsoever. Greenpoint always sports the largest number of discarded liquor bottles. Bedford Stuyvesant probably has the most dubious distinction of all: a disproportionately large number of vandalized pay phones. Follows is an honor roll of the latest victims in this neighborhood’s war against the telecommunications industry.

#1 Lewis Avenue

Observations: Crime scene tape has been wrapped around the receiver, “Jesus Saves” is inscribed above the coin slot and (although it is difficult to see in the above photo) someone attempted to set said device on fire.

#2 Macon Street

Observations: This one is more “artistic” in nature than its predecessor. Some aspiring artiste has spray painted the key pad and instructions blue. The receiver has been balanced on the lock securing this pay phone for added visual interest. A final flourish of communication commentary has been made with the addition of a solitary postage stamp.

#3 Bedford Avenue

Observations: Someone has eviscerated the receiver. No frills but cunning in its simplicity.

Which one is your favorite pay phone? I’m leaning towards #2.

Miss Heather

Best Apartment Ad Ever

I don’t know about you but all the glowing rhetoric to be found in today’s real estate ads leaves me cold. The word “luxury” is thrown around with such abandon as to render it virtually meaningless. Who the hell can afford “luxury” nowadays anyway? Not me. I wish the shills pushing lower tier housing would wake up, ditch the bullshit and get real. Like this guy.

“Who needs marketers, ad campaigns, or even Craigslist?” the owner of this building thought to himself. “Fuck Madison Avenue. I have a can of spray paint and that’s all I need to get the word out.”

After all, who wants scenic views, jacuzzi bath tubs or even Fresh Direct refrigerators when he (or she) can live next door to the “Hardee Hardee”?

Miss Heather

Bed-Stuy Pay Phone du Jour: Broadway

You may not get a dial tone at this pay phone but someone was thoughtful enough to leave a delicious can of Ensure for your delectation. Yummy.

Miss Heather

Bed-Stuy Photo du Jour: Stuyvesant Avenue

Help keep New York City clean. Don’t do what this bad boot wearer did: always place your refuse inside the provided receptacles.

Miss Heather

ATTENTION LADIES!

Ever since I scored that tee shirt explaining my not needing to work (because I have a fine ass) I have had the unquenchable desire to work it. While wearing said shirt, naturally. Too bad I learned about this great opportunity in Bedford Stuyvesant a week too late.

This “shake off” against violence would have been just the ticket. I’m a little confused about the prizes, though. 90%, 75%, and 65% added together is 230% of the earnings. Perhaps this is that “new math” I am hearing so much about? Or they watched “The Producers” recently?

I’m glad to see they demanded not only an interview but also a live audition. If I am going to schlep my fine ass down to Bed Stuy to perform in this event, I refuse to “shake off” with practicing amateurs. When you have the kind of credentials I do, you demand to work with professional party people only. This requirement is clearly stated on my curricula vitae.

Miss Heather

Welcome To The Chicken Hut

Nobody— and I mean NOBODY— knows how to kick off a bright sunshiny day like my mother. I mention this because the following email from her (entitled “Water”) is how I started my morning. She writes:

There was a piece on AOL this morning about drugs in drinking water. Luckily we do not have any at this time, but NYC has “Heart medication, infection fighters, estrogen, anti-convulsants, a mood stabilizer and a tranquilizer”.

My mother takes great delight extolling upon the superiority of her stomping grounds: New Mexico. If this location makes her happy, then I’m happy… because if she isn’t happy I will invariably hear about it. Often. That said, her attempt at scaring me backfired big time because she forgot the overriding and defining characteristic of my personality: my distaste for my fellow man.

Not only do I find placing mood stabilizers, tranquilizers and estrogen (if I have tits so should everyone else) in our fine city’s drinking water to be a sterling idea, but the only criticism I having is the dosage is way, way too low. The way I see it, fretting over drinking water is to overlook the manifold number of other downright disturbing things that inhabit terra firma. Things like this.

Meet the Spencer Street clown.

He has a skull for a second floor neighbor.

Lest any of you are unable to read what the robot in to the left is saying, I’ll transcribe it for you:

Robot no eat aborted fetuses but will eat human fecis (sic).

As you can clearly see, Guido’s Paradise is located on floor three and the Chicken Hut can be found on four. Curiously enough, there were no chickens whatsoever to be found on the premises. But this is not to suggest I left Bed-Stuy without seeing some fowl.

I have no friggin idea what this bird is or why it inhabits a public garden. It does, however, sport webbed feet leading me to presume it is some form of aquatic fowl. Maybe he is afraid of the chemicals in the water?

In any case, he’s a pretty mild-mannered fellow. His feline companion didn’t seem to mind him in the least.

I like to call this composition “Rooster With Coat Hanger And Office Chairs”.

Miss Heather