The Gruesome Twosome

Yesterday my husband and I went to Manhattan. Being the colossal klutz I am, I managed to utterly destroy my cell phone last week. The beginning of our jaunt in the city was spent at the Verizon store on Broadway securing a replacement. What happened next will be permanently ingrained in my olfactory memory.

As we were exiting Forbidden Planet my new phone rang. It was my buddy Rachael. Not knowing how to use my new toy, I hung up on her. She called back. I promised to call her back in a moment. And I did— but not before passing by some crazy homeless dude on 13th Street shouting at his reflection in storefront window while doing his best Kung Fu moves.

This guy was bat shit crazy. If a convention was held for insane homeless people, this chap would be crowned the craziest of them all. I took note and called my buddy Rachael. That’s when it happened.

OH

MY

GOD!!!

Gasping for air, I yelled into my cell phone:

Rachael, I have to call you back!

Not only was this dude the most insane homeless person I have ever beheld, he was the creator of the MOST MALODOROUS PILES OF BUM SHIT I have ever whiffed. The above photographs do not even come close to conveying the horror my nose experienced. Even 24 hours later the sight of these shits make me throw up a little.

Miss Heather

Fun With Public Urination Part II: Scarano’s Skidmark

Needing a projection screen for Kevin Walsh’s presentation at this week’s blogger meet-up, today I headed over to my boss’s store in Bushwick to pick one up. Although I could have taken the G to Metropolitan, transfer to the L and take it to Montrose Avenue, I decided to mix things up a little. So I took the G to Broadway and hoofed it.

If you want to see firsthand on how completely and utterly impotent this city’s regulatory agencies are in regards to policing irresponsible developers, walk down Meserole or Scholes Street from Union to Bushwick Avenue. The best way I can describe the landscape is Beirut circa 1985. It’s a fucking disaster.

Here is a textbook example of one of the many derelict construction sites to be found in this area. You will probably not be surprised to learn that Robert Scarano is responsible for this turd.

You know, if I were getting the kind of negative press Mr. Scarano has been getting lately, I would at least pick up my trash. Being branded as a litter bug is not exactly stellar PR.

Come to think of it, getting cited for having a “dirty sidewalk” probably isn’t good publicity either. Note: the above ticket lists a “used mattress” as one of the pieces of refuse obstructing 130 Scholes Street’s sidewalk.

Yup, that looks pretty used alright…

They failed to mention the piss and shit stains on said mattress, though. I think I will give above photo the title Scarano’s Skidmark.

To call 130 Scholes Street “deplorable”, “inexcusable” or “revolting” is to make a gross understatement. As far as I am concerned Scarano made this bed and he should be forced to lie in it. I strongly suspect there are numerous others who share the previous sentiment, many of whom are probably relegated to negotiating this eyesore every day. But then again, this is just an educated guess.

To the poor people who have the dubious honor of calling 130 Scholes Street (READ: Robert Scarano) a neighbor: please accept my sincerest condolences.

New York Shitty to Robert Scarano: PICK UP YOUR SHIT!

Miss Heather

Bushwick Bung du Jour

As many of you are aware, I (and a fair number of other Greenpointers) have been without a telephone and Internet access since Tuesday. Initially Verizon said everything would be back up on June 28th. On June 28th, the date was pushed back to June 30th or July 1st. Now July 2nd is the supposed date for my restoration of access to the outside world. I’ll believe it when I see it.

Let’s just say I’m seriously considering taking Semaphore lessons.

But Miss Heather is not one to whine about such trivial matters. I have gone ten days without electricity. I’m still standing (albeit stinkier) after an entire week without hot water. I have shimmied through my own bathroom window— using the fire escape on the fourth floor as a fulcrum— after having my locks filled with glue by a former Superintendent’s wife.

I have learned to be resourceful. Mostly at using other people’s resources. I have spent the last five days drifting around the north Brooklyn landscape looking for one thing: Internet access. FREE Internet access. FREE AND PRIVATE Internet access.

Perhaps I have become a diva? If I am, I am a low-budget one. Any place where I have to wear a bra and intuit enough social pressure to refrain from scratching myself (and/or cleaning my ears with a Q-Tip) is simply not conducive to fomenting my creative juices. The Dog Shit Queen of Greenpoint has needs— and one of them is having non-itchy ears.

Thankfully a good friend of mine down in Bushwick lent me a hand (and her apartment keys) to this end. The last time I trudged down there I found something that made riding the (ever tardy) B43 bus and enduring the numerous shouts of “Hey mami, I love you” totally worth it.

I found this gargantuan pile of feces on Montrose Avenue just east of Humboldt.

Here is a photo that will give you some idea as to how large this revolting refuse is. It’s big.

Really fuggin’ big.

Every dark cloud has a shitty lining. And when you’re a Dog Shit Queen, that isn’t necessarily such a bad thing. This Greenpoint “Mami” loves her some Bushwick bum poo!

Miss Heather