knifefight in BK

knuckle up (your nose)

 

My favorite thing to see on the subway is businessmen acting like wee, brain-damaged children. Like our friend, here. He's dressed to the nines, immaculately groomed, reading his li'l magazine, taking up 6 seats with his massive balls, and knuckle deep on a booger hunt. WINNER! I was waiting for the 6 to take an unexpected jolt resulting in his improvised lobotomy (oops!) but that didn't happen. Not pictured: the woman sitting next to me who stared at that guy for a good 8 stops (yes! you CAN pick your nose for 8 consecutive stops), slowly shaking her head. Subway magic.

i return on 999, like the upside-down demon i am.

Oh, hai! I've been all sorts of busy so I kind of, you know, forgot how to write or use a computer or, you know, wash and feed myself. Sorry about that! It's a long and involved story about how we moved, and we had no interwebz for like ever, and then my grad school program started, and... now I have tape all over my face. But I digress. Let's talk about what's REALLY important, namely the fact that apparently it's cool to completely lose your mind, toss on some jaunty green lace gloves, and hop aboard the W train. See, some people would be all, "How is she crazy? Gloves aren't that weird." Yes, they are, and I'll tell you why. A. I took this picture in the sweatiest, grossest part of July, which means that (lace?) gloves are unnecessary clothing in the least clothing-friendly time of year, in addition to being completely bizarre on anyone who isn't doing a clever early Madonna impression or isn't a cute 14 year old Japanese girl. 7. Notice that our friend is wearing a blazer, recall that I took this in July, and notice that she's also carrying an additional jacket, slung over her briefcases, that appears to have been fashioned from an impossibly peppy quilt. H. I don't have to give more reasons. She's bonkers. 2 briefcases? Bonkers. And yes, they ARE briefcases. At one point she opened them both and they were all paper-filled. Maybe she's got a Kuato, and her leader of the Martian resistance wants its own briefcase and festive blazer, whatever, I don't know, but I DO know that it's weird and... I'm... back? So... yeah. I missed you all, and as long as my interwebz access continues unfettered and my glorious (glorious is code for moldy and kind of smelling of urine) on-campus studio doesn't swallow me whole, I will never abandon you again.

from the department of random things in vacant lots in brooklyn

Huh. I can pretty much confidently state that this rockin' NO FEEEEEEAAAARRRRRR jet ski is the weirdest thing I have EVER seen in a vacant lot in Brooklyn. I mean, mannequin parts? Done. Disassembled port-a-potty covered in what appear to be restaurant steam trays? Played out. A whole lot of old rice and chicken bones strewn about like an entire high school football team was trying to eat dinner while having a mass seizure? Soooo 2003. But this jet ski is something new entirely. A new era in vacant lot debris technology. It's like one of those weird giant boulders that glaciers ditch and thousands of years later people are all "Where the crap did this 8 story rock come from, and why is it in the middle of a field in Iowa?" Except it's a jet ski. Is this some weird urban version of having a busted car on cinderblocks in your yard? I don't know because I am not an anthropologist.

what won't be in the 2010 whitney biennial, exhibit A

So I'm minding my own business at the Whitney on Sunday, looking at arts, buying a pewter pretzel from the Art-O-Mat, basking in the soft, unsettling glow of Jenny Holzer's LEDs, doing other important things, when I had to pee. Maybe 4 years of going to a school that's attached to some of the least offensive museum bathrooms ever warped me, or softened me, or something, but WOW was I unprepared for the dystopian wasteland that is the Whitney Museum of American Art's ladies' room. It's like, one minute I'm staring at a stack of vacuums that Jeff Koons transformed into over 11 million dollars, the next minute I'm standing in a centimeter of toilet water in a decrepit highway rest stop. It's like some kind of really messed up portal that transports you from highbrow to sewer rat in under a second. Poof! Restroom of the post-apocalypse! But the shock of entering this damp hell isn't the important part of my rambling story. You see, I'm not one of those people who starts at the first stall right by the door. I like to pee in seclusion. So I was in the stall NEXT to the first stall, and I heard a steady-ish stream of ladies (I assume they were ladies) enter the first stall, make some sort of declaration or sound indicating disgust/repulsion, and then quickly find another stall. I was washing my hands (this brings me to the question as to why some women feel totally justified in spraying their urine all over a toilet seat and then have the balls to not even pretend to wash their hands, but that's another story for another day) when I saw an older woman open the stall and literally jump back. At this point, the restroom attendant, who had previously been chattering away on a headset while wiping up the sink area, entered the stall and stopped cold. "Hold on," she said, presumably to whomever was on the other end of her headset, "Oh, hell no. OH, HEEEEELLLLL NO." Then she burst into laughter, and exited the restroom. I had to look! I had to. This restroom was a wet, urine-soaked nightmare, what could possibly shock a woman who casually hangs out in a centimeter of piss-water all day? Let me tell you, friends, and I am not exaggerating: that log was the size of my forearm. It floated blissfully at the top of the bowl, the water just at that "oh no, please don't overflow, please please surface tension" level. The weirdest part? The water was clear. Like, no pee, no toilet paper. How did I have time to soak in all this detail, you ask? This image is seared into my brain. I could probably start a support group for the other ladies who walked in on Terror Log that day, I'm sure some of them are experiencing flashbacks, too. But I digress. So... it was just this single, gigantor-log, floating in a pristine, full to capacity bowl of toilet water. So here's my question: was this some weird neo-Dada thing? Some kind of weird reference to Chris Ofili's work - because that thing could have DEFINITELY come out of an elephant... All I know is this: ladies' rooms are nasty enough without people leaving gigantic mystery logs on display for all to witness (I'm talking to you, non-hand-washing seat-pissers). The Whitney bathrooms do NOT need help in the nastification department. They were doing quite well without your help, log lady (no no no, not that log lady). The best part of the story, in my opinion, is the follow up: my sister-in-law went to the restroom of horror a while later, not knowing my harrowing tale of repulsion and arm-sized excrement, and reported that "the first stall had caution tape across the door in an X." That's right, the log won. It claimed the stall for the country of crap. Poop FTW.

shopsin's plus drama equals magic?

If you're a fan of food/this documentary/bizarro NYC restaurants then you will/should know about Shopsin's. This restaurant is magic. In all caps. MAGIC. Magic with weird hours, limited seating, rules, and the most loveably surly staff ever. So, Tuesday, my ex-coworker pals met me at Shopsin's for general gluttony, and the following remarkable things happened: I managed to scour the like 300-item-plus menu and look beyond my beloved mac and cheese pancakes, and some escalator inside the adjacent Delancey St. F stop caught fire and filled our happy chunk of the indoor market with acrid black smoke. Wooo.. hoo? Look, I'm no foodie (in fact, I was just drinking pickle juice right out of the jar a moment before I sat down to write this), but I think it MEANS something when a cloud of electrical fire-smoke doesn't make your food taste bad. Ok? I'm not saying Kenny Shopsin is some kind of magical wizard of... magic... and wonder, but I'm not saying he's NOT some kind of magical magic wizard of magic and wonder and... magic. Let's also talk about the fact that it doesn't make sense that everything on that menu is ridiculously awesome. How do you do that? I've been places that couldn't get a pancake (one pancake) right, how do you make 300 things right? I would drink their hot sauce. I would literally rub it into my eyes, just to have it near me. Do you understand? Do you? I would eat the napkins there. And it's not just that Senior Shopsin is the Lord of The Spatula, ALL OF HIS KIDS CAN DO IT, TOO. They have, like, butter and magic in their genes. HOW DO YOU MAKE CHOCOLATE COCONUT PANCAKES SO GOOD THAT THICK BLACK SMOKE AND A BLARING FIRE ALARM DOESN'T DIMINISH THEIR AWESOMENESS?! How often do you go to a restaurant and say, "I bet this would taste just as good in a cloud of toxic smoke," or, "Wow, I hope the proprietor of this business starts a cult, because, man, I am ready to sacrifice myself to whatever Norse god he's into if it'll get me closer to these pancakes." Kenny Shopsin, for the win. 

THE END.

elegy

Obviously a fitting memorial for your used blow-up doll would be "by the sidewalk next to a supermarket." Duh. No brainer. Let's pretend for a second that I understand the logic there, and move on to other things. Other things like, for example, what in the crap you'd be doing at the supermarket with your blow-up doll. I will accept the following answers: 1. You keep your shopping list in her big old mouth, 2. You were using your blow-up doll as a cape of some sort, 3. You wanted to take the carpool lane on your way to buy some eggs, but no one alive or un-inflatable was available, and/or 4. You get lonely at the supermarket, like REALLY lonely. Let me describe for you the sequence of events that occurred on the lovely Sunday afternoon when I found our friend here: 1. We leave the supermarket with our supermarketly purchases. 2. We exit the parking lot. 3. While turning out of the lot, I remark to Justin, "Is that a blow-up doll?" 4. Silence. 5. Justin pulls over and I jog 50 yards back to verify that it IS, in fact, a blow-up doll. 6. I take pictures, because this is the kind of thing you must document, because it is ridiculous. 7. I jog 50 yards back to the car, faster this time because EWWW THAT WAS A BLOW-UP DOLL. And here we are now, discussing said blow-up doll. People, I don't judge. Maybe there's a really good reason to take your blow-up doll to the market! Maybe you felt like she deserved a greater role in your domestic life. That's nice. I'm not even going to ask. But... What is it that made you leave your... good friend... on your way out of the parking lot? Did you get into a fight? Did you feel like that was a fun place for her to hang out? Were you just getting her some... air... or something? Or, maybe you thought she was right back there in your backseat, chillin' with the lettuce you'd just bought, when she flapped secretly out the window. Well, I hope you didn't get home and freak out, like, "So, Gladys, should we make ziti tonight- NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!" Either way, if you... need... your friend back, she's still at the supermarket. Better hurry before some kids start poking her with sticks. Perv.

bread's dead, baby.

I don't know about you, but nothing makes me hungrier for baguettes than shopping for a deceased loved one's headstone. It's like, one minute you're thinking, "Would Grandma want the 'Angel in Repose' motif, or the 'Jesus with Lambs' relief," the next minute you're wondering if there's a bakery nearby, because, man, some baguettes would be really great right now. Fortunately for you and other weird people like you, the headstone shop by my house has all your bereavement AND baked goods needs covered in one place. Don't get me wrong, I know the economy's in the toilet right now, I'm not hating on the concept of expanding the scope of your retail possibilities, but BREAD in a BURIAL MONUMENT store is weird in any context. I mean, there have been plenty of times when I've walked past and thought, "Huh, I like bread," but the thought stops when I consider that I'd have to go into a headstone shop to retrieve said bread. That is weird. Ok, less weird than an actual mortuary selling baked goods, because then you'd be like, "Where are they baking this?" And the thought that your piping hot, fresh baguettes might've been chilling with dear departed Great Uncle Hank in the crematorium is frankly both a hilarious NY Post headline in the making, and kind of unsettling (unless dear old Great Uncle Hank's final wish was to be "one" with dinner rolls)(and really, that wouldn't be the weirdest thing people have done to the deceased). So anyway, if you're in the market for some rolls and a headstone, come to my 'hood for some one-stop shopping. All your bakery/burial monument needs in one place! I hope they start making commercials...

things in my neighborhood other than an elderly, candy-chucking pervert

Obviously, this is such a well done, clear picture that I don't have to explain it to you, but that's clearly Flight of the Conchord's Jemaine "the Hiphopopotamus" Clement walking down the street in my neighborhood with his lovely (as the picture clearly shows) lady and their baby. As you can see by my respectful "totally just playing with my phone/not a stalker" distance, I'm the kind of paparazzi with ethics. And a crap cameraphone... But mostly ethics. I've seen Mr. Clement in my eastern chunk of glorious Williamsburg several times, which proves both my theory that our side of the BQE is better/more awesome, and also my theory that we totally have better celebrity sightings because celebrities probably like to be near grumpy, elderly Italian people. That's right, friends (I'm talking to you, my one reader), the party side of the BQE is star studded, and we also have a healthy assortment of creepy "massage" parlors. Don't be jealous.

burlington soul-crushing factory (also, coats)

Burlington Coat Factory is depressing. This is a fact. This is like saying, "poop smells bad and I don't want to rub it on my face," in that if you don't think poop smells bad and DO want to rub it on your face, you are insane. Just like you're insane if you don't think Burlington Coat Factory is depressing. Here is some intel I gathered today:
-All of the scented candles at Burlington Coat Factory smell like the inside of a hot taxi, rat poison, or a hot, rat-poison-filled taxi. You will definitely die if you smell them.
-99% of the shoes at Burlington Coat Factory are only practical if you are a very tiny stripper, or a giant, really frumpy transvestite.
-Same with the underwear.
-Sad people will randomly start conversations with you. Sad, sad people.
-The Christmas music they're presently blasting is of the late 90s variety. Thanks for the slow, whispery, tinkling ladyvoices imploring Santa to "huuurrrraaaaayyyy down the chihihimnaaaaay," but I think this is a time in music I'd generally like to move past.
-It is not actually a factory.
-Old ladies talking to themselves in aisles 1-800.
I could go on, but then The Factory would win (in that the store's unstated goal is to devour your soul). Instead, let me share the following interactions I was a part of/witnessed in the Burlington Existential Angst Factory in the forgotten wing of lovely Atlantic Center Mall (aka the part with the DMV in it/the part that isn't Target). First: I'm standing in the housewares section, dying of scented candle-smell poisoning. I pull out a pack of gum (like it would magically suck the "allegedly mulberry" candle-death smell out of my sinuses - HA! No dice) and a woman appears next to me. "Can I bum one?" she asks. I'm confused because appearing out of nowhere and asking random strangers for gum in the middle of a store is weird, so I just kind of thrust the gum pack at her. "Oh no, " she says, "I thought that was a smoke." In her world, smokes look like gum, and you smoke them in a store. Lady, I don't want to live there. Exchange number 2: I'm looking at gloves. A little girl skips past me. She is singing "I hate my sister, I hate my sister, I hate my sister." Presumably this is why she is shopping for her at Burlington Depression Factory. My favorite exchange occurred while I was waiting to retrieve my bag from a normal store from the bag-check guy, and some large woman hoisted herself up onto the counter. Cashier: "Um, no. You better get down from the counter." Large woman: "Do you want me to pay? I've been waiting on a price check forever." Cashier: "You're going to need a price check for a counter repair if you don't get down, you are not a small woman." Actually, that last one might be a vote in favor of Burlington Emo Kid Factory. Don't try to convince me it's just the specific store I went to. All the Burlington Frown Factories are depressing. Does anyone else remember that jingle that went "Burlington Coat Factory, we're more than great coats (and what we are "more" of is sadness manifested in retail form, and don't tell anyone but the coats are mediocre at best and pretending these coats are "great" is proof of our vast intangible and tangible-in-coat-shapes sorrow)!" Me too. That's a lot of subtext for a jingle. But, all true. I hope your holiday shopping is less dramatic than mine, but if you live in New York, it's totally not, is it? You know what I'm talking about. You'd go into the Sad Factory, too, just because it's empty and "OMG if another Hasidic woman runs over my foot with her fucking stroller and then glares at me I'm going to rip her wig off and eat it, wait is that store completely empty, I'm going THERE, oh crap it's Burlington Coat Factory, whatever I'm just going to stand in the scented candle aisle and stare until the urge to scream passes." Happy Holidays.

the humane society is neither humane nor social, discuss.

I took my ladies to the vet yesterday, because airlines have some crazy restrictions about NOT bringing rabid, crazed animals on board their planes. Who knew? Traveling anywhere with my cats, like, say from one room to another, always carries the potential for hilarious mishaps, so I'm generally pretty braced for the worst/most hilarious when we have to go anywhere outside the apartment. Once I frantically shoved them into their bags and made my way out of the apartment, I spent a good 5 minutes reflecting on the fact that there are few things funnier than walking around with 2 yowling, thrashing duffel bags strapped to my body. I imagine this sight would freak the crap out of, say, intelligent alien life. Or people who don't own cats. We got to the Humane Society pretty uneventfully, and the ladies were pretty chill in spite of the fact that we were sitting in a complete freakshow of a waiting room for about 45 minutes past way too long. My favorite thing about my fellow pet owners is that a solid 75% of them are seemingly completely insane. I was sitting across from a woman who held a rambling 15 minute conversation with her daschunds. I know, I know. I talk to my cats. I'm not saying I don't talk to my cats. I don't, however, talk to them for 15 straight minutes about our plans for the day, what they think about me, or how I think they're enjoying their time in the waiting room. I just talk to my cats about important stuff, like, "Do you guys see that crazy woman over there, talking to her dogs? Seriously." The best part about this is that I don't think anyone really noticed, because they were all too busy being completely bonkers themselves. One woman was talking to her cocker spaniel about how he looked silly when he acted all tough, and if he kept growling at everyone who walked in, they might have to talk about that whole "getting fixed" thing seriously. The man next to me had a giant, filthy dog that was totally farting it up. That's the bonus to this place, it smelled like donuts and dog farts. Why? The dog farts I can explain, but who could eat donuts in a cloud of dog farts? The man with the farting dog, that's who. So we sat there for just long enough for me to wonder if he could even TASTE the donuts through the dog farts, when they called me into the back, and we had the usual exchange where the vet tries to convince me that my cats probably have terrible, life-threatening conditions, and I am a horrible person, and I should probably sell one or both kidneys to be able to afford a bunch of tests to TRULY understand why Mog likes to poop on the couch because there's no way it's a simple, free explanation like, "She gets pissed when you guys leave the house for longer than an hour, so she's like, [email protected]#K YO' COUCH!" But the moral of the story is that the Humane Society is only a humane place for people who like sitting in a cold room full of dog flatulence and crazy people. The cherry in top is that when I finally left, I had to hail a cab, and since it was about negative 50 degrees out and the vet is located in the heart of rich old lady (hence, cab-stealing) land, I stood on a freezing streetcorner with 2 shivering, angry bags of cat for a good 10 minutes before any unoccupied cabs even appeared. And some lady tried to cockblock my cab-hailing by standing a foot in front of me and pretending that was an ok thing to do, to test a freezing, determined woman with 2 unhappy cats strapped to her shoulders. Try me, lady. I will spay you. I made sure to give her a thumbs up when I ran across the street and grabbed the first taxi that appeared. I think the cats are still pissed at me, and I'm not sure if it's because I let some strange people probe and poke them, or if I brought them to crazy dogfart town. I don't blame them either way.

crazy sandwich

One of the best things about the crazy-person population of New York is the amazing variety of insanity you can experience on any given street corner. There's the guy who sometimes shows up outside Justin's office building in nothing but a very small towel sometimes! The guy screaming into an Onion newspaper box for some reason! The chain-smoking lady on the subway who keeps telling people and various empty seats to SHUT UP while she angrily slaps at them/nothing! It's a veritable panoply of psychiatric disorders on parade! While I know in my heart that no crazy person on the street will ever be able to shock and confuse me as much as the blood-splattered guy who came up to me at a bus stop in Chicago, waving a Snapple bottle with a pigeon's head in it (YES. I MEAN IT.) and excitedly telling me how he was going to kill Buddy Guy with his sword because Buddy Guy controlled the el trains, I saw something that certainly won a special place on my list of really creative insane people: THE RAVING SANDWICH. This gentleman was standing on 9th avenue one evening, wearing a sandwich costume, screaming unintelligibly and sort of flailing. You get used to a lot of weird crap on the street when you live in a city, but I have seen few things more unsettling and at the same time endearing than this clearly unhinged giant sandwich. Maybe it's that I generally assume that giant, anthropomorphic foods are gentle creatures... and not completely effing bonkers, maybe it's that the image of a stomping, yelling sandwich is just really, really funny, but there's something SPECIAL about the raving sandwich of 9th ave. For the record, it was clearly a Subway sandwich mascot, and he was definitely on the same block as a Subway sandwicherie, but unlike his mentally stable brother in Chicago, THIS guy's screaming had little to do with further the brand image in any immediately clear way. Unless their new slogan is "Subway! Because aliens are living in your toothpaste." Good times.

return to the social security office (of horror)

  Hi! Sorry I disappeared, I was getting married. But enough about me, let's talk about the Brooklyn Social Security Office! You might know this place by its formal name, "The Land of Eternal Sadness and Agony and Lines." If you're keeping track of a complete stranger like a weirdo, you'll recall that I have been to this shrieking Hell before, and it was possibly the most harrowing adventure ever to be undertaken in the history of mankind, ever, ever, ever, EVER. There was aggressive rectal anarchy, there were pork rinds, that's more than any government office should ever force on you. If you're asking yourself right now WHY I'd decide to spend another glorious afternoon in a douchebag sandwich, let me tell you about   how both Jesus and the government are, like, SO against me: I can't just mail stuff in and have the Social Security Office acknowledge my legal name change, because I, total depraved bastard that I am, CHOSE TO LIVE IN BROOKLYN. Like a jerk! And what does the Social Security department think of my fellow Brooklynites, and our brethren in Queens, Orlando, Phoenix, or Las Vegas? They just don't like us. It's all "Hey guys! Getting a new/revised/pine-scented Social Security Card is easy! Just scrawl your X on this line, spend 42 cents, and WHEEEE! It's Christmas! Except for everyone in Brooklyn, Queens, Orlando, Las Vegas, or Phoenix, 'cause FUCK THOSE GUYS! You guys can go stand uncomfortably close to a gassy elderly woman for 3 hours, assholes! Ha!" That's... bastardly. I can't speak for Orlando, Las Vegas, or Phoenix, but... I will because I imagine their local Social Security office is just as hellishly ridiculous as mine: This is bullshit. It's really smart, though, to force people in really crowded areas to have to get their Social Securitizin' done in person in the world's least efficient office ever, because at least half the people who bother to take the time to show up will probably die of heatstroke, old age, or typhus while waiting to be served. It's super smart! Hey, let's kill off half our potential clients! Neat! My OWN personal joyous fun time mostly involved the woman behind me who was kind of half-leaning on my back while angrily (ANGRILY) discussing the flaws of this particular office with herself, and the small, entertaining child who appeared to be hell-bent on dismantling the waiting area piece by piece while his mother stood by, mouth wide open, possibly having been diagnosed brain dead like 20 years prior. I hope you enjoy the pictures I took to showcase this young man's awesome talents and psychotic flailing! If only I could've recorded his incessant shrieking, and the parts where he would run up to a random woman and start slapping her thigh and screaming MAMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMA! while his mother essentially drooled into her purse. Oh, and I would've loved to have captured for posterity the moment where Deputy Douche (the security 'tard who made me throw away my water and then proceeded to awkwardly hit on me for a solid hour) asked if anyone wanted to claim their child before he got injured by the door he was attempting to scale. I believe this child is science's first successful human/hummingbird hybrid - his mother offered further proof by furnishing him with some kind of Tic Tacs, which I believe are the primary food source of the HumanBird (name pending review). The moral of this story: if you live in one of the Social Security Administration's Least Favorite Places (TM) like I do, be smart and don't change your name in any sort of legal way, or develop your own obnoxious personal habit/bring a crazed toddler/brain yourself with a chunk of cement a few times before you go. Or, hey! Just move to Canada. That's totally my Plan B.

street meat (ha ha get it?)

Having lived in major metropolitan areas, I feel like I've gotten past any discomfort about homeless people. They're there, you'll go broke if you give change to everyone who asks, and the ones who aren't crazy or running intricate scams are just normal people who don't have a house and might have several jackets on at once and probably aren't real thrilled to be sifting through that garbage can. I takes a lot to make me pull a "terrified small child gawk" (aka "the Midwestern staaaaaaare") at this point in my life. I can now say that standing right in the middle of the sidewalk, looking like David the Gnome in greyscale, fully exposing your penis falls into the category of "things I WILL gawk at." That's right! I saw homeless David the Gnome's genitals. Because they were on full, joyous display, in spite of Mr. the Gnome's shirt being fastened securely to his pants at the sides. The major design flaw in pinning your pants to your shirt JUST at the sides seems to be that your penis and testicles may or may not be exposed in the approximate 2 foot gap between articles of clothing at the front (the front being where the male reproductive organs generally can be found, and perhaps an area warranting a pinning more than, say, the sides). Naturally, I did enough of a rubberneck when I walked past to notice that his pants were securely attached in the back. I mean, naturally. It kind of reminded me of the time I was walking into my dentist's office in Chicago and this nice woman in a sweatsuit backed up against the corner of the building, yanked her pants down to her feet, leaned forward, and unleashed a torrential downpour of urine with unbelievably impressive aim - all while yelling at someone across the street. But I digress. David the Gnomeless, you definitely snapped me right out of my post-boxing stupor, and I really wish I didn't have to see your penis. I'm a little curious as to WHY your penis was flapping out in the breeze because it was pretty chilly and rainy today, but I didn't think it would be very cool to stop and point out that your genitals were making a grand appearance. Especially if that was the "look" you were going for. Sir. I mean, if Tara Reid can walk around with her entire breast flapping in the breeze, I suppose it could happen to anyone. Right? 

the end is nigh

Did anyone else notice that it's a sunny, pleasant 67 degrees out today? I'm not one to be unsettled by... unsettling... weather phenomena, but if Mayor McCheese rises over the city, weeping rivers of Shamrock Shake, or all the pigeons form like Voltron into a giant homeless guy, obliterating every bakery in sight (or whatever else is supposed to happen when it's summer in January in New York and our country is actually considering a politician who isn't a homey, Southern white dude), could someone let me know? I'll be busy crafting serious aluminum helmets for us and the cats, and, I don't know, maybe setting fire to the local American Apparel store. Thanks guys!

melt-banana is awesome

Ok, if you want to understand the majesty that is Melt-Banana live, you should read this guy's review. He saw them in Rochester and he says stuff about what it's like to see them if you're not familiar with why they're awesome. I can't be all... writing... fancy words... and stuff. I noticed a lot of things (that won't win me a job as any sort of music writer), though, such as: Europa is a weird place. I don't think I'm Polish enough to go there (in that I'm not at all Polish, in spite of what every elderly Polish-speaking woman in our neighborhood seems to think)(STOP COMING UP TO ME AND GIBBERING ON IN POLISH! I DON'T UNDERSTAND YOU! NOT EVEN WHEN YOU SPEAK LOUDER!), but I think it's nice that there's a place where Melt-Banana's poster can co-exist with a non-ironic poster for Friday Night Bikini Contests! and noise bands can enhance their songs with a (also not ironic) disco ball and fog machine (not that I've ever seen a straight up hipster place use an ironic fog machine. Would it be called a "smug" machine? Ha ha! Get it? Because smug sounds like smog, and... get it? Ahhh, jokes). Also I noticed that the "18 and over" clause on my ticket was not necessary, in that I'm certain I was in the closest-to-18-in-attendance category, and... I'm 27. I'm pretty sure there isn't a word to describe the majesty of walking into a crazy noise show and noticing that half the rabid fans have probably been rabid fans since I was 12. I have several theories (based on the section of my post after the jump) about Europa occupying several dimensions at once, which would neatly explain why there were also drunk middle aged people passed out/"freak dancing" out of rhythm who seemed to appear from nowhere for no obvious reason, and... this whole post has been really distracted because I'm trying to figure something out before skills night tonight (um, like sustaining forward motion) so my brain's just not here (it's in a quivering puddle, next to my nerves, inside my stomach - YAY!). Sorry friends! More later...

iced canes

Hockey is interesting. From what I understand, the men are trying to whack the disc into a net that another man is trying to cover up. This is what you should know about hockey: Rangers fans are extremely enthusiastic. And this enthusiasm extends to many things, like voicing their appreciation of various players, and audibly questioning the sexual orientation of members of the opposing team, and singing some of Neil Diamond's greatest hits. The gentleman next to me had a very interesting method of demonstrating his enthusiasm: he stood up about every 3 seconds, and had what appeared to be some kind of major gluteal seizure. Ok, and that sounds confusing, so let me first take a survey. Who's been to Madison Square Garden for a sporting event? Have you seen the seats? They were clearly made in an era in which most sports fans were not actually 70 pounds overweight. So basically, this gentleman's constant leaping up (should've used Preparation H?) resulted in his ass cheeks occupying about 40% of my visual field (28% of which was already occupied by the classy fauxhawk pictured - sweet! It's cool to pay $34.50 to watch a bulbous skull and a twitchy ass REACTING to an event you can't actually see for yourself. No wonder my ticket said "limited view."), and NOT noticing that his ass was spasming would've been possible only if I'd actually gouged my eyeballs out (YES! I did consider this after the first extended period of leaping-glutes-up-in-my-face). The best part was that, in between twitching his ass about 3 inches from my face, this guy was alternately having a peanut fight with his so-drunk-she-almost-got-into-a-brawl girlfriend (Thanks guys! I was so glad to find your gifts in my purse when I got home!) and having some self-important, loud conversation on his cell phone about how "no one takes (him) seriously as a writer." I know what you're thinking, and of COURSE I asked him to be my best friend! Pompous AND totally oblivious of your own obnoxiousness? SIGN ME UP, NEW FRIEND! Anyway, I tried to take a video of it, because I think the world needs to know, but the recording conditions up in the nosebleed section of MSG are atrocious even WITHOUT some moron's pulsing butt blocking out all light and sound...

violins, violence

I've been to some rowdy punk/hip hop/noise/metal shows in my life. I've definitely seen crazy multi-person fistfights break out mid-set for no apparent reason, I've definitely been clocked a few times by someone/thing flailing wildly in front of a stage (once by a fake leg - the Jesus Lizard, Omaha, 1997*), and I'd generally like to think that I'm ready for whatever comes flying my way (body parts, glass, small rabid animals, throwing stars) at a $5-for-7-bands noise show. What I'm NOT ready for, apparently, is the crazed ferociousness of feral classical music patrons. That's right, those people are crazy. Justin and I were at Carnegie Hall the other night, because we're classy (or maybe because my Mom's friend's outrageously talented daughter and son in law are in the philharmonic that was performing and they graciously hooked us up with comp tickets), and I received completely unwarranted, forceful full body contact from no less than 6 fancy-lookin' ass-hats who NEEDED to literally pass through my body to get to the other side of the lobby. Where some mohawked crust punk will possibly apologize for incidentally bodyslamming you upon realizing you're just some small woman on line for the bathroom, a fur coat-ed blue hair will likely not pause to survey the carnage after hurtling all musky 86 pounds of herself at the backs of the unsuspecting in a brash effort to get herself 3 inches closer to the elevator line before she actually turns back into dust. What the crap is wrong with these people? "Oh, I've already proven my intellectual superiority, simply by purchasing a ticket to this fine display of orchestral majesty, I don't need to press the point any further by behaving like a civilized human being - I'm wearing a 7 pound brooch and that's enough politeness for the masses, thankyouverymuch." I seriously got bodychecked like 6 times whilst innocently standing in that lobby, which means I'm NOT counting the foppish doucheclown who walked straight into me full-force ("Oh. Sahhhhrry.") while I was standing outside TO AVOID BEING TACKLED BY DICKS IN FANCY JACKETS. I remember being at a Murphy's Law show at this club in D.C. when I was about 16 and thinking that was probably the craziest audience I'd ever see... Flash forward over a decade later, Carnegie Hall lobby, as I practically got laid out by some wee college-nerd girl with glasses who simply HAD to access the line immediately to my left with as much brute force and as few words as possible. Naturally, once we were seated, the audience stopped being raging, pre-verbal fuckwits and sat politely in their finery, appreciating said orchestral majesty... some while also smelling like old man breath. For real, the second to the top tier in the main hall was an olfactory assault I can liken only to climbing headfirst into an old man's mouth after he's had a cigar and 3 coffees. Is there anything nastier than being enveloped in a stranger's unpleasant breath? Let me think about that, while I sit down and ice the parts of my back that are at bony old lady shoulder-height.

you were probably thinking you'd have liked to join a massive horde of the undead yesterday

Yeah, totally. What a nice day to rise from the grave and wander down 5th avenue? Justin and I went to Zombiecon 2007 yesterday, largely because I just really like buying fake blood, and it seemed like it might be nice to have an actual use for this blood. Anyway, it was a good time, there were some truly hilarious zombies, I got to hug a screaming Korean tourist, and I learned that while the people at Bloomingdale's have a pretty good sense of humor about like 200 makeup-drenched dorks stumbling through their perfume displays and shoes, the guard at Gucci is pretty much not feeling it. The only truly scary parts, I thought, included an instance in which some huffy girl on the sidewalk picked a fight with one of the zombies for "ruining" her sweater, and also when some girl decided to kind of plop herself in the middle of the street and nearly get her hand taken off by a truck. I'd like to thank Justin for being a sport about letting me put him in a bunch of greasepaint and corn syrup (although, in all honesty, that's kind of like one of the first times we hung out*), and the tourists on 5th ave for being so excited about our parade of the undead. Also, big ups to the breakdancing crew who put on "Thriller" for an impromptu zombie dance party near Central Park. New Yorkers, man, good people. Here's the link to my flickr album of the day if you need to bask in the glory of my improvised neck wound, which I'm extremely proud of, because I made it from glue and toilet paper in like 2 minutes and it lasted all day. Thank you and good day. Oh, and if you watch this clip, you can see Justin's riveting zombie-pointing at the 49 second mark.

my neighborhood enjoys a bit of wrasslin' with its parades

My neighborhood is great. I love being periodically woken up by a half-assed parade rolling down my street, and I love the fact that I can look out my window at any point during the day and probably see an old lady in a housedress. I found a new thing to love this weekend, this thing is THE $2 AMATEUR WRESTLING SHOW IN A PARKING LOT. It had all your Brooklyn backyard wrasslin' all-stars: guy in a bad wig and a skirt, really large man in white plastic overalls, that referee who didn't have a costume, skeevy bald goth dude, fat man with a sad ponytail in a dirty tank top, AND MORE! It was pretty much the best $2 I've spent in the past  month - that's right, MTA, I said it. There were 7 matches, but like the other 6 hipsters in attendance, we bailed after about 2.5 -  believe it or not, watching grown men in sad costumes doing the "stage combat" thing quite rapidly devolves from hiiiii-larious into existential-crisis-inducing... Heh... But anyway, we took some nice pictures so you can share in the joy, check them out below.

it's monday? let's kind of throw a parade!

One of the neat things about my neighborhood is that you never know when you're going to wake up to some odd, tiny parade passing beneath your window. For example, yesterday morning, I awoke to some sort of nearly-wider-than-our-residential-street float... floating... past my house. Now, I'm all for Our Lady of Mt Carmel praying for us and everything, but is this truly a sentiment that needs to be articulated in 25-person parade form on a non-remarkable Monday morning on one of the least parade-route-friendly streets possible? Whatever, either way, nothing makes me prouder of my 'hood than seeing a giant float covered in housedress-clad nonnas weave its way past several construction vehicles, flanked at both ends by members of Tony's Parade Band (who else?), skillfully and repeatedly blasting out about 10 seconds of the same song they always half-play before stopping to... who knows what they're stopping to do? Because I've started to think this is actually a clever ruse to detract attention from the fact that Tony's Parade Band only knows how to play the first 10 seconds of one single song. Never did I expect to have I seen a flock of horn-playing old men dragging a float of old women down the street beneath my window frequently enough for it to be "not completely surreal and confusing," but here we are. What has YOUR neighborhood done for you lately?

How to annoy on the subway...

I'm pretty sure everyone who lives here or has ever ridden on the New York subway system probably has developed a few train-related pet peeves. I know I have probably... sixty. Or 350. Let's talk about this one, which I've cleverly (and surreptitiously) photographed for you on an uptown C train: the pole-thief. There are a few ways to broadcast to an entire subway car that you've never been on public transportation before, and this is a particularly aggravating way to get this point across. For those of you who can't make out what our busty friend there is up to, let me explain - the pole thief wraps his or her entire body around the vertical pole, thus effectively preventing ANYONE ELSE ON THE TRAIN from using this pole to hang on for dear life as the train tosses its contents about like meaty rag-dolls. This "move" is actually kind of entertaining when the perpetrator is full-body-hugging the pole in the middle of an empty train. It kind of looks like you're watching grandma try to figure out how to pole dance during an earthquake - and yes, I say "grandma" because I dare you to find anyone other than older women pulling this stunt. I dare you! However, the pole thief is NOT ENTERTAINING when you're on a completely packed train, stranded in the middle of the the aisle, with nothing to hold onto because some friendly tourist has physically engulfed your only hope of remaining steady on your feet. WHY, GRANDMA? First off, do you know what's ON the pole you've protectively surrounded with your entire body? Boogers. And inexplicable grease! Moreover, your silly, selfish pole-hoggery has made this train ride THAT much more uncomfortable for everyone within 5 feet of you, all of whom are now forced to either "subway surf" and hope not to lose it and create a domino stack of flattened passengers at the next sharp curve, OR jockey for an inch of hand-hold between your armpit folds. THANKS A BUNCH! COME BACK SOON! I noticed last week that New York's "Not For Tourists" book actually has  a comment on this behavior in a little etiquette section attached to the subway map, something along the lines of "Don't hug, lean on, or do anything to the poles except hold on." That made me smile. Knowing's half the battle, people. Don't hug the damn pole. It's filthy, anyway.

summer

This lovely weather reminds me of a fascinating encounter I had last year. We'll call it "Energy-Conserving Strategies of the Urban Primate." So I'm walking around the neighborhood on a lovely Summer-type day when I observe a group of morbidly obese (I'm not saying that to be a dick, I mean these people were giant to the point of obvious imminent death) individuals sitting outside of their garage, on the sidewalk, in lawn chairs on the other side of the street. Nothing remarkable about that, except they were laughing hysterically. Upon further inspection as I got about half a block away, I noticed an empty lawn chair, and a rather large gentleman standing in between two parked cars, about 5 feet from his (hysterical) friends. As I passed directly across from the group, I got a virtually 3-D view of WHY the collective was so overcome: their friend was taking a dump in between two parked cars, with the business end of this ordeal pointed at, well, me and the old lady who was about 10 feet behind me. FREAKING. AMAZING. As I managed to jog off inconspicuously (I was afraid he might throw feces at me if I threatened his dominance by gawking), I heard someone (presumably Cap'n. Dumps) yell "Wha? I'm not goin' all the way indoors!" Well played, sir. I've recreated the event for you in picture form:
Anyway, the last time I walked past what came to be known as "Dump House" I discovered that it had been gutted and renovated and the tenants long gone, probably off to poop on new and exciting streets. I'm not sure what the moral of this story is, but it probably has to do with cherishing your indoor plumbing, or... not... being a disgusting animal... or maybe it's that when you, an able-bodied grown human, start crapping in the middle of the street rather than "go all the way indoors," you should probably seek help of some sort... Have a nice day!

the yay team: scavengers with awesome shirts

You know what I did on Saturday? A scavenger hunt. Last year our team wore fake mustaches, this year we were different characters from the A-Team. Did either of these ingenious gimmicks get us any closer to winning said said scavenger hunt? Nay. But I'm going to show you our crazy awesome shirt design, majestic team picture (in which you can clearly establish our roles, and damn right I'm B.A. Baracus), and an excerpt from the task list we tirelessly worked to kind of finish all over the West Village. While we probably got like 3000th place (you CHEATERS)(yeah, I said it), I personally think we should get bonus points for seeing Lou Reed (I know, he lives in the village, he's always walking around, shut up, IT'S STILL LOU REED) and getting waited on at Tortilla Flats by the very friendly "Dude, you're gettin' a Dell!" guy. Big ups, Yay Team.

the north american public park banana hammock

It seems that I've witnessed a surprising amount of natural majesty in the wilderness of upper Manhattan lately, thanks to my trailblazing colleague Elise... Imagine my surprise upon encountering this most glorious specimen: the North American Public Park Banana Hammock, sunning itself in the grass in all its bronzed, middle-aged majesty. This creature is especially difficult to document because of its skittish nature and its unavoidably attention-grabbing spandex plumage. The best part? This particular banana hammock appeared to be a thong. Now, I'm not saying a grown man SHOULDN'T have the right to tan his cheeks in the middle of the public park while surrounded by picnicking families and drug dealers, I'm just saying that it takes a very special person to arrive at the conclusion that "Hey! It's May! I could whip out the old banana hammock and head up to the extremely populous park, to bask among small children pointing at me and yelling in Spanish, and I might not freeze to death!" and, you know, then actually decide to follow through with the plan there. The North American Public Park Banana Hammock: brave, but confusing.

tracking the elusive new york-native species of tree-coat

Behold! I've managed to capture what I believe to be two crucial phases in the life cycle of the Upper Manhattan Stationary Tree-Coat. I first documented the elusive creature in November of 2005 (apologies for the poor picture quality - you can imagine the excitement at this discovery), resting in its natural habitat of a tree between two buildings. The predominantly urban-dwelling Tree-Coat (believed to be a loose relative of both the suburban Tree-Toilet Paper and the common university-dwelling Tree-Underpants) is seen first displaying its juvenile plumage in 2005: a darker color, displayed in a more coat-like shape. As the specimen has grown to maturity, one can clearly see its adult, more abstract posturing and sub-bleached coloring. As is typical of the species in the springtime, this Tree-Coat is molting in preparation for the warmer weather. This particular creature has befriended a low-hanging Manhattan Noisy Tree-Bag in the adjacent tree (not pictured), a fact imparted to me by Tree-Coatologist Elise, who lives among these creatures in their natural habitat in Upper Manhattan. The particular origins of this Tree-Coat were not known until recently, when its molting revealed a Tommy Hilfiger logo - a fascinating development, indeed, as this Tree-Coat was previously understood to be of the greater Bubble Goose family. Marveling at the majesty of this natural wonder, I can't help but wonder if one day science will fully grasp the true origins of this creature. My colleague Elise and I feel that, barring intervention from the highly elusive creature known as the Basically Invisible Superintendent, this creature has many years of undisturbed splendor ahead of it. Truly beautiful. Truly.

it's always fashion week on park avenue

In the corner of this picture, if you squint, you can make out the hottest runway trend of 2007: the "double belted towel with no shoes in 40 degree weather" STYLE. I know what you're thinking - "You saw some screaming homeless gentleman wearing a ratty towel cinched at the top and the bottom with nothing else on AND YOU DIDN'T APPROACH HIM FOR A PICTURE?" Well, listen, I'm not one of those people who just party crashes on famous people and fashion plates when they're just trying to live, ok? I saw Paulina Porizkova  wearing what looked like a horse blanket outside the Whole Foods in Chelsea about a month ago, and I didn't bust in on her and put cameras in her face, because I AM CLASSY. Plus, when you live in New York, you're legally bound to not gawk at celebrities, it's in your lease. As in: "Acknowledging Ethan Hawke's loud, gesture-filled cell phone conversation in the middle of the sidewalk with more than an eye-roll will result in immediate eviction and banishment to Hoboken." Anyway, you might be confused now, but just wait 'til Prada rolls out next season's double-belted couture towels. You heard it here.

spring is here, the perverts are in full bloom...

I don't know how YOU determine the passing of the seasons, but I do so by observing the phases of the neighborhood perverts. Let me explain: most neighborhoods have at least one pervert. Find yours. Study your pervert closely, and he or she (??) will predict the turning of the seasons for you with an accuracy that openly shames most meteorologists or prophetic rodents. In my experience, the most useful (in terms of determining the seasons) is the NASTY OLD MAN variety - this variety is particularly susceptible to the effects of the elements, and often displays a quite readily visible reaction to the most subtle of environmental changes. Today, as I walked home from the gym, I encountered our neighborhood pervert emerge from his hole (or apartment building) and take his usual post on the stoop to welcome the world (and all passing women) with exceedingly creepy greetings for the FIRST TIME THIS YEAR! NOW IT CAN OFFICIALLY BE SPRING! Our pervert wasn't lured out like a week ago when we had a deceptive string of warm days; NO, his internal pervert clock told him to remain safely inside, biding his time until TRUE spring, when he could put on a windbreaker and drag his octogenarian ass out onto the sidewalk to "flatter" the young ladies with his creepiness.  Not  since last Halloween (when said pervert began tossing candy out his window at passing women - this meant the weather would soon be getting colder) has my neighborhood pervert put on such a vigorous display of completely disturbing weirdness (today he was urgently informing the ladies that we didn't need our jackets anymore) and accurate weather analysis! I, for one, am looking forward to what my accu-perv forecast predicts will be a warm spring week. Have a nice one.

that supermarket is totally checking me out

i found this card in my groceries this evening. i was a little surprised - freshdirect, i never knew you felt that way about me! i mean, i'm... a human... and you're a supermarket... but you know what? i'm flattered. and thanks for the cupcakes... that i bought. happy a bunch of dead mafia guys day! justin and i will be celebrating with the cupcakes i bought (that my new boyfriend freshdirect gave me), and hallmark will be celebrating with, i don't know, a lot of money and smugness? either way, i love you all, but in a less weird way than how the supermarket loves me.

the pasta aisle mascot?

there are several things one commonly encounters in the pasta aisle of my neighborhood c-town supermarket: 1. pasta and pasta-related products, 2. fighting hipster couples, and 3. a family in which one or more members is loudly asking the others what "youse wants" for dinner. yesterday c-town was even more exciting, thanks to the latest addition to the pasta aisle... a freaking PIGEON. that's right, our flying, disease-laden friend who eats cigarette butts and old ham off the sidewalk was chillin' on the pasta boxes. MMMMMMMMMMMMM!!!! tell me, is there ANYTHING more delicious than the thought of filthy bird toes dancing atop your penne? I THINK NOT. i'd like to nominate this pigeon, who i've decided to name "mr. yucky toes," to become c-town's official pasta-aisle mascot. they could have all kinds of specials, like "mr. yucky toes feels like all our linguine is half off this week!" and such. it would be AWESOME. anyway, i have to go and throw away all our pasta for completely unrelated reasons. um, right now.

important new advances in the field of subway idiocy

dr. ivan douchehat, pictured at right, unveils the fruits of his research to colleague dr. vlad possibleheadinjury, pictured at left, in an impromptu symposium held on a smith/9th street-bound G train in brooklyn. dr. douchehat demonstrates "randomly popping a sheet of bubble wrap while having a loud conversation in an angry-sounding slavic language," his groundbreaking thesis. this deceptively simple new technique of subway assholery marks the greatest advance in the field of being a complete twat on public transportation since the 1999 development of "obliviously clipping fingernails and sending filthy shards whizzing at horrified onlookers" was perfected on a chicago orange line L train by dr. owen noconceptofhowtobehaveinpublicston of gary, IN. in his report to subway douchebags monthly, dr. douchehat said of his thesis, "while randomly popping a sheet of bubble wrap and screaming in russian may SEEM like one of the most obnoxious acts one can accomplish on a train, there is much left to discover in the field." dr. douchehat and  colleague dr. possibleheadinjury are reputedly beginning work on experiments involving eating an entire chicken dinner on the bus while farting and coughing; look for updates in the coming months.

the quest... for laundry detergent

it takes a lot for me to go "try to buy something specific" in the seething hell that is the target store in atlantic center, brooklyn's answer to the question, "what's really big, always crowded, and looks like it's been pillaged by 4000 angry vikings?" if i were to want something specific from a target store, the options i would consider first would be stealing a car and driving to a target that ISN'T in brooklyn, followed by giving up all material possessions and entering a convent, or possibly starting a cult. but going to OUR target to FIND SOMETHING? no. things are not found intentionally within the walls of this target. never! you can imagine the simultaneous dread and excitement i felt when i learned that THIS TARGET (OF HORROR) had surf laundry detergent...

general crazy old man vs. crazy old perv guy

hi! i live down the street from a crazy old man. i run into him about twice a month, and he generally engages me in some sort of non-threatening conversation beginning with how he feels that people are generally unable to accurately guess his age (I'M 80 YE-AHHHHS OLE, SWEEET-HAAAAAAAAAAAT. 80 YEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAHHHS! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA -cough- HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA), briefly touching on his, uh, completely schizo-sounding musings on the numerological/astrophysical relevance of a variety of building numbers (YOU SEE HOW THE PAINT STOWAH IS 372? WELL THE WOMAN I MARRIED WAS A 7-3-2, SO YOU'D BETTA PLAY THOSE ON THE LOTTERY NOW, DEAR), and ending with some remark about how i remind him of a schoolgirl or a type of precious woodland creature, at which point he walks away abruptly. NOT A PROBLEM. totally cool with that guy. meanwhile, but a few blocks away, the crazy old PERV lives. this is the gentleman (and any woman who has ever walked down graham avenue can attest to this) who will shout an innocuous sounding but somehow totally pervily-delivered compliment, such as "you look GREAT!!!!!" (you know, in a way that could MAYBE pass for appropriate if stated by, i don't know, someone who isn't a creepy 3,000 year old complete stranger?) or sometimes he, um, throws candy out his window. AT PASSING WOMEN. i try to avoid the perv, because when he speaks, my ovaries turn to dust. he's pretty much a walking, shouting chastity belt. i think catholic schools could use him to scare children away from ever having... puberty. like, "boys and girls, please welcome this pervert to our class. you'll notice that when he lobs the candy at your head and whistles, your pituitary gland will begin to slowly dissolve. remember the sound of his voice whenever you're thinking about how handsome and virile justin timberlake is, or how jessica alba makes you feel funny 'down there'." but! i digress. i walked off the L train friday afternoon to discover the crazy old man equivalent of the thrilla in manila: lovable crazy old man vs. crazy old pervert. all i can report is that crazy old italian dudes, pervy or not, pretty much don't speak english when they "throw down," and... i guess what i gathered about the fight itself was that there was something wrong with something... involving... the sidewalk? and that non-raunchy crazy old man likes to wave his hat around for dramatic effect. also, i think i was able to ascertain from about 50 paces that being in the middle of an angry, crazy old man-sandwich is not to be advised, so i didn't stick around for the conclusion. please enjoy my artist's rendering of the event.

hipsters with fake british accents: a plague upon humanity

now, listen: i watch a lot of BBC america (their murder shows are waaaaaaay grosser than ours), so i think i can pretty much recognize a legitimate british accent when i hear one. you're either for-real-helen-mirren or you're some sad madonna/linda mccartney/"no wait, you forgot, i'm not REALLY from michigan, i'm fresh off the streets of sussex, um, governor" imitator. there's no in between, you can't be a midwesterner in the morning and a liverpudlian from noon onwards. right-o, mate? so can someone 'splain to me the recent hipster fad, even lamer than key necklaces and sensitive beards, of half-assed fake british accents? this depressing bunch of sextons can be encountered, say, behind the counter in any restaurant/bar/coffee place/wanketeria (see "phoebe's, cooler-than-thou-waitstaff-within,") in the glorious 'burg. let me give you an example: justin and i went to lunch the other day. when our waitress took our order, she was possibly from ohio. by the time we paid our bill, she was essentially having a spot of tea and passing out crumpets. um, governor. the point is, uh, DOUCHEBAGGERY. this is total douchebaggery. hipsters, come ON, we're all from the heartland of america (i mean it, 99% of people who tell you they're "from brooklyn" are from indiana)(and i KNOW because i'm from nebraska)(i have what you call hay-dar)(this means i am able to detect people from farming regions)(see, it's a joke)(HAY-dar)(get it?). just because british people are cooler than us, with their fancy talking and confusing foods, doesn't mean we can convincingly pull off their accents. christ, haven't you seen "robin hood"? if kevin costner couldn't do it, my li'l cobrasnaketeers, NEITHER CAN YOU. please, friends, it's your duty as a human: the next time you encounter some hipster trying to pull off a sloppy british accent/saying "american football", please slap them until it stops. this has been a public service announcement. thanks. vote for me.

i know gawker already mocked this woman...

...but come ON. while gawker felt the need to mock her 300 necklaces and 42 bracelets, they were kind enough to look past the fact that she stole one of my mom's old nightgowns to wear to an event of some sort. i don't think we should laugh at her, because you can tell she didn't mean for this to happen. look at her face! what's that crusty bruise thing by her mouth? i'll TELL you what happened: she was clearly in the middle of stealing an old nightgown from my mom's dresser drawer, and my mom interrupted her and, horrified, clocked her in the face with a box full of old plastic jewelry from when i was 7. which she then wore, along with the nightgown, because my mom felt bad for jacking an obviously mentally challenged girl in the face. poor thing...
 

williamsburg is burning

i'd guess that anyone who has ever lived in a major urban area has experienced the "rude awakening" at some point - can-pickers loudly sifting through your garbage at 4 a.m. right outside your window, drunk guy peeing in your mailbox while singing "the macarena", crackhead tapdancing in the alley. this morning we experienced the worst one possible - the sounds of glass smashing and a man frantically screaming "fire" while the glowing building down the street lights up the entire block. justin had the brains equipped to call 911 while i bolted outside - i didn't really wake up until i was standing in the middle of the street, watching the fire trucks pull in, realizing it was suddenly like 20 degrees warmer. i hope all the people and kitties got out safely - we watched the place go up, and it was like watching a pile of papers and twigs burn. my mad red cross skillz made me wish i had blankets and hotel rooms on hand. anyway, it was scary as fuck, and the fire department is STILL out there, 10 hours later. so anyway, hi! i'm back! please don't be mad.

i think the subway cars should be segregated

hear me out (and enjoy my crappy camera phone picture of a gentleman pissing in the subway station at the same time):
a. one car would be reserved for really tall dudes who wait until the train is juuuuuuuust pulling in to cut right in front of you to get on "first". also on this car would be fat people who will angrily mow you down to get a seat regardless of your age or infirmity (which is funny, 'cause if they ALWAYS moved that fast, they wouldn't be so fat), screaming 12 year old girls with an attitude problem who can only communicate by yelling at someone at the other end of the car, and people who think it's ok to fart in an enclosed space.
b. another car would be reserved for men who sit with their legs spread at a 180 angle because their penises are soooooooo huuuuuuuge that they really need all that space. no one else can be on this car, because they wouldn't be able to sit down. except maybe drunk men with boomboxes blasting something no one else in the world wants to hear, since they're usually wobbling in a corner, dropping the occasional half-drained tall boy. so they can be on that car, too.
c. another car would be for people who like to stand confusingly close to complete strangers even when the train's empty - since they'll all be huddled in a tight pack, the rest of the car could accomodate people singing along to whatever they're going deaf blasting tinnily out of their headphones, people who make obnoxious sounds with their gum, and people trying to pick up other people (wasn't this even suggested on craigslist?).
d. one car would be for pretentious douches having loud conversations about how important/interesting they are (possibly the L train would need two cars for this)(don't pretend you don't know what that means, williamsburg). also on this train would be people trying to sell candy in a monotone for unabashedly sketchy causes, people asking for money with some made-up tale of woe even though their outfit cost more than my rent, and the crazy/urine-soaked homeless.
e. another car would be for people with communicable diseases who can't cough/sneeze/otherwise expel fluids without unapologetically spraying everyone in a 5 foot radius, and people with small, unruly children of all types. also on this car would be tourists and any other people who can't figure out that you can't just block the doorway with your thumb up your ass, and people who don't give up their seats when they should (a subset of the "men with their legs spread so they take up 5 seats" group).
f. the rest of the cars would be reserved for people who are just trying to go somewhere without having to deal with these douches. and the normal people cars would have... armed... dogs. with killer bees... in their... mouths, and when they bark, they shoot out bees at you (thanks, the simpsons). and the penalty for disrupting the normal people car would be, like, HUGE. but if everything works out like i hope it will, the douches would probably just destroy each other anyway, you know, before they could make a break for it or something.
thank you. vote for me.

jury duty. um, again.

hi, i'm recycling the picture i made when i had jury duty last year (that's right, i had jury duty last year, too!) because, come on, who reads this stuff anyway? look, let me just say that federal jury duty, with it's "chillin' in a courthouse lounge in DUMBO, reading issues of scientific american from the late '90s and eating skittles all day" followed by 2 weeks of calling in and not having to show up, is WAAAAAAY better than that other jury duty, where i had to actually show up, have lawyers all up in my grill, and there weren't posh chairs and old magazines. I LOVE YOU, FEDERAL COURT! anyway, that's... uh... i'm not sure what the point was, except to serve as proof of my karmic magnetism to all things bureaucratic, what with the whole getting farted on at the social security office, getting hit on at the DMV by what looked like brian dennehy's lead-paint-lovin' twin and "getting jury duty twice in just over a year" business. i feel so loved by the state of new york! i never got jury duty when i lived i chicago, and the only thing that ever happened to me at the dmv there was some creepy businessman with gingivitis asked to, um, be... my... slave. right, still having nightmares about that one, but whatever... what was i talking about?

there are things the heat can't justify, and i will tell you what these things are.

listen, i know it's summer all of a sudden, and you're confused. you're scared! take a deep breath, and let me tell you what you cannot do, in spite of the fact that it may be 300 degrees and your face is melting and your brain is warm mush.
1. as depicted at left, resist the urge to wear a child's pants in public. resist! be strong! you won't be any more cool and comfortable with half a buttcheek valiantly fighting its way free from its high-waisted elastic prison. (picture courtesy of the renegade craft fair, because anything ending in "fair" is a guaranteed minefield of weirdos)
2. you know what, williamsburg? we just really need to talk about shorts. if i had that same pair of black denim pleated shorts with ruffles when i was 9, you, a grown-ass human, shouldn't be wearing them now. it's creepy.

3. i mean, for real! am i the only one in the zip code that understands that extremely tight childrens' clothes from the late 80s would be extremely uncomfortable in 90 degree heat? you're supposed to wear loose clothing. don't you people watch survivorman?

4. there's really no reason for the inversely proportional relationship between the temperature and the IQ level of men performing physical labor outdoors, unless the sun is actually cooking their brains. one day last week, i had no less than 6 gentlemen shouting pre-verbal innuendos at me. should the temperature reach the upper 90s, i fear all construction will cease, for many of the workers will be jumping up and down, shrieking, and wagging their genitals at all passing humans of sexually mature age.

5. i've said this before, but i think it merits a re-saying: there's no need to block the entrance to anything, especially when you're clogging up the doorway of a climate-controlled environment, and it's 5000 degrees outside. if your elaborate faux-euro greeting ritual is standing between me and air conditioning, i WILL crawl between your legs, a la tunnel tag, to escape the hot pavement that's fusing itself to my shoes. if you don't want this, you shouldn't be a fire hazard.

6. I SHOULDN'T EVEN HAVE TO SAY THIS! when you get stuck on the one train car that's blazing hot with no a.c., you JUST SHOULDN'T FART. it's insidious enough when people fart on a temperate subway car, but farting on a 400 degree train car should seriously be punishable by death.

i'm going to go be cranky about the weather now. have a nice day.

it's always fashion week on the subway

i don't know, i'm just used to seeing shirts emblazoned with "girls kick butt" (with the "kick butt" part in pink cursive) on 13 year old, suburban, soccer-playing, um, GIRLS. not so much on cranky-looking 20-something latin gentlemen on the train. i'm not hatin', i'm just saying, wow, that's pretty... special... and majestic. additionally, there's the fact that a good 90% of the train seemed to understand the humor in this shirt-motto/gentleman combination, whilst the shirt's wearer did not seem at all amused by the attention his fashion statement was receiving. so... yeah. justin was all sad, like, "oh no, he doesn't know his shirt's weird," but i think he's just a feminist. or, like, a female cage-match promoter... probably that one. yeah. or maybe he's just saying, "screw you and your conformist fashion archetypes, fascist shirt-slogan police." or...  look, if i have to see some dude wearing a shirt that says "girls kick butt" during my L train experience, i'd prefer it to be this dude, and not some smug hipster ass-clown who's trying too hard with the irony-themed attire. yay! sour-faced latin gentleman, YOU kick butt (as do girls).

yay blueprint!

justin and i saw soul position at southpaw on saturday. i think it's important that we all recognize that blueprint (pictured at left)(he's the one who isn't me) seems to be, judging by his behavior during and after the performance, THE HAPPIEST MAN EVER. that's pretty awesome. it was a good show, even with the completely confusing crowd (i think 99% of the people in attendance were just walking by and they saw the word "RJD2" and their "hipster coolness obligation" brain implant turned on and so they had to come inside)(losers)(i personally was there solely to experience the majesty of blueprint)(but i have to admit that RJD2 and blueprint, combined, are a festival)(they're totally BFF, you can tell)(and you know, that's important)(AND adorable)(it's impor-able)(ador-tant)(anyway, there were these totally sketchy one be lo fans there, too)(one be lo was the opener)(and his cracked out fans, like, couldn't accept his departure from the stage)(stalkers)(but whatever, anyway, blueprint was really pleasant)(thanks for posing for a cheesy picture with me, blueprint!)(blueprint helped me maintain my unbroken record of looking like a mental patient in every picture of me with some underground rap star)(yayyyyy...). anyway, i added our fun show pictures to my "fun show pictures"-oriented album, so ch-ch-ch-check it out.

sad dinner rolls: unite!

peaches and i went on a scavenger hunt this weekend with the illustrious tiffany and loni. the nice people of metro metro do this every year, it seems. basically, we got up reeeeeeal early on a saturday morning to put on matching shirts & moustaches, call ourselves "the sad dinner rolls," and walk all around tribeca, across the BK bridge, and through DUMBO, taking pictures of wacky stuff (like me sharing a granola bar with some nice lady, and tiffany getting a noogie from a very confused postman). IT WAS AWESOME. check out the pictures below, if you dare (and you should)...

north american basement chicken

elise and i have had many adventures, but this one's really, really important, because it involves AN ACTUAL CHICKEN. you see, elise's building features an elevator, a laundry room, close proximity to a subway stop, spacious kitchens, remodeled bathrooms, and, obviously, a freaking CHICKEN hanging out in the  basement. so, before we call the ASPCA, check out the majesty of the north american basement chicken in its natural environment, as captured poorly by my camera phone...

(p.s. that picture where mr. or mrs. chicken is standing by a brown rectangle? that's his/her water dish, also known as "the meat drawer from a refrigerator, filled with water." additionally, those are, in fact, pictures of the chicken checking him/herself out in a mirror. elise and i think the chicken might actually be her landlord.) 

migratory habits of the northeastern plague-mattress

ok look, maybe i'm a pessimist, maybe i'm some totally square proponent of our "disposable culture" or whatever those creepy dumpster-diving "radicals" want to call it 'cause they're mad that they're white and upper-middle class, but when i see a mattress, ANY MATTRESS, on a sidewalk, i assume there's something very, very wrong with it. if said mattress additionally is emblazoned with the words "DO NOT USE: BUGS! BUGS!" i actually cross the street when i see it, because, well, that's nasty. the mattress pictured at left has made an incredible journey since its appearance last friday, a block from my house. the fact that the "BUGS! BUGS!" mattress possesses the ability to travel at all is proof of its great evil. yesterday, it hypnotized (with its evil) some old dude to carry it across graham avenue. i'm guessing it digested him whole midway down the block, and that's why, as of yesterday evening, it was slumbering maniacally (yes, it's possible to slumber in a maniacal fashion) against a tree about 35 feet from our apartment. naturally, when i got up this morning, it was right in front of our building. check out how evil it is! anyway, i don't really know where it's trying to go, but i'm assuming it's heading to white castle, because that's totally the porthole to hell. if you see it, don't let it talk you into anything stupid. just say no to the "BUGS! BUGS!" mattress, it's totally... the devil, naturally, yes, it's totally the devil. UPDATE BELOW! REALLY!

what the crap is this crap all about?

ok look, i know it's "still winter" or whatever, but this is SUCH CRAP. seriously, there's no logical reason for me to be minding my own business, waking up on a sunday, and finding that there's, like, 78 feet of snow all up in my area. SO NOT COOL! i really oppose this action. furthermore, i'm pretty much not feelin' all this "large, lethal 15 pound snow blocks arbitrarily leaping from roofs and trying to take me out while i'm walking down the street" business either. seriously. i don't think my mondays need to be all perilous and crap, 'cause i'm just trying to go buy a soda, people. a SODA. i don't need this business! and to all 6 of you who were like "oooo, it's going to snoooow, that's so fun and pretty!", i want to invite you to come on over to my 'hood and try (TRY) to find our trashcans, while standing waist-deep in a snowbank and holding a leaky bag of cat litter and banana peels. come on by! i'll be somewhere in the 6 foot snowdrift that used to be where our trashcans were, swearing.

crazy train

you know, when i lived in chicago, i KNEW what the crazy-people trains were. if you decided to board a blue line train at any point after, say, midnight, and before 5 a.m., you were entering into an unspoken agreement with the transit authority that stated : "yes, i realize i will be surrounded by crazy homeless people, smoking and urinating, for the duration of my stay aboard this train." and, like, everyone understood, and that was fine. new york's not so accommodating; you never know when you just got on the crazy train. see the (presumably schizophrenic) gentleman pictured at left? that's right, he's wearing a mattress pad, tied on with various blanket strips. his turban is made out of a trash bag and two pairs of sweatpants, but HEY! it matches his outfit! this guy was chillin' on the D one afternoon, yelling about jews, and how he was the secret chosen destroyer of the unfaithful underlords of russia or something, and informing us that giuliani lived in the corpses of the black man and such. it was pretty awesome. just thought i'd let you know.

this transit strike sure is... something?

ok, so i haven't saddled the cats and galloped victoriously over the williamsburg bridge yet or anything. in fact, uh, i haven't left my zip code. seeing all the crime scene tape on the subway stations is kind of depressing, but at least there's tons of bored cops wandering around to make everyone happy, right? i think my mailman is staging his own half-assed quiet protest, by doing his job poorly. it's like a really subtle sympathy strike. he keeps just, like, throwing all the mail for the building in the general vicinity of our door. solidarity, man. of course, he's been doing that for months now, but i'ma pretend he's got some reason either than just... being a crappy mailman. justin had to walk home over the bridge last night, like pretty much everyone else who left the borough for their jobby jobs or whatever they call that thing where you get paid to do some type of work. his assessment of the walk from murray hill to our house kind of brutally murdered any fluffy, romantic ideas i had about, oh, going anywhere on foot. maybe i'll swing by the post office again today! i had such a fun time yesterday, with the screaming polish people and the 2 hour wait FOR POSTAGE STAMPS. or not. these cat saddles need more work anyway...

ahhhh, the subways.

so i've been looking at the transit worker blog, and i've pretty much decided that the only thing to do in the event of a strike is to saddle my cats, and ride them over the bridge. i think it'll totally work. anyway, if anyone wants to join me in my "some shit's goin' down" watch, i'll be chillin' by the graham avenue stop on the L at midnight to, like, see if the MTA employees go nuts and start beating people in the subway station. sounds like fun, right? oh, yeah, and if you've been living in a soundproof cave underwater and don't know what strike i'm talking about, here's the whole story. from bloomberg.com, tee hee!

this guy's pretty awesome

and by "pretty awesome," i mean "completely out of his mind, in that scary, racist, bizarre-ramblings-and-conspiracy-theories" way. i understand that the upcoming election is probably more notable because mr. subway shooter bernie goetz is running for public advocate (and i'm annoyed because i really agree with his entire platform, but not so much with the old "blowing away some kids on a train" deal), but dude, check out jimmy mcmillan. HE'S CRAZY. like, you go to the website, and you get to hear the, um, official... "song," and then you get to read about how this guy's like, uh, onto something, and he... really... is mad at jewish people or something? there are stories about how he got tied to a tree one time, for some reason, and you can buy the "rent is too damn high" cd, and we discover that mr. mcmillan is also "known as papa smurf" for some reason... so basically, mr. mcmillan wants us to know, with as little assistance from spell check as possible, that we should vote for him because... uh... he's made up some vast semitic conspiracy... and... in his own words "all poor people are being run out of new york. RENT are being raising illegally. help us go after them. help us send there ASS to jail." uh. yeah. don't get me wrong, i love a good crackpot as much as anyone else, but isn't the whole POINT of being a crackpot that you have, like, convoluted, epic theories about crap? he's just all "you can't live here unless you're jewish." i don't know who he's mad at and why i'm supposed to want to help him "send there ASS to jail," but, um, you should totally check out his website. it's like trying to decipher the weird gibberish on that dr. bronner's soap, except with less... words... and more... anti-semitism... and singing... for some reason.

the DMV was uneventful, and jesus wept.

ok, this will come as a shock to everyone, but i went to the DMV yesterday, and nothing extremely weird/horrifying happened. WHAT? part of me thinks this is because i had elise with me, and she somehow functioned as a weirdness-deflector. a cock block in the sense that "cock" means "bizarre happenings." either way, i might have to pay her to be my entourage to assure that my experiences with government offices never again involve shrieking pregnant women and flatulent abuelas. the only mildly weird things happened when elise was more than 10 feet away from me. let's explore: so i was on the A train on my way to meet elise, standing next to some vaguely cracked-out looking white lady who was either a shower and a MAC counter away from 28 or five white lines and missing tooth away from 48. this lady points to the optimus prime-inflicted gashes on the inside of my arm (p.s. did you know that cats DON'T like it if you try to make them do a little dance? me neither) and politely asks what sounded to be, in vaguely humanoid grunts, "them are track marks?" i'm like, "no, lady, i tried to make my cat do a little dance, and she attacked me." either she was not able to understand me because i wasn't mumbling or she wasn't moved by my excuse, because she then proceeded to sidle (and i mean SIDLE) right up next to me and ask if i "gots a hook up?" yay! and THEN! at the DMV, when i went up to the counter to get the picture taken by the lovely DMV employee who may or may not have spent his lunch break huffing toner cartridges and caressing the discarded ID cards of countless unsuspecting ladies of new york, i was promptly informed that a. they don't have any good comedians in nebraska, except johnny carson, and comedy died with him, b. i look like anna nicole smith, and i am sexy. SEXY!, c. my coloring is that of "a fancy princess." fantastic! of course, the moment i returned to elise, all weirdness ended, and i again found myself in the position of trying to explain to a normal person what happens to me when i'm alone and surrounded by new york's finest mental patients. one time, this crazy man on the bus in chicago told me that my "electromagnetic forces" were calling him to protect me from "reagan's frozen brain stem army robots" because i was "the priestess, girl, the PRIESTESS." at the time, i thought that was crackhead for "hey lady, let me show you my insane ramblings," but maybe he was right? crazies, come unto me, for i am your priestess.

the postscript

what surprises me about the fruits of el-p's puppet mastery is the diversity amongst its followers. the crowds at ace rock, can ox, and cage COULD NOT have been more different. aesop rock was chock full of non-threatening 80 pound white hipsters to match can ox's largely african american hipster contingent, both in drastic contrast with cage's angry young long island meathead showcase. the highlight of aesop rock was when cage popped out of nowhere, and the highlight of cage was when aesop rock popped out of nowhere. the disappointing addition to each show was el-p's self-promoting histrionics - while this was comically disturbing in a coke-fueled way at can ox, it was just obnoxious at aesop rock and cage. dude, there's only so many times you can say "def jux" and i can reply "def jux" without feeling like i'm secretly in the corporate video you jerk off to nightly. i don't care what my ticket says, i didn't come for you to remind me that you produce AND YOU RAP, TOO. and i certainly didn't come to watch you do your own song while the headliner stood back and acted as your group motivator or something. can ox was easily my favorite show, and the only way it would have been more awesome (other than if that monolith of man-stupidity hadn't stood right in front of me) would have been if aesop rock would have been holding a mic when he was chillin' on stage. i'd give the experience as a whole a 7 out of 10 stars, which easily would have been a 9 had i not gone to cage and decided i'd had enough of el-p's businessmanliness. now go check out the new pictures.