Of anal probes and antipasto

As I indicated in the previous post, my husband and I ate at Manducatis last night. For those of you who are not in the know, this restaurant is located at 12-37 Jackson Avenue in Long Island City. It’s exterior is pretty unremarkable, if not downright ugly. That’s what really surprised us: the interior is incredibly nice, as is the food. I highly recommend checking this place out. Though you should be advised that I read a number of very negative reviews on Citysearch, most of these were complaints about poor service. My experience was much to the contrary.

Any fine dining establishment worth its salt makes sure its clientele are not only nourished with flavorful food, but are also entertained. Manducatis is no exception. What’s more, the person who provided my evening’s entertainment wasn’t even on the payroll. She was a customer.

After negotiating through the admittedly uninviting entrance of this restaurant, my husband and I selected a table next to a party of three. The group seated next to us appeared to be a family unit. If I had to take a guess, I’d say this trio was as follows:

1. One elderly uncle
2. One elderly aunt
3. One middle-aged niece

I didn’t take much notice of these people at first. This ubruptly changed when my husband and I were sharing a cold appetizer plate and overheard the “niece” saying:

…of course the local Italian population is probably speculating as to what other orifices they have put electronics in.

To wit, auntie said:

I’m not touching that one with a ten foot pole.

I glanced over at their table. That’s when I realized the niece was wearing a very nice silk Kimono with a pair of shower thongs. Fascinated, my husband and I ate in silence so as to savor this woman’s every word. And boy oh boy did she have a lot of say!

Her next monologue started with the following sentence. It was recitated in a very staccato and non-inflected tone like William S. Burroughs.

Unlike my most people my age, I have perfect hearing.

This seemingly innocuous observation was followed by twenty minutes worth of commentary about:

1. Conformity (and today’s teens)
2. Why she hates i-Pods
3. Corporations
4. The government
5. Mind control
6. Computers
7. Computers and mind control

It was one of the most mind-blowing lectures I have ever heard. Almost 24 hours later I am still trying to understand it. Once she was satisfied that had given her two cents on all the previous subjects, the “niece” excused herself to go the bathroom. Once she was out of eyeshot, the uncle turned to his wife, gave her a “WTF” look and turned off his hearing aid. Turn off, tune out, drop out.

After coming back from the bathroom this fascinating woman spoke at great length about her upcoming trip to Japan. I have to say that I was pretty excited for her, a lot more than her dining companions were. The Japanese have long been the standard-bearers of insane genius and it made me proud to know that this woman would be serving as my city’s ambassador to the land of the rising sun. She’ll teach them a thing or two.

One awkward conversation over dessert later they left. It was probably just as well because that’s when my husband’s boss decided to call him on his cell phone. Just shy of 9:00 p.m. on a Saturday night. I ordered him not to take the call. My husband may be under her employ, but I am not. We were having a very nice sit-down dinner and it was going to stay that way. Had my new friend still been seated next to us, I probably would have seized the cell phone from my husband, hit the “send” button, hand it over to her and let her handle it. But I digress.

As we were leaving I noticed a lovely little floral bouquet sitting on the bar. Although it was hardly professional, it had a certain charm that appealed to me and I told our waiter so. That’s when he asked, “Did you see the woman wearing the kimono?”

Me: Yes.
Waiter: Well, she lives across the street. She’s an artist and has lived here a long time. She brings us fresh cut flowers from her garden every day.
Me: That’s really nice. Can I ask you a question?
Waiter: Sure.
Me: Does she always wear a kimono?
Waiter: Well, that depends. When she was in her Italian phase she dressed up as an Italian. When she was in her Mayan phase she dressed up as a Mayan. Now she is in her Japanese phase and has taken to wearing kimonos.
Me: Wow.

Maybe in twenty years I’ll have my Mayan phase. I can only hope so.

Miss Heather

The Honeysuckle Diaries

This evening my husband and I trekked to Long Island City so we give Manducatis a taste test. It was a very enjoyable dining experience, but that will be the subject of another (yet to be written) post. About a block away from this establishment (on Jackson Avenue) a sign caught my eye.

Come to think of it, this item wasn’t so much a sign as it was a stream of consciousness polemic about Long Island City’s missing honeysuckle. Among other things.

“Wait— there’s more!?!” is probably what you are thinking to yourself right about now. YOU BET YOUR SWEET ASS THERE IS! This person is just getting WARMED UP.

To whoever stole this plant: for the love of god, have a heart and give it back— or at the very least take excellent care of it.

Miss Heather

Have a heart, foster a butt plug today!

Thursday I had a truly amazing idea. I am still downright giddy in the afterglow of its sheer brilliance. In fact, I have been prancing around the apartment mirthfully giggling to myself for hours. Not since starting New York Shitty have I been as psyched about something as I am about this.

Who or what do I have to thank for this yet-to-be-announced breakthrough, you ask?

This guy. It happened like this…

My morning started on a rather inauspicious note: immediately after waking up I got sick. My stomach made this weird gurgling sound, and lo, up came a tummy full of sinus drainage. The taste of this foul substance, in turn, made me convulse and dry heave for two solid minutes. Sexiful.

After cleaning myself up, I got on the computer to see what was shaking over at The Gowanus Lounge. And what did I find? A whacked-out rant about Feminist Art, that’s what. I cannot do this masterpiece of misogyny justice. Click on the above link and behold its paleolithic logic (and my rather angry rebuttal) yourself.

That said, if history takes any notice of Miss Heather at all, one of the facts about me that will be found in little Timmy’s and Meghan’s high school textbooks will be this: she was feminist. It should also be noted that I make art on occasion. So, if someone was to use a little deductive reasoning, the argument could be made that I am, indeed, a feminist artist. There, I said it.

And (as I indicated in the angry missive I left regarding the above-mentioned story on The Gowanus Lounge), Judy Chicago is not my cup of tea. That doesn’t mean I do not think her work is important, though. Art is a very subjective thing, Ms. Chicago may appeal to some people, but this (Warning: NSFW) is more my speed. You see, Miss Heather is not only a feminist, she is also a pervert with a wicked sense of humor.

Yes sir, I likes me some Lynda Benglis. Enough so to take my busted-up copy of Bad Girls to a lecture she was giving and ask her to autograph it. That was well over ten years ago. This memory got me to wondering what she is doing nowadays, so I did a little knocking around online. I found this and this. Not only is Ms. Benglis the same age as my mother, but she also lives right here in New York Shitty. I wonder if she’ll adopt me?

Shortly after learning the previous two facts, I had my revelation:

I wonder what ever became of that dildo?

I have not been able to get this question out of my mind. I imagine he probably resides in a nice assisted living center somewhere in New Jersey, being such a famous marital aid and all, right? But what if he’s sick or scratching out a hand(job)-to-mouth existence out on the street? If he is, I bet he’s not alone. There are probably legions of buttplugs, pocket pussies, doubledongs and cockrings out there struggling to keep warm at night.

When someone throws a cat or dog out on the street, the usual (and rightful) response is outrage. What about man’s other best friend? Don’t these devoted companions deserve protection too? I think so and that’s why I have started Miss Heather’s Home for Sick, Unwanted, and Crippled Dildonics (or “H-SUCD”).

Please find it in your heart to take a little time out of your busy day to learn about some personal care products who really need you. Who knows, you might might even find a new nocturnal companion to love and cherish for years to come.

Open your minds (and your legs) and give one of these fellas a chance. I know you have it in you.

Sincerely,

Miss Heather

FYI: Forgotten-NY Tour #30

On June 10th I have the honor of co-conducting Forgotten New York’s 30th walking tour which will cover (where else) Greenpoint! If you want to learn more about this fanfuckingtastic ‘nabe otherwise known as “The Garden Spot”, you can get all the deets and RSVP here. I don’t want to reveal too much about the itinerary but I will say this: the leopard print enthusiasts among you will not be disappointed.

Be there or be square!

Miss Heather

P.S.: I also want to give a shout out to Not For Tourists for featuring New York Shitty as their web site of the week today. Craig Nelson, the Managing Editor raves:

Keep up the shitty work!

Thank you very much. I think I will.

When bad things happen to good buildings

Last weekend I spent a significant amount of time working in the kitchen. I elected to do this because:

1. my husband watching a lot of television, including a number of John Wayne movies which I would just as well not partake of
2. the kitchen was a filthy mess

Armed with a pitcher of margaritas, my cd player and an assortment of cleaning products, I whiled away the entire evening diligently cleaning the floor and washing dishes. My pristine floor lasted maybe 24 hours. My husband has since tracked corn oil all over it. I’m not too sure how this happened and I do not think I want to know.

During my spring cleaning juggernaut I observed something unusual happening next door. The same neighbors who recently had a smoke detector problem apparently had a new one on their hands. Before I continue, I would like to say that I gave these peeps a serious drubbing over the previous incident. As ridiculous as the whole situation was, I still believe my neighbors to be nice people— they just weren’t thinking at the time. (It is rare for me to meet someone I do not like anyway, but most of them seem to work for Con Ed.)

That said, the purpose of this post is not to bash my ‘nabes. Rather, it is to highlight a problem they seem to have courtesy of their landlord’s crappy construction. As I stated in a previous post about “Beepy”, the landlord next next door raised the roof on the backend of his building. As a result, the roof rises about six inches above the bottom sill of our windows. In order to comply with fire code and account for water runoff, he created trough-like openings around both my and my neighbor’s windows. I realize this is a little difficult to understand, so here is a picture of one of them.

Located in each of these trenches is a smallish drain, which you can see here, which brings me to what I witnessed last weekend. As I was washing dishes I heard the sound of splashing water hit the roof. I peered out the window and noticed my neighbors stuffing a wet shirt between the top of their air conditioning unit and the window. Although puzzled by this, I went back to work.

Several hours later I heard it again. Dripping water. I looked out the window and saw them stuff another wet rag into this gap, making the air conditioner dip at a 70 degree angle.

That’s when I realized what my neighbor’s problem was: instead of going down the drain, the runoff from their air conditioner was leaking into their apartment. This is the only reason I can come up with for them doing this. The air conditioner has been positioned so the condensation will flow directly into the dinky drain they have been provided. To their credit, they did an admirable (if ugly) job of solving a ridiculous problem. I may very well end up doing the same thing.

I would love to meet the ‘architect’ who drew up this ‘plan’. I bet it was rendered on a piece of manila paper with crayon— the pretty metallic ones that you don’t get with the standard pack of Crayolas (the bastards!). Instead of being on file at the Department of Buildings, this M.C. Escher-esque masterpiece of poor design is probably taped to his mommy’s refrigerator.

Miss Heather

High Art

A question I am frequently asked is why I do not try to earn a living by teaching art. My answer is always as follows:

Have you ever taught a college art class?

I have. It was one of the most depressing experiences I have ever had. Here are a few reasons why:

1. Grade inflation: out of a class of 30 people, half of them will expect to receive a passing grade for simply showing up.
2. If you are a student in a foundation drawing class, I honestly couldn’t give a fat rat’s ass about the ‘conceptual statement’ you are trying to make. Leave the sophistry for your senior year, all I want to know is if you can render the fucking still life I have set up in front of you. That’s it.
3. Unlike most of my fellow teaching assistants and teaching fellows, the bored housewives who were in my classes didn’t bother me. In fact, I liked them. Unlike the entitled rich kids (talented and otherwise) I had to wrange, these women actually wanted to be in my class and their work ethic reflected this. These women not only busted their asses but a number of them also had talent.

The previous having been said, today I found a work of art that left me speechless. Well, not exactly ‘speechless’ —I did manage to get out an “OH MY GOD!” before being overtaken by its sublimity.

Needless to say, this masterpiece now resides in my home. I have no idea where it will go, but I will MAKE room to hang it. Perhaps it should grace my husband’s new office cubicle?

Why couldn’t this person have been one of my students? I would gladly PAY for the honor of mentoring such a genius.

Miss Heather

Miss Heather’s Renovation Roadshow

Last weekend I had so much fun ‘degentrifying’ the Northside Piers I have decided to do a series of architectural mash-ups. Call it a Renovation Roadshow from Hell where I virtually visit buildings throughout Brooklyn* and give ’em the “Greenpoint Touch”.

Today’s target: The Williamsburg Savings Bank

Target location: One Hanson Place, Brooklyn, New York, 11243

Today’s ingredients (from my Greenpoint arsenal):

1. Pink Stucco
2. Lilac paint
3. Cell phone transponders
4. Satellite dishes
5. A The defining characteristic of all Belvedere buildings and…
6. THIS (which defies description)

Mix ’em all up and what do you get?

Belvedere XXX! Conveniently located just off Flatbush Avenue!

Miss Heather

Photo Credit (sans stucco): Bridge and Tunnel Club.

*I am taking requests, by the way.

What happens when bureaucracy and reality collide

I suspect I am not the only person who has wondered what would happen if there was an accident in the middle of the Pulaski Bridge. Would 108th Precinct (in Long Island City) handle it or would it be delegated to Greenpoint’s very own 94th? I have no fucking clue. But if the following tale from the March 4, 1906 edition of the New York Times is any indication, I don’t think I want to find out.

PRISONER NOBODY WANTS

New Order by Bingham Confuses the Hunter’s Point Police.

The police of the Hunter’s Point Precinct have a prisoner on their hands whom they cannot get rid of. The precinct was recently extended by Commissioner Bingham to take in all of the Newton Creek Bridge. The bridge extends to Manhattan Avenue and Ash Street, Greenpoint, and yesterday Patrolman Campbell on duty at the Greenpoint end of the bridge was called upon to arrest a young man who was flourishing a revolver.

The prisoner described himself as Robert Marcantino, 18 years old, of 479 Graham Avenue, Brooklyn. In the Long Island City Court Magistrate Connorton refused to consider the case as the arrest was made in Kings County. The policeman cannot go to Brooklyn with the prisoner without a special order from Commissioner Bingham, and in the meantime the prisoner is being deprived of his rights under the law, which states plainly he must be arraigned before the nearest magistrate.

Any Greenpointers out there who are contemplating committing crimes on the Pulaski Bridge consider yourself warned; not only will you be jailed in Queens, you may never come back!

Miss Heather