Greenpoint
Lorven Pharmacy
Culture on the Cheap
North Brooklyn Photos Du Jour: NO PARKING
Filed under: Area 51
Moultrie Street.
Guernsey Street.
Ten Eyck Street.
Manhattan Avenue.
Miss Heather
East Williamsburg Photos Du Jour: Meet The Graham Avenue Meat
Filed under: Area 51, Bum Shit, Bushwick, Dog Shit, Dung of the Day, Other Shit, Vomit, Williamsburg
Meat on the inside…
and WTF on the out.
When Mr. Heather got home from work I asked him what he thought the above-depicted thing was. He said (in his unprofessional opinion) it was vomit from a dog who had eaten sausage with a lot of red dye in it (because he has seen this happen before). All I know is whoever (or WHATEVER) discharged this (one of the most revolting things I have ever seen in New York City— and this is really saying something) should probably visit a doctor…
or an exorcist.
Miss Heather
P.S.: I puked a little inside while writing this post.
Real Estate Insanity: East Williamsburg Style
As found in a bodega on Metropolitan Avenue.
Miss Heather
Subway Video Do Jour: Love On The L
Filed under: Area 51
This item comes courtesy of Greenpoint’s one and only Bitchcakes whose latest (and hilarious) post has to do with a B61 bus driver trying to purchase pussy willows for his sweetie from World of Flowers. Check it out!
Miss Heather
Express Yourself!
Earlier this week the Mister asked me what I want to do for Valentine’s Day. I told him (in all seriousness) I wanted to go bowling— and so we are. I have told my friends about this and they think it is hilarious. I, on the other hand, fail to see what the big deal is and therein lies the rub.
For wont of another way of putting it I am not the most warm, fuzzy and sentimental gal to be found. Sloppy protestations of love and bouquets of flowers— at the very best— will confuse me. More likely than not I’ll get very suspicious and think you trying to pull something over on me. That’s just the way I am and at this point I seriously doubt I am going to change. So be it. After a few misfires the Mister has learned this.
No mushy stuff necessary or cheesy cards, thanks. I not only don’t want ’em but I don’t need ’em: reading someone else’s billets doux is a hell of a lot more fun. Some of you might remember (and if you do are probably doing your utmost to forget) the recent cache of naughty foot fetish goodness I found at the junk shop a couple weeks ago. Well, I have some very good new (for me, anyway): now I have a some letters to go with them! Having trouble expressing yourself to your lady love this Valentine’s Day? Why not take a few tips from these guys? You’ll be certain to get her attention— and possibly a restraining order too!
EXHIBIT A
V-Day Tip #1: Always make sure your letter is neat and legible.
V-Day Tip #2: Use the phrase ROYAL TOE JAM.
If you follow these directions you might get a doggy biscuit!
EXHIBIT B
Remember the movie Sleepless In Seattle? God, I hated that film. Well, here’s its little known (and infinitely more fun) sequel. It is called Naked On My Knees In Queens.
After reading this a few questions come to mind:
- Why don’t I get mail like this?
- Why does every man who comes a courtin’ claim he is “very good looking”? God has made plenty of room in this world for dog shit ugly. Oh has he ever. Don’t believe me? Then I would like to humbly suggestion you take a long hard look at Aerosmith nowadays. Any questions?
EXHIBIT C
I know at least one person out there reading this is a musician. Would you please start a bad (or at the very least write a song) called “White Trash Doormat”? PLEEEEEEEEEEEEZE.
EXHIBIT D
Of course there is something to be said about just being upfront and to the point.
Miss Heather
Presenting The Pee Pee Phone
Filed under: Area 51
Yesterday I shared with you the good news about Shitfone. Today I introduce to you for your reading pleasure a new(ish) blog from the East Village entitled Slum Goddess. In her latest installment our heroine waxes poetic about the “Pee Pee Phone”. S.G. writes:
These lovely images are of The Pee Phone located by Ray’s Candy Store on the corner of Avenue A and 7th street. This phone booth reflects the very definition of decadence. I have observed all kinds of craziness happening in and about this phone. For one thing, everyone and their mother pees on it. Sometimes they purposely pee on the receiver just for an added bonus…
Yup, and it only gets better.
Miss Heather
Best. Valentine’s Day Promotion. EVER.
Filed under: Area 51
A couple months ago we had a BIG problem at Chez Shitty. After arriving home from a night of birthday celebrating and bowling we discovered a bed soaked in piss. Of the feline variety. This was hardly conducive to a good night’s sleep but proved to be a source of considerable and much heated debate at the time.
Theories abound as to how this came to pass. Here is mine: ever since Tortilla left us his brother Artemis has taken up the cause of picking on my cat Frances. To use parlance borrowed from my buddy Brian (over at Heeb Magazine) Artemis takes great delight presiding over the cat box in our bedroom like “a Sudanese warlord”. But unlike Sudanese warlords, Artie (as I call him, because being saddled with a female name is probably one of the sources of his churlishness) is not interested in starving Frances or raping her. Rather, he wants to bar access to her cat box. Her solution to this problem is to hold it as long as she can until she can’t. That’s when our bed gets a golden shower the likes of which render our sheets, bedspread and mattress pad unfit for human habitation.
I consider myself to be a principled person. Among the stringent (if contextually flexible) moral code I live by is this statute: I will sleep in no one else’s piss but my own. This has yet to happen, but you know how the Boy Scouts motto goes: be prepared. Unlike myself Mr. Heather was a Boy Scout and to this end he saw fit to purchase what I call a “pee pad”. Not just any pee pad but one with space age technology. A 21st century commodity to redress age-old incontinence.
This item came from none other than the Bedwetting Store. And I was charged with the task of staying home so as sign for the package. Lucky me. Initially I found this to be a bit distressing. Would you want your neighbors to see a parcel addressed to you with “THE BEDWETTING STORE” on the return address.
Long story made short: it didn’t. This is a shame as I was coming around to the idea that being a client of the Bedwetting Store might give me some much-needed street cred. Inasmuch as my more youthful (READ: cool) female brethren here have taken to dressing like Frankenhooker or spinsters my inner cool spotter told me incontinence, surgical stockings and orthopedic shoes may very become the new “cowboy boots with sundress” soon enough. But alas the brains behind the Bedwetting Store were discreet and listed Uresis Associates LLC (or something to that effect) on the package. Damn.
Nonetheless Mr. Heather* has been on their mailing list ever since. Which brings me (finally) to the subject of this post.
Nothing says “Happy Valentine’s Day” like pee-resistent bedding, underwear with electronic piss detectors, shit stain removers or other uresis related “accessories“. Like most deeds most dirty, the perversion lies not in the contents of one’s pants but in the most sordid recesses of one’s own imagination (and fucked up childhood).
If the above is your idea of a good time (and you know who you are) get thee over to the Bedwetting Store. STAT.
Miss Heather
*Who has yet to provide feedback regarding his purchase via their Amazon store— for reasons I suspect many of you can well imagine. I’ll probably end up ghost-writing the review for him.
From The New York Shitty Inbox
As some of you can probably imagine I, the proprietress of New York Shitty, get some pretty interesting emails on occasion. Some would say this is due to the “Law of Attraction”. I disagree: the Internet in and of itself is a haven for cranks of all stripes. Thankfully the following missive (which I received Saturday night) is not of the cranky variety; it is a business proposition and a damned compelling one at that. Lee writes (in an email entitled Monologue Machines and Shitfone):
I love your photos and writing. I have this software project I’m working on…
It was inspired by your photos, one of which I would like to be the background for the application’s user interface. Would you be down with that? I promise it’ll do your work justice.
After some consideration (and consultation with the Mister) I acquiesced:
Dear Mr. or Ms. (excised):
Before I get to down to business I have to say this is one of the oddest emails I have received to date (and believe you me, I have gotten some real DOOZIES). This is not to suggest I am off-put by your request. I am not. I am strangely touched by it— if for no other reason than to know someone else out there enjoys the manifold ways people in this fine city see fit to desecrate public pay phones.
The previous having been said I am tentatively amenable to you using my image(s). I say “tentative” because here’s what I suggest to/ask of you in return:
1. If you need higher resolution images (which I suspect you might) let me know so I can hunt them down and forward them to you.
2. The Greenpoint monologue machine: if my memory serves me correctly it has accumulated even more detritus (beer bottles, cigarette packs, etc.). I can send you a newer image if you wish.
3. I am given credit for my images.
4. (most importantly) If you make a shit load of money off this software I want stock. This Greenpoint gal is always looking for a golden parachute. Taking photographs of fucked up pay phones— while enjoyable— doesn’t pay for shit. Perhaps some day I can cash ’em out and buy one of those fancy condos they’re building on McGuinness Boulevard.Let me know— and thanks for your inquiry! It made my day.
Inspired by the prospect of becoming software mogul (and having a rooftop terrace overlooking our very own Shit Tits) I paid the Monologue Machine a visit yesterday. Not only is the owner of the bodega (where this item is located) a big fan of this retro-fitted anti-communication device, but he told me a great many people have stopped by and taken pictures of it. Who knew? Maybe the time for Shitfone has, indeed, come?
Miss Heather
Say It Ain’t So: Lux Interior Is Dead
Filed under: Area 51
My fondest memory of the Cramps has nothing to do whatsoever with the band per se (although I had the pleasure of seeing them live and love their music). It has to do with my father: Pa Heather. Back in the day before i-Tunes I drew up a list of items I would like for Christmas. In my wish list I included (for shits and giggles) “Smell of Female” by the Cramps on compact disc. Being the dutiful dad Pa Heather was (and is) he went to the local music store, asked one of their employees for help finding “Smell of Female” and purchased it. Although my father made it sound like a chore at the time I think he rather enjoyed it.
Thank you Lux for the great music (A Date With Elvis is in high rotation in this here household), laughs and bringing my (sometimes closeted but subversive nonetheless) family closer together!
Come tomorrow morning I am sticking out my can for the garbage man. Not just out of respect for Lux Interior, but as a married woman I take all the cheap thrills I can get!
Miss Heather
P.S.: Actually I know of another story about the Cramps. My boss Larry da Junkman once shaved the word “Cramps” in his back hair and flashed it at Lux, et. al. at one of their concerts. It apparently made quite the impression as Mr. Interior later mentioned it in a radio show.
From The New York Shitty Inbox: Red Dawn
Filed under: Area 51
It would appear that Staten Island Chuck’s bit(e) of direct action earlier this week has spawned its own clothing line. It is called Viva Chuck, it can be found on Cafepress and I learned of it courtesy of a woman who calls herself Lillet Langtry.*
I like the Che angle but for the sake of Dialectical Materialism I have to confess: I wish his little paw was upraised and brandishing an AK-47. This would appeal more to my petit bourgeois capitalist— soon-to-be Lumpenproletariat— sensibilities. In any case there’s at least one red in Staten Island. Who knew?
Then again it was once written that four legs are indeed better than two. But of course sporting a sharp set of choppers doesn’t hurt!
…No question now, what had happened to the faces of the pigs. The creatures outside looked from pig to man, and from man to pig, and from pig to man again; but already it was impossible to say which was which.
— George Orwell
Miss Heather
*Which is a great moniker, by the way!
NYS Flickr Pool
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