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