Archive for October, 2004

Election Night Plans?

Here’s something for everyone to do after we’re all done voting on Tuesday:

Otto’s Shrunken Head
538 E 14th St, New York, NY

Booze or Lose Party: Free shot for every state Kerry wins, open bar if
Bush wins the election.

The fun starts at 8 p.m.

What I Love About NYC (Part One)

Typically, blogs exist as landscapes of complaint. F that shit. Le vita e bella muthafucka. So, in honor of living the life you love and loving the life you live here

Hoola Hoops, Ho-Downs and Hootenanny–Oh My!

red dive fair.gif

This promises to be a wacky event put on by some really creative artists. If you haven

Please swipe again

Today’s the 100th Anniversary of the subway system. Mayor Michael R. Bloomberg will preside over ceremonies at the City Hall stop, the newly-crowned Ms. Subway will, um, be beautiful and represent the subway, and everyone will be thankful to have such a smoothly operating system.


Because anyone riding the 6th or 8th Avenue lines last night around rush hour would have been dealing with, as I was, the usual bullshit: long waits, no trains in sight, incomprehensible loudspeaker announcements telling us (I think) to take an uptown train to the next stop and then transfer to a downtown train, immediately followed by a slightly-less-incomprehensible message telling us a train was at the next station and would arrive in less than 5 minutes. Which it never did.

The weekends are even better for outer-borough dwellers: the F has been re-routed over the C, the G is replacing the F, the R is running express Canal St. to DeKalb… I have learned my lesson and now study the posted signs every Friday, trying to figure out my route for the weekend before it’s 2am and I’m stranded at Pacific St, unable to get myself home.

I love the convenience, when it’s convenient, and I love the subway, when it actually works, but damn, 99 years and 364 days in and and it can still be a huge pain in the ass.

Ode To Metropolitan Man

If you happen to be in Williamsburg, I’d suggest walking down Metropolitan towards Kent Ave (that’s right near the east river). When you get between Berry and Wythe you’ll happen upon a man who’s almost always chilling on his stoop. Sometimes he’s sitting in a chair, sometimes he’s hunched over the front railing, and sometimes he’s standing in his doorway. Whichever way you see him, he’ll ALWAYS say hello, and maybe even chat you up (but just for a bit).

If you drive by, slow down and wave, he’ll perk up, grin and wave back like you’re his best friend. It’s one of the best feelings. If you’re down, that cheery wave can make your day. If I ever go by and he’s not there I feel like something’s missing. Something just ain’t right.

It’s nice, in a city that’s known for its abrassiveness and disregard, to find someone who doesn’t mind just saying “hello”–even if he doesn’t know ya.

Its so sad.

It was that time of year again where baseball becomes just a little more important to everyone and for the first time in a while our dreams were totally crushed and by non other than that red soxs. Its a sad day in this city.

An Open Letter to My Heater

First and foremost let me apologize for kicking you this morning. Sometimes it

makin’ plans

Riding home on the subway yesterday evening, I quietly observed a man who was writing, very seriously and carefully, throughout the ride. He had a huge hard suitcase balanced on his lap: this was his desk. Scattered across the

The Cherry Lounge

Weeks ago, while walking home in Harlem I saw two beams of light criss-crossing in the West side of the night sky. A party! It must be a graduation, I thought.

But then I saw the lights another night. Hmm, It must be a club. But there aren’t any real clubs in Harlem.

I fly-followed the lights until I was stopped by the St. Nick park. Crossing through, or going around didn’t seem worth the effort.

And it wasn’t, since the Daily News told me later that week that the club is called the Cherry Lounge, a joint venture between DJ Clue and Timbaland. Clue, of course put out a mixtape to promote it.

So we have a club now. Harlem is officially back.

too fresh, too direct

I love Fresh Direct. It’s one of those NY perks I like to rub in the face of my out-of-town friends.

But I must say, I was more amused than disturbed by the recent report of a Fresh Direct delivery man making obscene phone calls to female customers. I’m sure for the women it was terrifying, but imagine the prank-call possibilities! I think it would go something like this…

Ring, ring.


“I can see you. What are you eating? Some artisanal cheese? Perhaps layered over one of our own parbaked sourdough loaves? Organic, hormone-free beef with hand-cut fries? Or perhaps you’re eating blueberries – always fresh, always local, always joooooocy.”

Horrified, the woman looks down at her hand… the small, plump blue globules look so innocent… she clenches her fist in despair, looking out the window – how does he know?

The juice, like the fruity blue blood of the damned, runs down her fist, drips to the counter.

Ya think?

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