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Halloween Video du Jour: Miss Heather Goes To Clinton Hill
Yesterday it came to my attention via Gothamist that some folks had the temerity to say Greenpoint Halloween goodness is second to that to be found in Clinton Hill. hulaedwyn wrote:
This is pretty great, but IMHO, the house at 313 Clinton Ave in Brooklyn is better. And they have a show.
rarelement kicks it up a notch by stating:
This is NOTHING. Come to Clinton Avenue between DeKalb and Lafayette in Brooklyn on Halloween night…
Sure, Clinton Hill may roll out a good show come Halloween— but what about decapitated heads puking up blood? Satanic clowns? Or green vomit? This is the stuff the Garden Spot of the Universe is made of dear readers —and not exclusively on October 31 either! In my fair burgh every day is Halloween.
To this end I whipped out my Metrocard and headed down to Clinton Hill to see what all the fuss was about.
It is not my wish to diss my fellow G train travelers to the south. Rather, I suspect they espouse a different philosophy than we do up north. Namely, they think Halloween is for kids.
chuzzlewit got it right when she wrote about the above menagerie:
we live close to here, every october my daughter wants to move. we spend the whole month talking her down.
Night terrors and bed-wetting are what Halloween is really about. To Greenpoint adults, anyway.
Humor your neighbors to the north, Clinton Hill. We have beheld the true face of terror: it has six legs and a taste for blood!
Miss Heather
P.S.: You can see pix from my brief Clinton Hill excursion by clicking here.
Williamsburg Photo du Jour: Bridge To Nowhere
From Bedford Avenue.
Miss Heather
P.S.: For more fun stuff about Ms. Palin click here.
Be advised much of the previous and follows is disgusting.
I for one like her charging rape victims (or their insurance companies) for rape kits (to save the taxpayers the expense). I have worked with victims of violent crime. It is not an experience I will forget anytime soon. Have you ever had a mother SCREAMING at you over the phone that a hospital turned over charges for her daughter’s rape kit to a collection agency?
I have. I referred her to the local “rape shelter”. They paid for it.
Have you ever had a mother yell at you because her son (10 years old, raped by “a man of the cloth”) is trying to kill himself and needs medication?
I have. I referred her to the “boss”. The boss took her call. He got his meds.
Have you, Sarah Palin, ever seen the face of sexual violence? I don’t think so. It was a parade of shameful parents and children passing my desk. Apologizing to me for being there. To get financial assistance for something that was outside their control.
Do you think rape victims were asking for it, Sarah? Or were are they simply a tax a burden?
The office I worked at was funded largely by V.A.W.A.: Violence Against Women Act. If my memory serves me correctly Joe Biden’s office was responsible for this, not you.
Your creds are as follows, Sarah:
- Beauty Queen/MILF (look it up)
- Marginally qualified, but panders to the religious right and has a twat
- Your future son-in-law is a train wreck. He chewed gum “like a tool” during the RNC. We, being the jaded and godless New Yorkers we are, find him fascinating.
I eagerly look forward to your Veep debate Sarah. Cry sexism as much as you want, Biden did more for women than you ever did. Or will.
Penn Street Puke: Crapification Is Almost Complete!
I wrote about this lovely renovation abomination back in May. It even moved me enough to attempt a definition. Here it is:
Crapification (crap’-if-fic-ka-shen) n. Restoration of a deteriorated but otherwise tasteful old building with a total disregard for aesthetics and/or context. —crap’-i-fy’ v. (ified, fying, -fies) See: the building at the southeastern corner of Penn Street and Harrison Avenue in Williamsburg.
I am pleased to announce that as of August 24, 2008 this building has surpassed my expectations…
in terms of abject hideousness. Note the careful placement of air conditioning boxes. Will they be Fedders? I can only hope so!
My question is what happened to the building behind the crap? Looks like they demolished it if you ask me. Was this legal? I don’t know. No one seems to care so why should I?
Besides, just look at this great balcony!
Miss Heather
Ad Council Intervention
I encountered this nugget of Ad Council hilarity on Lorimer Street yesterday. I’m guessing the point of this advert is to inform users of the BQE (automobile drivers all) that global warming is BAD. Indeed auto emissions are bad. But smothering a building in advertecture strikes me as being somewhat worse. for this reason I felt a few modifications were in order.
You know, I am getting pretty darn good at Photoshop if I may so myself.
Miss Heather
Will The Real Belvedere III Please Stand Up?
The beauty of exposing Bridge/Belvedere Realty’s ineptitude is they make it so easy. The downside is I can barely keep up with their quasi-luxury progeny. The good news is they can’t either.
If Belvedere III is located on Powers Street, why did I find this?
135 North 9th Street is a long way from Powers. The fine folks at Bridge Realty should hire me to do ad copy for their “Hot Locations” in Williamsburg. It is obvious I keep better track of their crap than they do.
Miss Heather
Turdy Tomfoolery
One of my credentials for being a Dog Shit Queen has nothing whatsoever to do with dogs; I am the keeper of one of the most disgusting cats that ever walked this planet. After a period of relative inactivity last night “Stinky” (whose real name is Frances) lived up to her moniker with a vengeance.
My first attempt at going to bed was at 9:30. I was very tired. As I laid in bed waiting to doze off, my next door neighbors decided to fire up one of the worst-smelling spliffs I have ever whiffed. One of them even said:
This is the sorriest joint I have ever seen.
As the odor began to waft into my apartment I found myself agreeing with her. Whoever sold this woman that shit must have laughed his (or her) ass off all the way to the bank. “I can’t sleep smelling that shit.” I groused while getting out of bed. I played on the computer for an hour and tried to go back to bed again.
I laid there. I got up and had a glass milk. I resumed laying there. No sleep in Brooklyn.
shugga, shooooogah, shoogah— blech!
Frances deposited a pile of gack on my side of the bed.
Pleased by the artful placement of this pile of puke, “Stinky” elected to do an encore.
BLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLECH!
“God, will she ever stop?” I thought to myself as the perfume of rancid cat food ravaged my nostrils. She then hopped onto the bed in the hopes of getting a little post-vomitous cuddling. It was midnight. I had yet to fall asleep. This is when a new odor manifested for my olfactory pleasure.
UGH!!!! IT SMELLS LIKE SHIT IN HERE!
I hopped out of bed and grabbed a paper towel; I know the drill. “Are you going to help me with this Sam?” I shouted.
I’m trying to sleep.
He whined. This was not the answer I was looking for, so I turned on the bedroom light. “You could help me with this, you know.” I said.
I’M TRYING TO SLEEP!
He shouted while squirming like a 200+ pound night crawler.
I’M TRYING TO SLEEP TOO. BUT IT’S KIND OF HARD TO DO WHEN THE BEDROOM SMELLS LIKE SHIT!
I replied. My husband was born in the year of the pig. This is the only explanation I can come up with as to why he can sleep in a room waller that smells like crap.
It was clear I was on my own so I held Frances down with one hand and proceeded to remove the shit biscuit that was caked to her ass with the other. This is not an easy task when you have 13 pounds of feline resistance fighting you every step of the way. Hubby slept through the entire procedure.
Having accomplished my mission I got an idea. Tip-toeing quietly I sauntered to his side of the bed, leaned over and held this morsel two inches away from his nose. His nose twitched in displeasure, then his eyes opened.
OH MY GOD!!!
He bellowed.
“I was trying to SLEEP!” he whined. Was, indeed! Tee-hee!
“Tough shit.” I said and proceeded to the kitchen so I could ditch the shit and laugh my ass off.
My ears might have been playing tricks on me, but I swear I heard him mumble the word “bitch” before rolling over and going back to sleep.
Miss Heather
Toxic Waste in Greenpoint
Feeling the holiday spirit, I decided to whip up some tasty goodies to nibble on July 4th. My menu du jour was:
- Tomato Salad
- Baked Eggplant
- Hummus
- Brie
- Sourdough baguette
All the previous were delicious, by the way. But the purpose of this post is not to boast of my culinary prowess. Rather, it is to expound upon an unpleasant task I had to perform BEFORE prepping the above foodstuffs: cleaning out the refrigerator.
Since I have more time at my disposal (and have a lower threshold for abject filth), I perform most of the household cleaning. I do not want to suggest that my husband does nothing; he does some work— just not as much.
I am by no means a poster child for stellar home economics myself; when one of our cats throws up I usually wait a little while before cleaning it up. I do this because more often than not one of our other cats will come along and eat it. This apartment is a little ecosystem and why should I be so presumptuous as to tamper with it— especially since if it means there is less work for me to do? I ascribe to the Tom Sawyer work ethic: why whitewash a fence if you can trick some rube into doing it for you? Work smart, not hard.
The previous having been said, yes I was a co-enabler of the horrors you are about to behold. But— and this is a BIG BUT— I am not the only person in this household to blame. Capiche?
The last 2-3 weeks I have been insanely busy. My husband, however, recently took seven days off.
Seven.
Days.
Off.
Question: What happens when Heather is running around like a madwoman because she has to work extra hours and has no Internet or telephone service?
Answer: Nothing. And by “nothing” I mean our refrigerator continues its transformation from a place of nourishment into something more akin to Chernobyl.
Tuesday, July 3rd, 5:30 p.m.
After a whole day of procrastination I finally got the wherewithal to confront my enemy: several months of festering foodstuffs. I was assisted and/or anesthetized by several glasses White Zinfindel. To do such an onerous and repulsive task completely sober was decidedly NOT an option. The following rogue’s gallery of rotten food should help you understand why. (If you have the means, please play “The End” by the Doors while viewing. — Ed. Note)
Exhibit A
Estimated Age: Three Months
Getting my husband to eat vegetables is a bit of a task. For this reason I will occasionally put rice in my tomato salad as an enticement. The white stuff in the above salad is not rice.
Exhibit B
Estimated Age: Four Months
This is was Nigerian Bean Stew. I got the recipe from Madhur Jaffrey’s World Vegetarian Cookbook. Since I only make this dish during cooler, wet months (because it bears a strong similarity to chili), I estimate its age to be four months.
Exhibit C
Estimated Age: Unknown
…don’t you make make brown rice blue…
I have no friggin idea how old this is. When I threw it into the garbage can a puff of blue dust tickled my nostrils. Scrumptious.
Exhibit D
Estimated Age: Probably three months
I couldn’t find a “eat by” date on this container. This made me a little nervous, as rotten dairy food makes one helluva stink.
*Whew!* It’s just a bunch of rotten onions. Judging from how coursely they are chopped, I can safely state that this is my husband’s handiwork.
Exhibit E
Estimated Age: Three— possibly four— months
Of all the rotten food I sorted, this one by far smelled the worst.
When I was a kid my parents had some friends who had a son my age. These people also had a teenage son who would occasionally be charged with babysitting the two of us. Big mistake.
One time he sat us at his grandparent’s house in California. Both his grandparents had emphysema and would cough up lung cookies into a coffee can. One time, when I was left alone with this sadistic motherfucker, he shoved my face into this can. I mention this story because the above goo reminds me of what I saw.
The previous is only a selection of the revolting substances I handled last Tuesday. There was more. Much, much more. When my husband arrived home I stood in the kitchen, seething. Upon noticing that I had cleaned out the refrigerator he said:
…I had been meaning to do that but I was waiting…
“FOR ME TO DO IT!” I bellowed.
Nothing else was said.
And on that note, dear readers, I too have nothing else to say. Save perhaps that I have left a “present” in the refrigerator for my husband to find. I won’t say what it is, but I will tell you it is six months old.
Miss Heather
This pretty much speaks for itself
Filed under: Vomit
I saw this sign as I was leaving for work this morning; it was posted on the inside of my apartment building’s front door. It has since been removed.
What the author of this sign doesn’t realize is the foul odor permeating our building is not vomit. The Stupor finally got around to cleaning out apartment 6 a couple of days ago. This apartment has been vacant since last November.
Among the items removed were (six month old) rotten food* and used vintage cat litter. As a result, our hallways smell like a combination of homeless person ass-crack and limburger cheese. The Stupe, in his infinite wisdom, attempted to conceal this malodorous perfume with some generic form of Pine-Sol. The results of this futile attempt at ‘damage control’ are truly eye-watering.
Miss Heather
*He also threw out the refrigerator, which I could smell from my own living room 20+ feet away!
Ewwwwww!
I have been chasing dog crap for well over a year now. Consequently, I find myself constantly scouring the ground for new ‘treasure’. Even at home. Five minutes ago I became very grateful to have this odd but otherwise innocuous habit; as I was exiting my apartment I noticed someone (or something) had deposited puddle of phlegm (or gack) directly outside my front door.
Think twice before you click the above link. It’s friggin’ nasty.
Miss Heather
PLEASE DEMOLISH THIS HOUSE!
These are desperate times for us Greenpointers. On the one hand, you have cool old buildings getting razed to build yet more unwanted ‘luxury housing’; on the other, you have this SHITHOLE which, in my opinion, cannot get torn down soon enough.
Anyone who has lived on this block for any appreciable period of time will tell you about the former residents of this building, 151 Green Street: a perpetually drunk old woman and her son. Although I found her practice of chaining her wheelchair(s) to the fence to prevent theft darkly amusing, the same cannot be said about the frequent visits made by EMS to collect her drunken ass. I wasn’t too big on her son’s proclivity for passing out on their stoop either. Charming.
The more observant of you (readers) will notice that there are several permits posted in the window of this property. One of them sanctions the demolition of this house. To the best of my recollection these were put up about a month ago, maybe a little longer. I remember quietly rejoicing when I got the news and have been eagerly waiting for the big day to come.
I am still waiting. In the meantime, a new (and equally dysfunctional) ‘family unit’ seems to have moved in: a trio of junkies. They have taken to lounging around on the sidewalk and passing GARGANTUAN BOWEL MOVEMENTS wherever the mood suits them. Like the one I found in front of my apartment building this morning.
They also left their ‘calling card’ on my stoop.
This has got to stop. I do not think it is either an unreasonable or a presumptuous demand to be able to exit one’s building without stepping in someone’s barf. Seriously folks, it’s fucking nasty.
Miss Heather
NYS Flickr Pool
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