This weekend, as I was standing on the platform of my local Brooklyn subway station, heading into Manhattan for pizza, I noticed this homeboy coming down the stairs on the the opposite platform across from me. His winter hat was pulled low, covering his right eye completely with the obligatory puffy coat and too low pants represented. Noticing his shuffling gait, I got the idea that this guy was some strain of seriously fucked up; stoned, drunk…something.

I guess I my attention had shifted for a moment, but when I looked back, the guy was suddenly on his ass in the middle of the train tracks. On an almost completely deserted platform, he’d managed to somehow lose his balance and take an ass-dive off the edge.

Struggling to get up at a pace conveying that he didn’t catch the gravity of where gravity had landed him, the few people that were around yelled at him to get the fuck up and off the tracks because a train was coming (although it was a decent distance away, well enough to stop if warned sufficiently) and a woman ran up the stairs to alert the station agent. Finally standing, the guy shuffled around a bit like a zombie, before deciding that the best idea was to go to the middle space between the Brooklyn and Manhattan-bound tracks. So, he steps up onto the third rail covering, which, as unreliable and fucked up as he was, is a supremely retarded choice of foot placement, regardless of the the barrier shield above the electrified rail. More yelling at him ensues and eventually he shuffles back to the edge of the platform and a woman and a young man haul him up to safety, where he promptly drops his ass onto a bench and zones.

Pretty much everyone had their hearts in their throats the whole time, except me. Not only did I not feel sympathy, I was kind of rooting for the train to paste him. If the fuck is stupid enough to get that trashed and try and take a train, he’s basically earned his spot as professional rail-grease. The world doesn’t need his genetic pollution. I only wish I’d remembered to take a shot with my phone’s camera.

I’ve just returned from work and a quick trip to the supermarket for arugula and beers (awesome combo, you don’t have to tell me). As I was walking home from the store in my neighborhood (Prospect Heights, Brooklyn), I noticed by a woman walking her poodle down the street in the opposite direction from me.

As I came closer, I saw some small, stick-like thing hanging out of the dog’s mouth. From a distance, my first thought was, “That’s a cigarette!”, but I have shit vision, even with contacts. But, sure enough, as the dog came closer I distinctly saw an unlit cigarette poking out of it’s mouth. The death-stick was whole, slightly damp in some parts, but complete and smokable.

The owner, who was walking slightly ahead of the poodle, seemed wholly oblivious as I can only assume she wouldn’t condone her pet’s addictive habit. My guess is the dog picked it up off the street, managing by coincidence to get it oriented correctly, filter-first and at the perfect smoking angle. The poodle really looked like he was just trying to get a light for it’s smoke. I would have obliged, had I been packing matches.

This morning, I left my Apartment of Doom and hit the street, heading for the subway. As I exited my building, I noticed this sketchy guy hanging out near the trash bins. he wasn’t homeless looking but kind of shabby and shady. He had a ten speed propped against the side of the building and was in the process of putting on a mismatched pair of dirty, old latex rubber gloves. I’m thinking that maybe the guy’s diving for cans to redeem, but I notice he doesn’t have any bags or anything to haul bottles and cans in. What I do notice is that the guy had a black nylon file case tucked under his arm.

I walked to the mailbox to drop off a Netflix DVD and stopped. Something just wasn’t right. So, I turned back and watched the guy from a few feet away. Sure enough, after the gloves were on, he started going through the building’s trash bins, looking through discarded mail and other papers he could find. The fuckwad was looking to boost someone’s identity, maybe get a credit card in their name or some other bullshit. I wish I had my camera with me so I could have grabbed a photo of the shithead. I figured there was no point in calling the cops, since going through trash left street-side is not illegal and if I’d said anything to the guy, he’d have either tripped on me or just biked off to some other building.

I’m really glad there’s a paper shredder at home. I destroy all my mail, except for the junk shit, along with anything else that might have any sensitive information in it. If you don’t have a shredder…get one.

I saw Unearthly Trance, Earth and Pelican at Luna Lounge in Williamsburg last night.

Unearthly Trance was annoying. I like their album, “In the Red“…not so much “The Trident“. Anyway, nice guys, but they took forever to hit the stage, preferring to hit the bar up for drinks and they only played a few songs. I just wanted more bang for my buck.

Earth was awesome. Mesmerizing, loud and droning. Worth the price of the ticket.

Pelican…whatever. I’m not into that kind of jam-band stuff. I gave them two songs and walked out.

Luna Lounge kind of sucks. First and foremost, by virtue of being in Williamsburg. I used to live there, but I can’t stand it anymore (or recognize it, for that matter). It’s like “Busch Gardens - Brooklyn” for trust-fund, up-and-coming douchebags. Secondly, the club has a kind of shit sound system.

I’ve been in Vermont for the past four days, vacationing. This entails a lot of efforts made at keeping my friend’s backyard from up and floating into space and shit like that. I accomplish this feat by sitting in a lawn chair, high off my gizzard, appreciating the birds and the green shit that sprouts out of the ground. There’s no bass-thumping cars, fire trucks, buses or crazy loud drunk people. Brooklyn is never able to be this quiet.

I’m drinking Pabst out of a can and my friend’s hound is howling at the neighbor’s car. I’m sitting in a white plastic chair with my laptop and the mosquitoes have not yet found me. There’s a couch made out of grass to my right. I’d sit in it, but there’s these funky white spiders that I’d rather not have crawling on me.

Tomorrow morning, I have to fly back to New York City.

Photos that I’ve taken so far can be seen here.

I’m generally not a fan of children, strollers and the parents who feel entitled to abuse my peace and personal space with them. That’s not to say I dislike all children and parents; some are nice and whatnot, but I usually prefer to appreciate them from a distance. I don’t want any kiddie cooties.

Recently, I was posed with a dare. Was I a man of conviction, strong and brave enough to leisurely wander about Park Slope—breeder and baby stroller central, while wearing this shirt? Fearless barbarian that I am, I have accepted this challenge.

In professing my fearlessness towards babies and their parents, I was also challenged as to what I would do if faced with the scenario of having insulted enough parents as to incite a mob of angry procreators, attacking me and threatening to break my kneecaps with their strollers.

The answer is simple. I would grab one of their children by the feet and swing them like a club, bludgeoning parents left and right, hewing a path to freedom and earning myself a proper dosage of fearful respect. Duh…

Yesterday morning, I got on the subway to go to work, leaned against the door and started reading a book as I normally do every weekday. After a few minutes, I noticed that several woman looking at me like I had just crapped on the floor in front of them. Dirty looks just for being the beautiful creature I am is not an unusual occurrence in my life, but as they persisted in staring me, I kind of snuck a look around and at myself to see if there was something really wrong that I was missing, like maybe I was standing in a homeless-puddle or something gross and offensive.

To my horror, I saw that my fly was down. Not just unzipped, but the flag was fully lowered, open and exposing my dorky-ass blue boxers with the stupid golf ball pattern. There I was, advertising to the the subway car what was going on in my pants. In their eyes, I was rank and file alongside the perverts, mad subway masturbators, crazies and other such dirty and undesirable gutter-scum. How I made it two blocks to the station and onto a train without noticing the homemade wind-tunnel for my testicles—I cannot fathom other than to guess that I was a bit groggy and scattered that morning.

(more…)

It’s mid-January in New York City and my apartment, building and seemingly the rest of my neighborhood is infested with mosquitoes. It’s jacket and hat weather outside and I’m sleeping with a mosquito net over my bed so I can manage some sleep and escape the relentless dive-bomb buzzing of my ears. Still, they seem to find ways to get at me anyway, as my constant itching attests.

Nearly every evening, I find myself doing a apartment wide bug hunting expedition. Swatter in hand, I scan the walls of my apartment, squinting for a glimpse of the blood-sucking fuckers. I hate them. I bring death to them at every opportunity.

After over five years of living in the city, this is the first time I’ve ever seen a mosquito in winter, much less a fricking plague of them. I’m at a loss to explain why I’m getting molested by these fucking parasites when it’s thirty degrees outside. I kill them, but more appear. I see them in my building’s hallway. I hear people on the street complaining about them. Perhaps it’s the construction going on in my area. Maybe it’s global warming. Blood-sucking aliens from Uranus? Whatever the cause, it’s disturbing and highly annoying. I can only hope that is winter is a single exception to the norm.

I, for one, am completely sick of it.

Yes, it sucked—more than I’m going to bother to try and convey.

I was (and still am) in NYC. I had to live through that day, walk through that day (all the way to Brooklyn) and deal with the next few weeks of absolute discombobulation (which, to me, was the worst - that’s when everything sets in) as to what’s safe anymore.

I had to go to work the next day, convinced I was going to die. I rode the subways every morning and for the first two months, every time the train stopped in the tunnels, a cold sweat would kick in and I was hardly the only person.

It was horrible. I wish it hadn’t happened. It did and it’s certainly affected me, my decisions and how I view things.

But it’s been five years.

Still, every time I watch the news, there it is. 9/11 is invoked left and right. I see the plane crash or at least the smoking buildings in the media every day. It’s no longer a tragedy. It’s been co-opted as a tool for politics and media. It makes me sick.

This morning, I was reading an article about a CBS interview with “Tuesday’s Children“, a group to support and represent the children who lost parents that day. The reporter was asking how they felt now and the biggest complaint, round the room, was the constant barrage of imagery from that day. A quote:

The kids [..] told 60 Minutes some of the worst memories don’t fade because the media won’t let them. [CBS Reporter Scott] Pelley got an earful about showing those pictures of 9/11 over and over again.

“Even when you’re just sitting down like eating dinner and watching TV, you’ll just have a nice conversation and then all the sudden you’ll see like pictures of 9/11. You can’t escape it. It’s just like everywhere you go its always like you’re always reminded of it somehow even in the littlest thing,” explains Amy Gardner.

“They’re showing my dad’s death and everyone else here. It’s just really offensive. Every time I see it, it brings up so much and it actually really hurts,” says Erik Abrahamson.

That pretty much sums it up for me. Here’s the link that has video and a transcript.

9/11 is now a political tool. It’s a ticket-selling, ratings-boosting tool. It’s a tool for bloated, flag-waving idiots to show how patriotic they are to everyone else. It’s disgusting. It’s sad. It’s infuriating.

Happy 9/11, everybody.

I’m at my office, sitting in the dark. Earlier today, we were told that our neighborhood was being evacuated (with the added bonus of a police escort, should we refuse), I guess so that the electric company can shut down our area in Manhattan, thus taking some stress of the power consumption. Within a minute or so, that order was rescinded, but we were asked to turn off all unnecessary electricity usage. So, here I am, typing in the dark. I just finished reading an email from a coworker’s friend whose father works for ConEd. Here’s what I have to look forward too:

From: [redacted]
Sent: Thursday, August 03, 2006 2:05 PM
To: Music - New York
Subject: FYI TO ALL

THOUGHT YOU ALL MIGHT WANT TO KNOW THIS INFO…

All-
My friend’s dad works for ConEd - he just called and told her not to ride the subways any more today, as we will likely have a blackout. ConEd is sending all non-essential employees home right now so they can shut down power to their building. From yesterday’s heat, Manhattan has 4 feeders out, putting a big strain on the system. He said in his 30 years working there, he’s never seen ConEd act like this, especially at 10:30 in the morning. He said not to panic, but not to take a chance if it can be helped - avoid riding the subway if at all possible.

Now I’ve lived through enough bullshit in New York to take all these emails with more than a grain of salt, no matter how many people say they know the person who knows the deal and whatnot. I’ve had a slew of imminent terrorist bombing/blackout/dirty nuke “get the fuck out now” emails come across my desk since I’ve been working in Manhattan and not one of them has ever amounted to anything other than wasted stress.

So here I am. Typing in the dark and waiting to go home, be it by train or by foot.