Hello Metblogs New York City! You’re all probably wondering who your new writer is.

Allow me to introduce myself: my name is Everett Bogue, I’m a twentysomething resident of Bushwick, Brooklyn. I’ve lived in the ’swick since December of 2006, and before that I was housing myself in a very tiny Williamsburg flat for a few years while I was wrapping up my service to higher education — and racking up semi-large amounts of student loan debt.

I enjoy coffee (especially Intelligentsia — hollah back Chicago), underground (like, in the basement loft) dance parties, vodka tonics at said parties, and more coffee. I bike to work every day, unless I’ve had too many vodka tonics the day before, or at least I will until it gets too cold in New York and my own snot starts to freeze to my face halfway over the Williamsburg bridge. At various points in my life I’ve been or wanted to be a contemporary dancer, journalist, photographer, photo-illustrator, and a photo editor. Right now I like writing short stories; these stories don’t make me money, nor does working at this blog. There’s something about working for free that’s just so much more fulfilling.

I also enjoy trees, nature, sitting in a kayak in the middle of a lake in upper Wisconsin with only the sound of frogs and a lone Loon circling overhead, sleeping on mountain tops upstate with friends, without tents, long hikes in, well, the wilderness with overcast skies and slightly damp earth, sitting on the edge of the ocean, alone or with a friend, and silently contemplating the grains of sand and their relationship with time and space, or the continuous pounding of waves across the shore. And I’m really incredibly upset that McCain’s vice-presidential choice Sarah Palin wants to kill the polar bears. Uh oh, I like things that aren’t concrete and more than twelve stories high! Ahhh!

All of this has lately brought me to this one sad conclusion over the last six or so months: Oh shit, what am I doing in this city? Aren’t I supposed to be rat-racing around with a pitchfork trying to make 60k a year in order to just pay my rent and eat at Moto once in awhile? Working 75 hours a week until my slave driver of choice turns a tidy profit? And breathing in epic amounts of carbon dioxide and other harmful chemicals? Conundrum.

So, I’m leaving this icky/filthy/smoggy city, as soon as I can. And thus I pitched Sean of Metblogs an idea. “Why don’t you let me be that blogger who is leaving?” I say — actually it wasn’t quite like that, but let’s pretend. “I have mad credibility!” I also said, in order to back up my pitch. And he said “that’s a great idea!” And now you have me here now. Theoretically I’ll be transferred the the Metblog in the city that I eventually move to.

Until I leave, I shall blog about the End of Times in New York City.

Cheerful!

Photo from about.com

When I first heard The Other Boleyn Girl was coming out as a movie, I quickly bought the book so that I could read it first. It’s long, but a fast read. After plowing through it, I launched on a whole Philippa Gregory kick, reading all the books in her Tudor series.

(Warning: spoilers follow) Despite beautiful costumes and some decent performances, the movie proved a huge let down. Instead of keeping to the story, it begins with a long segment of King Henry coming to visit the Boleyns’ country estate and meeting Anne. This event does not happen in the book at all, which starts right at court when Henry meets Anne for the first time (making the book actually more fast-paced than the movie!). It is Anne that Henry refers to when he uses the phrase “the other Boleyn girl” in the book. Mary has been at court (and married) when Anne joins them from French court. If Wikipedia is correct, this version is historically accurate.

Meanwhile, the movie cut out a lot of the story. It focused on Anne, not Mary (which kind of defeats the point). In the book, it is Mary that Henry notices first, stays with through the birth of 2 children, and whose life is the focus of the book. In the movie, her passionate affair with handsome Stafford is downplayed to a convenient marriage with a (rather goofy-looking) childhood servant. Not to mention, the movie completely excludes what happens to her first husband. Obviously, she couldn’t marry Stafford if she was already married!

With this inaccurate time-line and plot holes, I found the movie highly disappointing. However, I’m halfway through The Virgin’s Lover and planning to continue my Philippa Gregory obsession!

Photo from Stdymphnas.com

I went out for a friend’s birthday at St. Dymphna’s in the East Village. The establishment is named after the patron saint of the insane, a beautiful daughter of an Irish king whose refusal to marry her father led to her beheading. She is said to be buried in a cave where the mentally ill can be miraculously cured.

A cozy spot, this pub serves a variety Irish foods, including a full Irish breakfast. Naturally the vegetarian options are rather limited, so I managed to eat a meal of three different potato dishes: French fries, potato skins, and mashed potatoes. Not exactly a balanced meal, but still tasty. Our server, possibly someone who could benefit from Dymphna’s blessing, gave us the wrong food at least three times. At one point she came to our table with three dishes (2 wrong, 1 right) and walked away with them all to find our correct order. One bold friend just went up to the counter and took the right dish back to the table, only to be yelled at by the server for doing so a few minutes later.

Anyway, despite the food confusion, it proved a fun place for a hearty meal. There’s also a courtyard in the back, which should be awesome in Spring.

It might seem odd that this is the 2nd time this week I’m talking about excrement, but such is the reality of living in NYC. I don’t sugarcoat anything, pure news is what you get here. OK, so check it: 2nd car from the front on an F train smells like 100 homeless people slept on it one night and they all (excuse the French) shat themselves silly.

My luck happens to be so that I hopped on the same train, going in 2 different directions. Now, this is an assumption that I rode the same train twice. Maybe there’s an unpleasant pattern in the works here, but I pray that coincidence was at play here.

Last night at around 7 pm, this particular train was Queens bound at around 7 pm. Tonight, I experienced the same smell on a Brooklyn bound F at 34th street Penn Station. The reason I knew it was the same was that the train car was now the 2nd from the back.

At least tonight I had enough sense to not wait 1 stop before switching cars. I probably would have hurled all over that sucker if I stayed on.

Stay cool on Sunday– It’s only a game. live a long life and die with smile on your face while cheating on your spouse like a normal person. ( Spouses should fire from left to right) Repeat after me– They are the New Jersey Giants, not the NY Giants.

“German researchers tracking cardiac emergencies during the 2006 World Cup of Soccer (which Germany hosted), found that on the days when Germany played, the rate of cardiac events, such as heart attacks, angina attacks or cardiac arrhythmias was 2.66 higher than the norm.

The rate of such events among women was 1.82 times higher than average, while the rate for men was a whopping 3.26 times higher than normal.

Among those who suffered heart emergencies on days when the German team played, 47 per cent had been diagnosed with heart disease in the past. Normally, only about 29 per cent of patients who head to hospital for a heart emergency have already had a diagnosis of heart disease?”

Here is part two of my rant that I am re-posting.

Things got really quiet. I mean really and I could tell that there were a lot of other birds that were listening now.

Me: Yes. I came there because I want to help make scene that revolved around the artists.

With apologies, I am re -posting the first part of a long crazed rant, I did about the lives of creative people in a city that is so short of livable affordable housing and creative workspace. I aint claiming it as a work of art, but I hope it is worth reading. It’s one of the first posts I did on my Digging Pitt Blog after I moved to Pittsburgh and started a gallery. I now spend ime in both places.

I used the bird metaphor after reading this statement on the website of Galapagos Art Space in Brooklyn.

“The canaries in New York City’s real estate gold mine - the emerging arts - are no longer talking about the next show they hope to land, they’re talking about the next city they think they can land in once their current lease runs out.

But for many that lease on life has already run out. Affordable habitat in the cultural ecosystem is becoming hard to find. For everyone.”

Are the artists really just the tip of the iceberg or not. The city has historically treated them as an expendable group and never had much trouble finding new bird brains to come into the city. But, this may be changing.

I know all of you Yinzers are eager to hear about my little trip to NY. I met a few of the little birds there and this is sort of how I remember things. The setting is Kellogg’s Diner.

Me: So, If I get you guys right you are all here because you like the other birds and all the cultural exitement. You are here because the other birds are here. The filmaker birds and the dancer birds and the artist birds. Why don’t you all move?

<img alt=”mojave1.jpg” src=”http://nyc.metblogs.com/archives/images/2008/01/mojave1.jpg” width=”200″ />
Photo from Wikipages.com

For brunch today, I checked out a new restaurant in Astoria called Mojave. Serving Southwestern cuisine, this establishment is owned by the same people as Agave (a place I’ve been meaning to go to). The interior decor is reminiscent of some adobe cavern, with warm-colored walls and a bull skull.

The brunch menu contains a range of Southwestern sandwiches and typical brunch items (such as pancakes and French toast). There’s also a pre-fixe menu with various egg dishes and a choice of wine, margarita, or mimosa. I got the French toast, which was a huge dish of very heavy French toast. But the complimentary corn chips were delicious, as was the mimosa. With its chic atmosphere and unique menu, this new spot is a great addition to Astorian dining.

Photo from lesenfantsterriblesnyc.com

After a chilly walk from the subway, during which I walked 10 blocks in the wrong direction, rather than the 1 block of walking required, I managed to get to my destination Bacaro (an Italian restaurant). However, I arrived to find it unexpectedly closed with my shivering friends standing in front. We decided to go to a restaurant close by, called Les Enfants Terrible. After a sipping cocktails at the bar, we were seated by the window (whose draft made warming up difficult).

Located in the Lower East Side, this small establishment serves an interesting blend of French and Brazilian/African food. The menu has very limited vegetarian options if you don’t eat seafood (just one vegetarian entree - spiced curry). I ordered the grilled shrimp and some red wine. The atmosphere is fun and cozy - a bit too cozy. The lack of space made the walk to and from the bathroom a challenge. And the bathroom itself was tiny and dingy, the sort whose lock I wouldn’t trust.

That said, we had a lovely French server who was very sweet. And the food was delicious! My meat-eating friends enjoyed thier steak dishes and I have also heard great things about their brunch. I’d try it again, despite the price tag and the frigid draft from the window!

My name is Till, I usually live in Berlin but I am here for the month. You’ll see and read more soon. :) If you want to follow me around check out my plazes or watch my yelp.

Oh, and even though I’ve been here three times before - if anyone would suggest some places to get good coffee at (no Starbucks) or vegetarian/vegan joints, or anything else, please leave a comment.