On my way home last night I was listening to this story, part of the New Yorker's fiction podcast, and was so engrossed I missed my stop. It was worth it, I only missed it by one and so I walked down 5th avenue to Union Square from 23rd street, listening to this wonderful story. A beautiful March 8th that felt like early fall, almost too warm for a jacket.

Please, check it out. You can listen to it right in your browser, download an MP3, or get the podcast through iTunes.

I haven't read any Tobias Wolff before, but I'll be picking up his story collection that includes this one.

Write in the comments and let me know what you thought.

Join us as we take a brief and completely unscientific survey of the residents of New York City about which big names of science matter most to them!

Dear God,

I don't really actually believe in you, for reasons (and with qualifications) too numerous to outline here. Then I'd really be missing the point of this.

Anyway, it's like this. I'm stuck. I feel dumb. I know the economy has a lot to do with it, but I feel like all of the long hours for low and no pay I've put in over the last several years have all amounted to nothing. I can't get work in my field, or any field, it seems like, right now. I know I could probably get a crappy minimum wage job, but I couldn't even cover my expenses at minimum wage in this outrageously overpriced city, so forget that. I don't know how other people do it. I mean, I do know. Living in dangerous neighborhoods 8 or more to a two bedroom apartment.

Which brings me to one of my great moments of pause in this whole interior monologue. Things could be a lot worse. Things could be a lot worse for me just in this country's standard of living... And in other countries? Well. I could be living in a wood shack with only three walls, a tin roof, dirt floor, within smelling range of my town's al fresco toilet, which is really just a big hole in the ground half-full of dung and urine.

Which then makes me think that I actually have it pretty damn excellent, and I think statistically that's true. Which makes me sound like a spoiled brat when I say

But I thought it would be better than this. I thought adult life would have something *more*. I've worked really hard for a long time to become the person I am today, socially, intellectually, creatively, and I'm in a place where I think my best-case scenario is that I'm still just paying my dues. Worst case scenario is that regardless of whatever personal or creative or intellectual progress I myself make I will never financially make it in the city and I will have to declare bankruptcy and move in with my father and cry myself to sleep every night about what a horrible, wretched failure I am because somehow despite what I have accomplished and what I am capable of I am unable to support myself because the skill set I have developed, which are the same skills I have a natural aptitude for, have no significant financial value.

So, God, I guess this is where you come in. I wish someone could just tell me what to do. I wish there was a Department of Winning in the city where I could go and I could go see a Winning counselor and she would say "Okay, fill out these forms, bring them back here, and we'll tell you exactly what to do for the next four years and by that time you'll have a great career and be debt-free."

I would do that. At least I think so. I am pretty ornery and have a hard time following directions. But I'd like the opportunity to blindly follow someone else's correct plan for my life for a while. I've been doing what I want and what makes sense to me for a long time, working pretty hard at it, too, and it hasn't really worked out for me. I mean, in some senses, it really really has. I have everything that I want out of life.

Which then makes me think: Well boo-fucking-hoo. Hard knocks life for you.

I do, I have everything I want out of life except *money*. I've been living paycheck to paycheck pretty much since I moved here. I've had a few ups and downs, but I've been just barely squeaking by for years now. And I'd like to get a little bit ahead. I don't want to constantly be panicking at the end of every month just before everything magically comes together for me.

Again, boo-frigging-hoo.

I don't know. I think a lot of my frustration comes from jealousy. I see so many people in this city, even people I know, who are mostly in the same boat I am... struggling towards some sort of success, a solid work ethic, seeking validation for their work, and maintaining a good amount of progress and momentum. The difference is that if they fall, if they can't make rent or their electric bills, there is a safety net below... a place that will allow them to get back up, dust themselves off, and climb back up to the trapeze.

Last week I was working with this world famous avant garde artist and I asked him over lunch, "How long did it take? At what point in your career were you able to totally focus on your work because you had become successful enough to really support yourself without worrying too much? What did you change to get to that place of financial security."

And he gave a mirthless little laugh and said, "Well, I've really made no secret of it. When my father died he told me 'You won't be rich but you won't starve.' And that's basically it. My work has never been profitable. I lose money on everything I do. My father left me enough money when he died so that I can do that."

Which, you know, was not encouraging.

On the bright side, I'm not interested in being avant garde. I'm interesting in connecting with a broad, mainstream audience. That's an important part of my work and what I'm interested in. I just wish I didn't have to live in fear, every single month, of not being able to pay my rent, my electric, my gas, my grocery, my internet... Every month. I'm almost 30. What did I do wrong? And how do I fix it?

Dear God, is that where you come in for most people? To give them purpose? To give them specific directions about what to do and why?

Though I've heard that God is a lousy financial advisor, that he's more about purpose and direction and meaning and happiness and joy and all that. Which I've got, actually. I'm really just short on the financial thing.

I need a benefactor.

Anyone?

UPDATE: David Remnick, Editor-In-Chief of the New Yorker has written me a brief e-mail in response to the video:

If you have two hours, and a few beers, can I recommend streaming Mondo Hollywood, a documentary of sorts of Hollywood in the late 60s. Features people in the Manson family pre Tate-murder, a health nut named Gypsy Boots, Trannys, Reagan, and (maybe removed in the stream, i saw this on vhs years ago) a vaguely pedo-weird section about designer bathing suits for little girls with out tops. Features topless 6 year old models. Very uncomfortable.

LA still sucks.

Carlee had her going away party this past Friday night at her apartment on Moore St., a place she shared with Bailey, Liz, Carlos, and maybe some other people(?). The population of the apartment expands and contracts (they've had other roommates, Patrick lived there for a spell), but I'm pretty sure those four are the main residents. It was good, there was a big turnout and the apartment was packed with howling bodies by 1:00am. I smoked myself hoarse and drank half a six pack of Yuengling, and left around the time a screaming crowd had formed in a circle surrounding a makeshift flipcup table, warped plywood placed atop an ancient card table with folding legs. The wood was dark with spilled beer and Bailey's booted feet stomped in frothy amber puddles on the floor.

Dylan and Michelle are back from their nearly yearlong curious expedition, and it is good to have them back. It's hard for me to articulate what it is they bring to a room, but I hadn't realized how much I missed it until it was finally back. They have been apartment hunting and have settled on an apartment in Greenpoint. They came over for ice cream and a chat the other day, and I asked them about the more personal aspects of their trip as their blog is more academic than anecdotal. I'll let them share details here if they choose to.

In other news, I have quit smoking as of today, February 17th, 2008. I am done smoking for keeps. (Except, perhaps, the occasional hookah with my neighbors. It would be rude not to!) Whenever one of my friends quit, I always say "Real smokers never quit, they just stop for a while." I am determined to prove that I was never a real smoker!

I guess I'll leave it there for now. I think my writing is coming out a little funny today. I'm reading a story in the new issue of A Public Space all about an expedition to the North Pole that is ruined and devestated by rats. I think the narrator's voice is sneaking in to my prose a little bit.

A side note: Albanian pride today in Manhattan! Woo! (Full disclosure: I am not, nor have I ever been, a member of the Albanian party.)

I went to my friend's Festival of Lights party and had some potato pancakes. There was a small talk competition, where two people had 90 seconds and a topic, ranging from Darfur to Pink Berry. I was given "Hanukkah" itself. I did not know my opponent. I played dirty. I had someone call me seconds within the conversation - "I have to take this" - and talked to them about traffic in Los Angeles. Then I got a call from my mother. Finally, I hung up and apologized, took out a napkin, and said "This has been bugging me all night" licked the napkin, and swabbed at an invisible bit of something or other on his face. His eyes were filled with utter defeat. This must be what it looks like when you look into your rape victim. uh.

in other news, TP main page was blank. Eek.

A must-read: What the fuck is happening to Bushwick?

Says one real estate guy: "People in the neighborhood are ready to take their lives to the next level."

I'm so confused by that sentiment that all I can do is dribble green tea out of my mouth until my brain stops burning.

The crux of the problem is monetary, of course:

"It's happened so fast," says Roberto Marrero, a Legal Services attorney who has handled housing cases for the poor in Bushwick and Williamsburg for 10 years. "Rents were all around $600; that was what owners got. Then all of a sudden, in the last couple years, they doubled. Everywhere people looked, owners were asking $1,200—like that was the magic number all of a sudden." Even if the rent hike is well above the maximum set under state rent-stabilization guidelines, owners just take the chance that they won't get found out, Marrero says. "If no one challenges it for four years, it's legal."

Who's paying 1200 a month? Who? Where? ARGH.

The real travesty is that landlords don't listen to tenants, don't make repairs, and try to evict families if they think they can double rent. Read the article. It's astounding. (Thanks, Justin, for forwarding it.)

Maybe she could help out that guy

My New York age is 44

This New York age puts you-generally speaking-into the old-age category. Don't worry-this isn't a bad NYC age to be. Your tastes are more refined and developed, and people have always told you that you're mature for your age anyway, right? Still, you may want to see more live music (check out Studio B) and should probably visit Superdeluxe.com. Olde English is funny at any age.

Does your age reflect how you're living? Let us know.

What's your New York age? Take the Time Out New York quiz and find out!

in the hallway

Last night the most wonderful thing happened to me. There I was, sitting on the subway, when a man came bursting into our car with bells jangling. He was carrying an old fashioned box and a stand to put it on. "Oh my god, he's going to do magic," I whispered excitedly to Katie. "No he's not," Katie said, incessently thinking that I am wrong and she is right. Well this time, my friends, Katie was wrong. So very wrong.

I just saw four children playing a game involving clothing, colors and tag. Someone would blurt out a color and then everyone would violently hit the person wearing that color. The smallest child, who I had pegged as being age young was wearing something one shade less than tie-die and was continously getting pegged. Eventually he called out, in between grasps for breath "touch nobody." The game died down and he panted, "I win."

via Cartoon Brew

Like sexy cakes:

Also fancy cheeses, fresh fish, fresh meat, wine, fresh produce, a coffee shop, an art gallery, household goods, a clock store(?), a barber shop, a restaurant, a tailor, ethnic foods, and sexy cakes. Also spaghetti cakes. And most of it is pretty cheap (well, not the cakes).

The Essex Market has been around for 60 years. When it opened in the 30's, it was because there were so many pushcarts on the street that firetrucks and police cars couldn't do their policing and fire fighting in a timely fashion. So the mayor at the time (Mayor Fiorello H. LaGuardia) created indoor retail markets as a permanent home for street vendors. Essex Street is one of those original indoor markets.

Gay Firefighter cake after the jump

This is 100% personal opinion, but please allow me to Vice out for a second. Girls, you got to be careful with the ink. Easy does it. Unless you are a biker or actually metal, tattoos send out signals to the fellas. Here are some common occurances:

I went to go see Reverend Billy and his church of stop shopping last night for a little 9/11 sermon. His enthousiastic choir sang out against consumerism and current American politics with enough zeal to make this jaded New Yorker blush. Reverend Billy is a New York Icon and a performance artist who carries on like a televangelist. Last night in additiopn to the counter culture fight songs, we heard from senatorial candidate, Jonathan Tasini, and Governor candidate, Malachy McCourt. both giving us their alternative views about how to veer this political disaster off course. and of course, reminding us to VOTE

I had this rainy Tuesday off, and I thought, "what better way to enjoy a rainy day than to spend it in some rich old dead guy's house?" which I promptly did. The Morgan Library and Museum has recently reopened after renowned architect Renzo Piano redid the building (which used to be the court yard between Morgan's house and his library and study, which were in a seperate building on the property). It's nice, very big and sunny with lots of skylights, although definitely a little more on the modern tip than I personally prefer. But the library and Pierpont Mogan's study made up for that. Inspired by the Renaissance, both rooms are magestic and beautiful, yet intimate in scale. The Morgan is recognized as one of the world's greatest treasuries of artistic, literary, musical, and historical works, but it began as one man's private collection. In 1924, eleven years after Pierpont Morgan's death, his son, J. P. Morgan realized that the library had become too important to remain in private hands. In what constituted one of the most momentous cultural gifts in U.S. history, he fulfilled his father's dream of making the library and its treasures available to scholars and the public alike by transforming it into a public institution.

Buffalo Exchange, a second hand clothing store in Williamsburg, opened its first store in 1974 in Tuscan, Arizona. They now have over 25 locations in the US. Secondhand clothing is great, because the E.P.A. estimates that textiles make up about 4% of U.S. municipal solid waste, so trading used clothing has a positive environmental impact. I personally have been trying to buy Only used clothing (it's so hard to stick to, especially for shoes), and Buffalo Exchange is great because their clothes are really cool and really affordable. Plus I can sell all my old clothes to them and get pretty decent store credit. Not only that, when a customer accepts a token instead of a bag for her purchases, they will donate the amount the bag would cost to a charity of your choice. Through the Tokens for Bags program, Buffalo Exchange has generated $218,000 in donations to hundreds of nonprofit groups since 1994.

Karen Black from Art Parade 2005
I have received the good word that last year's art parade was a lot of fun and more importantly, there were free drinks. Besides free drinks (free drinks!) you can expect performances, costumes, floats, kites, portable sculptures, and "street spectacles" (like tiny drunk monkeys juggling bears, I hope?) from local artists, designers and performers.

It's this Saturday at 4 along West Broadway and there should be free drinks (free drinks!).
Link

I found Sometimes I Feel Like I'm the Only One Trying To Gentrify This Neighborhood to be a DOOZY!

I know how extremely difficult it is to find affordable studio space in the city, so this summer i did a residency program in Elk Horn, Iowa. In exchance fot helping build studios and a gallery at The General Store, I received room and board, studio space to work on a project, and a show when my project was completed. Check out my installation "Insideouthouse"

The General Store Gallery and Residency Program will be accepting applications for next summer's program in all mediums (fine art, music, film, writting, etc...) in the fall and winter. We will have a website up in the next few months with details about how to apply, or look for a link through my website http://www.senaclaracreston.com

Weeeeeeeee

Take a dash of Google Maps, toss in a pinch of Craigslist, stir it up, add some love, and you get My Apartment Map. It is what it sounds like it is. Not a lot on there right now, but I'm sure it will beef right up. i think it's a pretty handy idea. New York's on there, as well as Boston, LA, Philly, San Fransisco, Seattle, and a bunch of others (Dallas? Puh-lease! No one wants to live in Dallas!) So next time you find yourself on Craigslist apartment search typing in key words Bushwick, L Train, Giant, Loft...just go to My Apartment Map and save yourself the trouble.

Snickers's new ad campaign with made up words is assaulting my eyes. Satisfectellent? What the hell is that supposed to make me think? Nougatocity (i'm thinking Nougatoxity)? Substantialiscious?! Hungerectomy (hung erect o my)? Peanutopolis (a metropolis made of peanuts)? These are the lamest madeup words freaking ever! And they didn't even bother to make them googlable! That's just bad Marketing. When people see words that make no sense, they google them, and that's when you're all like, Hungry? Why Wait? (which, by the way, was an ad campaign that made a lot more sense...it says "snickers are filling", which is true. Satisfectellent means nothing. To anyone.)

Here, I have some suggestions for words that make you want a Snickers, instead of words that were clearly made up by people who don't know how to make things up:

How about Choclorgasm? Peanutakesitintheass? Caramellatio? Snickersgivesgoodhead?

This weekend, thanks to fellow blogger and all around swell guy Eric, not to mention team leader Stan and the whole rest of the team, I participated in a massive all-night-and-most-of-the-following-day scavenger hunt and puzzling extravaganza called Midnight Madness, inspired by on 1980 movie of the same name.

The following are videos and pictures from said event.

Excluded are pictures and videos that could be used against me in a court of law.

But first - the team picture. Team members can e-mail me for a hi-res copy.

A new definition of "parade" is going into effect on August 24 in New York City. This is yet another in a series of measures by the police to stop, detain, and generally harass bicyclists.

The new definition of parade will allow the police to arrest as few as two bicyclists riding together for "parading without a permit". I'm not kidding.

There will be a public hearing for the new definition at One Police Plaza on Wednesday, August 23, at 6 PM.

You can, and I suggest you do, attend the public hearing and contact the mayor about these new definitions. We must stop the criminalization of bicycle riding.

I never thought that sentence would come out of my mouth.

I wrote the Mayor a short, polite one. Read it after the jump.

News via Five Borough Bicycle Club.

Image of the 2004 RNC bicycle arrests courtesy Satan's Laundromat.

Shanna Nash actually came up with this last night, and, like all good crafters of koan, had no answer herself, or no answer more comprehensive than "well, Anytime has really great food and $1 PBR."

The Challenge: As briefly as possible, name the Five Best Bars in Brooklyn &/or Manhattan and explain why (and tell where). I'm not qualified to answer this Challenge mydamnself, owing to my technically being a Recently Relocated Southern Gentleperson, but I'd like to hear/read your responses.

(You get bonus points if you record or videotape yourself drinking at these bars, assuming you edit out most of the "glub-glubbing" sounds of drinking and the idiotic murmurs of the drunken Czech partiers beside you, the ones who keep inviting you to "cool room" where they want to do "dance thing" with your breasts. You don't even have breasts. What the fuck is going on here? Why did you come to this bar in the first place? Oh, I know: Should've checked the Challenge.)

Remember back in the spring when I wrote about the Total Destruction of the Williamsburg Waterfront? I talked about the lux condos and the water taxi and the possiblity of a new L stop on Kent and the pearching of more lux on top of what should have been named a historical landmark. I also mentioned a waterfront park.

We still have plenty of construction filled days and nights while we wait for all that lux, but the day of the East River Park is nearly here. And it looks like a desert.

Hasn't the NYPD wasted enough time fighting "crime", "violence", and "speeding cars"? Isn't it about time we start focusing our energies on the real crime, overzealous bicylists? I think it's past time, my friends. Past time.

And I am happy to announce that that the time is now. At long last, Bicylists will be receiving a well-deserved $60 ticket if caught in the illegal act of riding on the Brooklyn Bridge. Freaking finally, right? I mean, I know there is a lane designated for bicycles, and on the Wikipedia page about the Brooklyn Bridge it states "Carries: Motor vehicles, elevated trains (until 1944), streetcars (until 1950), pedestrians, and bicycles". But we all know those lanes should have been eliminated years ago, and Wikipedia is outdated. Bicycles are a thing of the past, and frankly, make our city look bad.

Our apartment, a 700 square-foot poorly insulated, high-ceilinged beautiful monstrosity (with one full wall of glass) roasts us like chicken in a Ron Popeil Showtime Rotisserie Oven.

Besides being so big that our 13,000 BTU air conditioner huffs and puffs all day to no effect, all the glass lets heat from the sun in to the apartment without letting it go. We've soaked our sheets through every night for the last week or so from this heatwave, but not last night. Using strong impulses from our childhood, we devised a way to comfortably freeze our asses off all night long.

Here's how!

This Saturday, Dylan and I took an evening trip to The Met to enjoy some live chamber music (4-8:30 Fridays and Saturdays, where you also sit and eat fancy appetizers and fancy drinks (including an absinthe/grenadine thingy...absinthe isn't illegal anymore? Was it ever? We will be going back soon for the absinthe and will let you know how things turn out)), and some British Fashion over the in special exhibitions section, called AngloMania:Tradition and Transgression in British Fashion.

After being on back order for a month, I'm finally the adult wearing Heelys

This is me Heelying in the elevator. Note the motion blur. I'm super fast.

So, last night I went to a friend's birthday party in south Williamsburg. I left at around 2:30 AM, fairly trashed, and low and behold two desperate youths approached me at the intersection of Keap and Hope, demanding "the money". Unfortunately for them, drunk people are difficult to mug and "the money" consisted of 3 crumpled, sweaty dollars. As I handed them the money, the blinding halogen headlights of a black SUV suddenly turned on, and the driver started the engine and peeled out toward us. The blood-thirsty babes quickly handed the money back, and ran off. Thinking nothing of it and being drunk, I continued on my way toward the subway, when the SUV pulled up beside me. The driver rolled down the window.
"Those guys were robbing you, right?"
"Yeah, they tried to. Thanks."
"No problem. Have a good night."
In my mind the guy also calls me "Citizen". Thank you so much Brooklyn vigilante!

I know we don't all live in Brooklyn (sorry Ryan) but just thought I'd let you know that there's a new blog about Brooklyn: Brooklyn Record.

By some weird stroke of fate, my roommates and I haven't been paying our electric bills. We don't know why, exactly, but when I tried to sign up for Con Ed, they said someone else was paying for it. We had a suspicion it might be our landlord, but we had a nervous concern that our downstairs neighbor was inadvertently keeping our lights on. But whatevs, we said, free electricity!!!

But today, a turn of events has complicated and confused us all.

So there is this girl who fellated me once about six personalities and one hundred thousand years ago. When I recieved a message from an old friend today, I was reminded of this girl, so I went and visited her livejournal. Even though we never connected and only saw each other once, I remember her lj address because her username is 'motown.' Motown. I always think of the label on the Stevie Wonder CD that I had as a kid, and how it said MOTOWN across the front of it in blue ink.

Anyway, not much to report. Visiting her LJ always tells me the same thing: I don't know her, but I feel like we could be friends. But I have no way to contact her and she probably wouldn't like to hear from me anyway.

Which is boring, a dead end. I don't have enough time to see my own wife these days, let alone my friends, let alone some kindred spirit I spent the weekend with once.

The only reason I'm posting about her at all is because there was a link on her LJ that I followed, and I think it's worth checking out. I was really impressed.

This Saturday Dylan and I went to McCarren Park for the Renegade Craft Fair. Snap, it's huge! Tents cover the entire circumference of the park, with almost 200 vendors from all over the country and Canada. There was everything from art prints to teeshirts to stuffed animals to homemade journals, calenders and posters, jewelry, clothing, wallets, etc. etc. You know, crafts. But super cool crafts. There were a lot of really great styles that were pretty inspiring.

It was really refreshing to see what people our age are making all over the country, and totally made me want to make stuff. If they can do it, I can, right?

Clicky for bigger pictures...

Ladder in hand, I'm ready to spring to action when fire is near.

High in the Hollywood Hills, are bikes take a scenic rest in front of the Hollywood sign. I think they put that thing up in 03 or 04.

Look at that motion blur! But don't be confused, I wasn't breaking any land speed records, just puttin' around at a cool 28 mph.

I don't know what torque is but I need more of it. Steep ass hill bitch made me PEDAL and then walk up my bike. I think this is why mopeds are better than scooters though, you'd be screwded doubly on a 49cc scooter with no pedal as an option.

At a red light. You can see the eternal lighthouse of Taco Bell behind us if you squint.

Rob took these photos from his 1979 vespa, which goes real fast. Still getting my photos developed. i really need to buckledown and get a digital camera one of these days. Oh, side note: Cinematech has been picked up for another 22 episodes, so I have gainful employment pretty much to the end of the year, but looking at an October weeklong visit.

Walking down Metropolitan Avenue in Williamsburg on Sunday, I happened upon a
little sign reading "City Reliquary: $.50". Fifty Cents? I said, "Yes sir!", quarters in my little outstretched hand. The teeny tiny room was set up like an old sideshow thing (or how I imagine them to have been) with a red velvet rope before you enter, velvety red stuff everywhere, glass cases lit romantically with Edison bulbs, old wornout carpets, dark wood, you get the picture. Nice. Old. A little creepy.

Picked up the moped this morning, with the help of Charlie. Even picking it up was pretty cool. The couple I bought it from are a couple of college kids and total grease monkies (and I mean that in a flattering, mechanic-sex, sort of way) who helped drain the engine and talked shop with Charlie for a while, as I stood silent with a shit eat grin. We also all ignored the man in the wheelchair who was trying to buy imaginary marijuanna from us. They even took photos of it before we took the handlebars down to fit it in the car. My bike was a restored Murray 1980, which was made by Puch for Murray. He had gotten it as 50$ junker and fixed it up for his cousin who is a fireman, but decided he can't be a moped enthuisist anymore. He had a siren horn, a place for a fire extinguisher, a small ladder and authentic fire hose and appropritate decals. They were a bit upset that I am not an active fire fighter, though I was quick to note that I did support fire (just not in my nieghborhood. Property values and all)
Next stop was Myron's Mopeds where Charlie talked more shop, I got to see nice musuem of mopeds, get an abbreviated history of Puch, which has a very regal logo. I got a helmut, some DMV paperwork and some other doodads, and we headed back to Camp Serrano in Ktown.
Charlie let me syphon some of his mixed oil and we took off, or vroom-putt-putt'd, to the gas station (3 blocks) so I could fill 'er up. I got that high octane shit for my red baby. .73 gallons, 2 buck. Should last me at least 60 miles. Then he hit the more or less open road, wih my strong opine to take Frost's advice and moped the path less taken.
Have I mentioned that while I had had a moped in CT, in CT we had to ride in bike lanes. Here it's the street. My acceleration is poor and I have to pedal a bit to get it going. Have I mentioned I haven't been on a bike in a solid decade? It's not like just riding a bike. So we cruised the less popular streets of Koreatown and Hancock Park. Charlie's Puch has a pipe and a kit. Think of your moped as a JRPG character, and those things being really good equips that give your bike +5 MPH and acceleration, even better gas mileage. 28mph vs 35mph becomes apparent very quickly, even on short blocks.
We hauled ass to Charlie's girlfriends apartment and then took off to a bike shop when I realized my bike didn't have a mirror. Oops. We ended up taking a road with lots of speed bumps taht don't really slow us down, but makes cars crawl. It was a short stretch of Oppositeville. We made it to the bike shop unscathed, which sat very close to a tantalizing Taco Bell, which we decided to dine at. Charlie took off, while I meekishly teetered out of the alley when I was ltierally GOBSMACKED and BRAINED by an unseen force from the sidewalk. Perhaps, i though as I came crushing towards the ground, a localized earthquake had singled me out, cascading the pavement, like a wave or shitily designed suspesion bridge. Or maybe one of those localised tornados, or a really big dog. It was worst. As I regained composure, I saw the force of my fall was a Tween, bedazzled in bedazzler made Bratz shirts with pom-pom flair extruding from her handlebars like vindictive whiskers searching for prey. She had a stony look on her face, as I lay crumpled under the fiery frame of my fallen pedalable motor bike. Her friend, some sort of homespun femmonculus was laughing at me. Realizing my life was spared, I continually asked if she was ok. She just stared into my soul through my good eye, and peddled down the alley to the bike store. Probably to get a really nice basket or maybe a horn that resembles a unicorn.
Like so many men before, I picked myself up, dusted myself off and walked the moped to the TB to get a bean burrito (no onions) and look at the wounds.: Ok my knee doesn't look this bad, but it hurts like a bitch. This isn't quite so bad as when I was highsticked in girl's floor hockey in 5th grade and lost a totoh, but it ranks. I sit now, nursing my knee with a Lawson Creek Red Ale, hoping I'm up to snuff for the 80 goddamn mile trip The Late Birds, my new moped gang which ::Nneba Ehryy gur thl jub cynlrq Xvc va Anc. Qla. vf va gur tnat::. Wish me luck and PRO-TIP buy stock in Band-Aids.

This New York Magazine article about late 30s and 40-something wannabe hipsters made me laugh. Don't they know how LAME-O everyone who's actually young and cool think they look in their designer rippy jeans and fake-o vintage tshirts? Who are they rebelling against, themselves?? Those dorks. (Sorry if you're reading this and you're late 30s and you've got a messenger bag and you're trying to raise your kids to like the Decemerists and the YYYs, but you should read this article too. At least have a laugh at yourself with us.)

LINK

The doorman or custodian or somebody, a tan-skinned elderly man wearing a puffy red and blue Adidas jacket, grinning below a trim Hitler moustache, wouldn't let me back in.

"The elevator is locked," I said.

He giggled and nodded, pointing to the keyholes.

"Can you let me in to the third floor?"

Last night, Dylan and I were hanging out at my apartment in Williamsburg, and we decided to take a walk along the waterfront. I've lived there for almost 6 months, and had still never walked to the waterfront. We walked to the abandoned Domino Sugar Factory, the tiny little "park" at the end of Grand Street, walked down numerous construction truck paths, and trespassed behind an emormous building and found a quiet spot with a perfect view of Manhatten and no sound but the sound of the water. I didn't feel like I was in a city at all. The longer and farther we walked, the less people we saw. We spent about an hour without ever seeing a soul, and this is a mere 3 blocks from Williamsburg's Bedford Avenue, an overpacked stretch constantly choking on hipsters shopping, eating, biking, and looking ultra-cool. Three blocks down, and we were in what I imagine Williamsburg was like before young artists like myself started taking over. Industrial biuldings, smokestacks, the sound of the window and glass factory machines cranking, streets literally crumbling into the water, and nighttime desolation. But soon, even the quiet waterfront will be another Bedford Avenue.

We are putting down guitar hero long enough to throw a kick ass party.
Tonight! TONIGHT!!!

Golf Pros VS Tennis Hos at the Juggernaut Unlimited LTD
Socks. Skirts. Pleats. Cleats.

at Party O'Clock

950 Hart STREET, Studio 106

Take the L to Dekalb

Call one of us to get in, or sneak in if you are crafty. shoot me an email if you are confused.

NYPress's annual list of horrible shit heads who live with us is out. Check it out

My #1 favorite is published only in my brain, so don't bother checking the site for a post you may have missed. #2 is the first to be posted.

On my way to Juggernaut Unlimited Ltd. tonight, a pair of male albino twins boarded the subway car Karen and I were riding. They both wore bluejeans, a black nondescript winter jacket, and a black baseball cap. They held on to the pole in the middle of the car with their right hands, each facining opposite directions, each holding a white shopping bag in their left hands. They rode the train for three stops and got off. Their entire ride I stared at the one facing me and he stared back.