Fecal Yoga at Berry and N. 11th Street

In Williamsburg even the doggie droppings know how to do the suryanamaskara.

Miss Heather

Say WHAT?!?

After a rather pleasant evening outing this week I arrived home to find a disturbing missive in my inbox. The email was entitled “Kill me now” and its author was “Rebecca11222”. She wrote:

Saw this in a coffee shop in Williamsburg today. Enjoy.

Noticing an attachment, I opened it.

Needless to say I was a trifle troubled by this— not so much by the class itself, but the dangerous precedent it sets. The women who will probably attend this class will not fill a sequined halter top as nicely as Fayzah does. They’ll either be anorexic beyond belief (and thus have no belly to ‘dance’) or they will sport an Orson Welles-eqsue paunch that is impossible to differentiate from second trimester pregnancy. Perhaps this is crass and sexist (it probably is), but all I’m saying is only in Williamsburg do I see twenty-something year old women with beer guts.

I shared the previous piquant observation with my buddy Rebecca. To wit she quipped:

The Star Wars bar scene-inspired hair is going to become the new trucker hat.

I fear she might be right. God help us all. Thankfully, we Greenpointers know better. We may not know what “Electric Tribal Fusion” means, but we don’t need to; if it isn’t European techno trash that can be cranked at ear-splitting volumes in a SUV it is not music. Period. As for the “Star Wars” hair…

it looks like someone on McGuinness Boulevard doesn’t care for it either.

Gotta run now. It’s time to get my aura adjusted.

Miss Heather

Mount Shitimanjaro

I’ll be the first to admit that Manhattan Avenue between Eagle and Freeman Street is not especially pleasing to the eyes. A number of the buildings there are run down, the huge construction fence (that swallows up much of the sidewalk) is hideous and the sheer amount of litter to be found there is can be astonishing— even for Greenpoint. That said, yesterday I discovered a new and more disgusting addition to this urban landscape: two enormous mounds of dog shit.

One at 1049 Manhattan Avenue…

and another, older escarpment of caca next door at 1043 Manhattan Avenue.

Yummy.

Miss Heather

The Ring of Nibeldungen

Forged in the bowels of a miniature poodle named Turdrich, the mighty Ring of Nibeldungen is available for the taking at 158 Meserole Avenue.

Now all we need is for Bunghilde to step up to the plate and throw this item into Newton Creek; thus liberating Greenpoint from the tyranny of Odor and the ring of shit that binds us all. In the meantime, Siegfeces seems to be holding his own over on West Street.

Miss Heather

Dirty deeds dung dirt cheap

I found this turdy tableau on McGuinness Boulevard across the street from the new British Petroleum station today (after being cat-called by this asshole). Was this the product of a romance gone wrong or was the dog who discharged this pile of poo merely a misogynist? The world may never know.

Miss Heather

Cotes du Dookie

I found this, the Alistair Cooke of Crap, across the street from the Northside Piers yesterday. Being a bit of a oenophile, I was impressed with the selection of wine. It has been my experience that Clarets go nicely with just about everything— even crap.

Greenpointers usually wash their dog shit down with beer. Remy Martin seems to be a popular choice here as well. I suppose blue chip digs demand blue chip shit. Only the finest for our well-heeled neighbors to the south.

Miss Heather

Don’t tread on me

After enduring over four hours of thumping pile driver beats, I decided to go for a walk. But right before I headed out the door I noticed that I had received an email. It was from one of my ‘nabes. A woman who is constantly tormented by Magic Johnson’s big-ass tool. She wrote:

Today’s pounding vibrated a glass jar off my counter. Maybe I should throw the shards on their site in a show of solidarity for my neighbors.

Wishing you sedatives,
Karolyn

Is there no end to 110 Green’s depravity? One day they are spraying 121 Huron Street with shattered glass, the next they torment a defenseless container into committing suicide. The monsters.

Well Magic’s crew may not give a flip about the safety or mental well being of their neighbors, but someone at 151 Green Street does. This person was kind enough to lay a nice bright safety cone next to a not-so-nice pile of dog shit.

Whoever did this, wherever you are— you will be mentioned in my prayers tonight.

Miss Heather

P.S.: Looks like that sign 110 Green put up recently isn’t working too well. When I walked by there this evening all their DOB permits were gone. Whoever is responsible for this latest act of hooliganism saw fit to leave the “Keep Smiling” sign behind as a crowning flourish of “Fuck You”. Ah Greenpoint! How I love thee…

Dung of the Day: Part Doo

Without argument, the finest “Dung of the Day” I have featured lately is this one. I have a healthy respect for the kind of person who sees fit to commit such an act. I wouldn’t want “that kind of person” in my home— or want to shake his (or her) hand— but I respect him. If for no other reason because I do not want to be on his shit list.

Well, the other day I walked back by this poster. Not only were traces of fecal matter still there for the savoring, but someone had since added an annotiation I found amusing.

Miss Heather

A Greenpoint stroller mom speaks out…

about dog shit.

Just like any other time I go to McCarren Park, I do my best to avoid the stroller set. This isn’t because I hate children (I don’t), rather, I harbor a deep fear of their caretakers. Be they biologically related to the minors in their charge or not, one wrong word on my part could precipitate a beat-down by an angry horde of post-partum depression/fertility drug riven mothers. Or worse yet, a flock of Filipino nannies would proceed to kick my ass.

The latter have become very manifest at McCarren Park of late, enough so that I have to remind myself that I am in Greenpoint, not the Upper East Side. Thankfully the drunken roustabout roundtable still holds court at the northeastern section of the park. They serve as a constant reminder that I am, indeed, in Greenpoint. Unlike most people I find their presence comforting.

Last Thururdsday I had the pleasure of interfacing with a Greenpoint stroller mom. Her daughter made the introduction by pointing at me and shouting:

Mommy, she has red hair!

It is true. I have red hair. But it isn’t the red hair one usually sees on Ireland tourism brochures. Or the Lucille Ball-esque tints the local Polish population here is all too fond of donning. I have Day-Glo Crayola Crayon red hair. Thus, I did not take offense at what this cherubic child said. In fact, I found it amusing.

Me (to the little girl): You have blond hair!

Girl: (giggles)

Me (to the mother): You have red hair too!

Mother (to her daughter): Yes, but mommy has to go in for a touch-up soon!

Inasmuch as I bitch about stroller moms, this one didn’t bother me. She harbored a lack of pretense (and Humvee-sized stroller) that I found endearing. The fact that her child was young enough to merit having a stroller in the first place was a big plus.

In my 7+ years of living in Greenpoint I have seen a lot of shit. I have seen teenagers pushing each other down the street in strollers. I have seen women fling their tits out to feed their kids in the weirdest and most abject of places. I have encountered children over two years of age who have yet to be toilet-trained.

While I find all the previous somewhat irksome, what really pisses me off are parents who push their 4,5+ year old children around in strollers. If mommy’s errands are too much for little Kaitlin or Lincoln to bear, hire a fucking babysitter. The children involved and myself would be very grateful if the previous practice was implemented.

Not being a parent myself, I have no idea what ‘logic’ belies shoving over-sized children down the street in a stroller. But if I had to take a guess, I’d say the stroller is merely a temporary residence until these pampered babes’ parents buy them a brand-spanking new condo. From the cradle to blue chip Williamsburg digs (and a new couch mommy picked out just for you), so it goes on planet entitlement.

That said, the previously-mentioned stroller mom did not exhibit any of the previous qualities. What’s more, she and I bonded over our collective hatred of dog shit. After crossing Nassau Avenue (on Lorimer Street), this women saw me take a photo of a smeared pile of shit and said:

Don’t you hate that? I live next door and if I find the person who is responsible for this I am going to kill them.

Shortly thereafter she asked me what I was going to do with my poopie photo. I told her that I was going to put it up on my blog.

And I did.

Miss Heather