It was too cold. Instead I would smoke a bowl, and lay on my couch, drink coffee and watch two hours of The Cleavland Show. I can’t say it was what I had planned for the day, but it turned out quite well. Around one I realized I should start dressing for school. I also realized I was still pretty stoned. I found a pair of socks, pulled my jeans out from a pile of clothes, and dressed for the cold. I took two naps while getting dressed. I fall into the category of  ’low-functioning pot smoker.’

I take the red line directly to school, and it takes me 45 minutes to get there. I use this opportunity to catch up on reading. I had Jonathan Lethem’s new book “Chronic City” on me. I started searching for the page where I had last left off when the irony of the title dawned on me and I began loudly laughing to the dismay of the Dominican grandmothers who I had wedged myself between in the packed car.

My first class was Art Survey. I walked into class late because I had to stop and get a Jamba juice. My professor was going over her syllibus and I took a seat against the wall. She started showing slides, and giving us vocabulary for describing art. ” Do you guys see the LINES in this Picasso? Notice how Poussin uses COLOR and FORM.” Yes, I did. “Does anyone have anything to add?” I felt that I’d made a bad impression, arriving in class late, and figured this was a better opportunity than ever to make up for it.

“I have something to add” I spent the next five minutes of class monologuing about landscape painting, and a trip I had taken to the MET during the Poussin show in 2008. I talked about what color REALLY MEANS, whatever that means, and how I FELT about form. I talked about who I was, and how it was funny that we’re all sitting in a room looking at slides of paintings.

I scribbled this in my notes “sitting here in art survey, my young female professor is huddled around her textbook, aiming her nerd specs at the letters on the page. She is quietly reading and chewing on her hair.”

Between classes I stopped at the library to use my laptop. My friend Soan tapped on my shoulder, and we talked about our winter breaks. We talked about travel, and girls, money, and responsibility. We went for a cup of coffee at the Barnes and Noble cafe down the street.

Sitting in French 102, my teacher began calling roll. She called my name, and asked me to tell the class about myself, but in french. “ah, oui, Je muh-pelle  ——, and, no I mean ‘et’ , ET- j’aime uhm biking and stuff.” fuck. After the attendance was taken, I opened my book bag to pull out my notebook. I noticed that my laptop was not in my bag. I stood up, knocking a glass bottle off of an older haitain woman’s desk. It burst open on the floor throwing glass and peach juice everywhere. “Sorry” I said. I ran to the library, my mind racing with the thought of a student plucking my laptop off of the desk which I had so haphazardly left it. Fucking asshole! How could I forget my laptop? Did I? My pace slowed wit realization. I brought my charger, and I brought my mouse. Did I even bring my laptop today? I walked back to where I had been sitting in the library, still doubtful, but too embarrassed to ask the front desk if someone had found a laptop which did not exist. Leaning against the desk, I stretched my calves, and quads, as if I had just finished exercising. ‘yep, done.’ I walked back to class slowly, grabbing some napkins from the bathroom on the way.

That night I would find my laptop opened on my couch, frozen on a still of the Cleavland Show. A bear wearing a shirt, and a tie, and a chubby black kid crying. I knocked my running shoes out of the way, and began taking off my boots. Best monday ever!

Last week I attended the second annual Gizmodo Gallery. Gizmodo showcases some of todays more interesting fringe technology, along with some old classics. There were painting robots, a 3d printer, and of course the obligatory 103 inch plasma tv tooting Halo in the back.

Phil Torrone with AdaFruit was kind enough to lend his time, and his laser etcher to Gizmodo fans looking for a cheap way to score an etched gadget. I brought my macbook pro. There was a small donation fee (25 bucks down from 100) all of which went towards Engineers Without Boarders. My friend CNTGZ really fucking pulled through last minute and designed an amazing Guatama Buddha for me.

Here are the results:

thanks to CNTGZ, Phil from Adafruit, and everyone at Gizmodo. wadup!

My roommate Alison fucking sucks. And here’s why:

1. The Snark of a Genius

Firstly, I should mention that Alison is a guy. Perhaps if he was a female I wouldn’t be so outwardly ferocious towards him in my rantings. Well, perhaps not. Anyway, I interviewed with Alison before I moved in to be the new roommate. It went like this:
Alison: So you don’t have to make a year commitment. You can do 6 months.
Me: Yeah, 6 months would be better.. To see if I can acclimate to the environment, you know?
A: Acclimate hm, that’s a good word (takes a swig of milk from the fridge) Haven’t used that one in like (pause, looks me straight in the eyes) two weeks.
He possesses all the quirks, and snark of a genius without the privelage of actually being one. This was definitely a red flag, and I should have known that our personalities would inevitably clash. But everyone deserves a second chance, right? Well.

2. Tangent Lectures

Alison goes on these tangent lectures where he breaks off from what appears to be casual, docile conversation, and begins these hyper political, eccentric rants.
Me: Man, I’m fucking beat from class. Seriously exhausted.
Alison: The government is in a downswing right now. People are investing money into a business structure that’s not going to exist in 50 years.
Me: Yes, Goodnight.
These lectures started just a few days in to my occupancy. I’d invited my girlfriend over for the night and we were in the middle of a quiet dinner. “Why astroids and humans have the same DNA” wasn’t exactly the dinner conversation I had in mind.

3. Alison Is A Mooch

My roommate Robert and I cooked lunch together the other day. I made some hot mustard chicken with garlic and scallions, and Rob made a pot of rice with kale and Cabbage. Enter Alison.
A: Hey guys, got some stir fry goin’ on here?
me: Yeah man. Do you want some?
A: Yeah. (casually looking away and yawning.) I think I’m gunna have a little bit.
What a pleasant way of saying thank you. he proceeded to finish off the rest of the food.

4. Alison Is In Love With My Room

After a day of class, or being gone for the weekend I will come home to find that my room has been altered, shuffled some how. A sock that was on the floor is now on my bed. My laundry bag which sat by the closet is now hanging on a hook by my door. I’ll even come home to find new things in my room. A book on my bureau that is not mine, 2 tennis balls sitting atop my bedside table. I’m been trying to decipher the intention behind these actions and objects. Is he pointing out my personal slobbery, while rewarding future cleanliness? Positive tennis ball reinforcements? Maybe he’s just fucking around in my room while I’m gone. Dear god, I hope he’s not jacking off in my bed.

5.This Morning

I woke up to the sound of two men screaming at each other. One of them was Alison. I recognized his particular whine. The other voice I didn’t recognize.
A:YO MAN, YOU’RE SUCH A DEE-BAG BRO. YOU’VE BEEN MOOCHING OFF OF ME SINCE DAY ONE.
?:FUCK YOU MAN. YO, YOU’RE LUCKY YOU’RE MY FRIEND, BECAUSE AS A BLACK MAN I SHOULD PUNCH YOU RIGHT NOW.
A: You know what man, just get your stuff and leave. I’m sick of you.
There was a loud banging on my door
?: Hey man, I need to get into your room.
It was Alison’s friend, and Ex Roommate. He had left a lot of his stuff in my closet and was picking it up. He began packing his clothes, and various belongings into plastic bags.
Ex Roomie: you’re doing the right thing moving out.
I was sitting on the edge of my bed, my head in my hands.
me: I become more and more aware of that, every passing day, thank you.
Ex Roomie: You’re doing the right thing.
me: Yes (pause) I know.
He left my room and I closed the door behind him, and got back in bed. A few minutes later I am awoken once again by heavy knocking.
Ex Roomie: You should come out here man, you need to be made aware of something!
I oblige. I don’t know why. It may be my terrible sense of humor, which allows me to put myself in such volatile situations. As if a practical joke is being played on me, and I’m participating for my own gratification. I sit on the edge of the living room couch.
me: Okay, what?
A: He’s just spouting off at the mouth man, it’s nothing.
Ex Roomie: No, Listen. Alison has someone moving in in October.
A: Don’t listen to him man.
me: Wait, that’s fine. I’m moving out. I thought we talked about this.
Ex Roomie: You should be aware.
A: Don’t listen to him man!
me: I don’t know what’s going on, to be perfectly honest. Guys, I’m sick, and it’s early, so leave me the fuck alone please.
A: Listen, he’s just spouting off at-
me: STOP!

I wasn’t planning on publishing this particular blog until after I moved out, but  the more I thought about it the more I realized I should post it now. It is more sincere, and it’s that much more funny to think that as you’re reading this I’m living in TOTAL SUCK! By the way, I’m fully aware that it is in bad taste to post someone’s real name and picture, but if you’re going to eat my food, and invade my privacy there’s really no holding back. Don’t eat my food. The end.

Couldn’t have said it better myself google. Tonight at MTV’s VMA’s (who gives a shit, I know) Kanye so graciously grabbed the mic from Best Female Video Award winner, 19 year old Taylor Swift, in support of Beyonce’s video Single Ladies.

He then proceeded to shoot off at the mouth like a child demanding his say. When did it become okay for a grown ass man to have a tantrum?  Not up on this celebrity gossip shit, but I’ll leave you with this. Am I the only one who thinks beaver whenever Kanye’s on tv? He has brace face. You know, the puckering, protruding lips of someone who is trying to hide their dental gear by forcing their lips down over it.

]]> http://nycifyouare.wordpress.com/2009/09/13/kanye-west-is-an/feed/ 3 nycifyouare http://nycifyouare.wordpress.com/2009/09/10/hypochondriac-but-only-by-association/ http://nycifyouare.wordpress.com/2009/09/10/hypochondriac-but-only-by-association/#comments Fri, 11 Sep 2009 03:47:49 +0000 nycifyouare http://nycifyouare.wordpress.com/?p=286 Continue reading →]]> I had a physical done earlier this month. My doctor gave me the usual: took some blood, had my boys looked at, knocked them around a little (that’s part of the usual, right?). You know the deal. About two weeks passed and I received a voicemail:

Hey um, This is Dr.X-X-X-X. And I have your (pause), I have your blood results here. And, well (pause) give me a call, or I’ll call you back soon.

fuck. What’s with all the pauses? So I’ve developed this terrible habit of putting off  bad news, regardless of its inevitability. Didn’t do well spring semester? Wait ’til fall semester to check my grades. Think I might’ve overdrawn a few bucks in my bank account? Wait til I start receiving letters to find out.

And I also happen to be a Hypochondriac, but only by association. I was raised by my mother, my mother’s mother, and my sister. Three legit, hardcore Hypochondriacs. For the first decade+change of my life my mother used to sneak vitamin powder into my sandwiches (taking three bites of a ham and cheese, and then on the fourth tasting eat wax is so much fun) almost sure that I would contract some forgotten disease; the plague or yellow fever at school (which is ridiculous because asian girls have never tickled my fancy.) My sister, when she would visit from college would try to convince me that I could get AID’s from staring at some skanky looking bitch the wrong way. And whenever I would visit as a child, my grandmother would force me to chug fish oil, and chew on flax seeds. She was the alternative medicine Hypochondriac in the family. So, more or less I’m the direct product of my sickeningly paranoia inducing environment.

So because of my Once-Removed-Hypochondria I refrained from calling my doctor back, and all the possible ailments I may have had began to fester in my mind. I became more, and more distrought with fear, sickened by the idea that I was a walking, talking germ vessel. At one point I was sure I was dying. If I coughed too hard I thought my dick would fall off.  if I was feeling particularly jumpy I was sure I had MS. If I hadn’t pissed all day I’d start fingering my prostate (kidding?)

It eventually got so bad that I could no longer screen my doctors phone calls and decided one day that I had to pick up. Maybe it was time sensitive, perhaps there was an antidote! Turns out I have a “slight leaky heart.” which is “borderline standard, and completely normal.” Now I just feel like a bitch. I mean a leaky heart aint very manly.

Then again I’m just glad my dick didn’t fall off.

This year I was lucky enough to be invited back to the Borough of Manhattan Community College. Now that the first week of class has passed I want to take a moment to tell you about the three types of people that you will encounter in Community College, if you are lucky enough to get the opportunity.

First, there are the Under Achievers. This group consists mainly of 20 somethings, fresh from their post year high school sabbatical.  The Under Achievers don’t really know what they’re doing with their life and luckily don’t really care to find out. They’d rather be at home playing xbox and jerking off (not a far cry from what I do in my spare time.) They never really considered the whole “four year thing” after high school but ended up in Community College because otherwise “yo my moms said she was gunna turn off my phone if I don’t go to school, and I was like naww.” The Under Achievers don’t give a shit about class, and chances are they’ll forget to register for class next semester, BUT IT’S OKAY! Anyday now their silkscreening company/rap career is totally going to blow up and they’ll be rollin’ in that new money.

Then there are the Over Achievers. Oddly enough, they are a similar breed to that of the Under Achievers. Neither did very well in high school, nor cared to take their SAT’s. What sets an Over Achiever apart however, is his/her bloated sense of self importance. By filling out the application, and paying the 35 dollar registration they are now of a higher echelon. A realm in which only the most elite minds are privy to exist, they are a well oiled gear in the think tank that is Community College. They will fight to sit in the front row, and raise their hand before they have a question to ask. Congratulations mutha fuckers.

Finally, the last group you encounter in Community College are the Foreigners. They are former Doctors and Lawyers from around the world with degrees that don’t mean a thing in the States, and now they are taking business administration, or hotel management courses. So you went to med school graduating at the top of your class, then opened a small practice in Poland which you’ve operated for the last 12 years? Sorry Volodyslav, but you’re in America now baby, and soon you’ll be sitting in some stuffy office creating excel files listing popular cat and dog dry foods for a cat and dog food conglomerate. LAND OF THE FREE!

At this point, I should apologize for all my hating. In fact I possess some of the qualities of both the under achiever, and the over achiever. I’m even a bit of a foreigner, albeit in my own right. Truth be told I’m just a bitter old/young man who is judging a student body that I’m too snobby to get to know, and not interesting enough to interact with. I should mention that I have however met a few curious individuals, like the Greek Pop Star, and the Romanian Ping Pong Champion. Anyway, let’s make Fall 09 an interesting semester.

oh, I may have over-looked a group. There happen to be a ton of old people hanging around. Like, fucking everywhere. Too old to start a new career not old enough to retire.

CHUG! CHUG! CHUG!

With the alleged death of DJ AM friday, celebrity island is said to have completed hiring their live in staff, and will be accepting residency applicants on a more regular basis this coming fall. We had a chance to sit down with some of the locals and talk about the future of one of Hollywoods best kept secrets.

“It’s a big project” one of Celebrity Islands longest residing members, and head of Performance Bookings said this morning, in an exclusive NYCIYA interview “but we all knew it would be an ambitious one from the start.” His co-director interjected; ” Yeah, for real. When we heard about this we did what we had to do as quickly as possible to get out here.” Tupac and Biggie exchanged knowning glances of friendship, and fraternal love, right before bursting out in teary eyed laughter. Tupac continued “You know, we’re happy to have DJ AM coming out here.When Michael Jackson decided it was his in his best interest to make that big move out there, we knew a lot of younger guys and girls, still in their prime would start flooding the gates. A lot of pressure is put on celebrities. You know they wanted MJ to do 50 shows for 200 million dollars? That’s only 4 million a show!”  NYCIYA was not allowed an interview with MJ but his officials released this statement to the press: “Mr.Jackson isn’t yet ready to be in the public eye. To answer some of your more pressing questions: The disappearance of local village boys is not related to his arrival, regardless of what the numbers are saying, the spike of missing children reports are completely unrelated. Remember people, he was acquitted.”

NYCIYA spent a few hours with the head of promotion and marketing for Celebrity Island for a more in dept look into C.I.:

“Hi, BILLY MAYS HERE FOR CELEBRITY ISLAND” said Billy Mays, Celebrity Islands newest addition to the marketing team. “And I’m here to tell you about an amazing refuge, located in a secluded island in the tropics! Celebrities are welcome to this tropical island to spend the rest of their lives rubbing shoulders with some of the worlds allstars, performing for the well known and well to do. We have Bruce Lee teaching martial arts, Les Paul teaching guitar, We’ve got Farah Fawcett and David Carradine, Walter Concrite, and Ed McMahon and many many many more!”

We spoke briefly to DJ AM on the phone this morning and he had this to say; “I’m glad to be here. I’m just getting settled in and I’m looking forward to my stay.” DJ AM let out a brief, but telling sigh, then continued “You know, to be honest. I thought this place was just a dream, like the whole thing was brought on by a drug induced coma, and now I’m just going to fade into black. huh, weird.”

We quickly encountered what appeared to be an indoor swimming pool- only it turned out to be an illusion (A glass sheet mounted in the floor, with a bit of water runing over it.). A stairway made it possible to see the pool….my kids ran up and down the stairs a dozen times, gleefully posing for photos. It was the exactly the kind of playful installation that I take them to museums like P.S.1 to see.After five minutes, they asked if there was anything else…they’d like…I didn’t know, so we checked out the exhibition across the hall…Two minutes later, I saw something alarming over my right shoulder: a giant photo of Katie Couric delivering the evening news with her genitalia exposed.

First pictures of Amber Rose and Kanye West TOGETHER, if you catch my drift.

picture 1

picture 2

I’ll be back to regular posting soon-nycifyouare

I’ve asked around to a few people who I thought might be in the know regarding how safe the Navy actually is. My friend told me about a kid from highschool who joined the Navy. She said he got ripped, saw the world, made lifetime friends, then spent the rest of his Tour in Japan, where he met some flat Chested vixen who got off on serving him hot sake with a side of  hot sucky. it all sounded pretty appealing, to be honest.

But then I asked my grandfather. He’s a war vet, who served in some of America’s bigger skirmishes, and has the quiet, broodish personality to prove it as well. I visited him at the Vets home to ask him some questions. When I arrived he was sneaking a cigarette, sitting in the corner of the room by the window. Half in shadow, his face was divided by bars of shade, cast from the blinds. From what the nurses told me, he smoked very frequently. I didn’t ask, but wondered why they hadn’t stopped him. But when I really thought about it, it wasn’t all that odd that they gave him all the room he wanted. he was treated much the same by his family when he was living at home. It was the only way to live with Grandpa Joe. I started to speak, announce my presence as not to sneak up on him. He wouldn’t like that “Hey Gr-”

“Sit down” he called, cutting me off. He hadn’t known I was coming, but he had always had a keen awareness for when his space was being invaded. I wasn’t really sure what to say. Hello, good to see you didn’t really seem appropriate at all, even as a formailty. He would see right through that bullshit. So instead I meagerly raised a hand to wave, then let it drop to my side, and jumped right into my questioning. I asked about the Navy, and told him about my friend. He was quiet for a moment, and then he spit into a pill bottle, which he extinguished his cigarette in. He looked up at me, the illumination of his face shifting in the light that was allowed by the blinds. I could see his face clearly now. His left eye was slightly shut, almost winking. It had been done surgically, as he lacked the ability to fully open it because of nerve damage. His lips were chap, partially from constant chain smokin, but also because he rarely took in fluids . He appeared older, and grayer for someone his age, if that is possible. He pulled another cigarette from within a pocket in his wheelchair, lighting it with a zippo that I discovered, he kept tucked between his belt and the waistband of his pants. “I’ll tell you one thing” he said, his one good eye meeting eye. His contact took me off guard. You could say that I wasn’t expecting contact so purposeful, and direct.”They gunna set his shit straight” he dragged deeply. My memory lapsed for a moment, and I had forgotten what exactly he was answering. Right, my friend who enlisted.”He might be safer in the Navy, but I tell you what, a lot of us weren’t, and he might not be either. Theyre sending boys from the Navy over to Iraq. That Mick from down the hall, his nephew joined the Navy. they trained him, sent him over as an EOD. They sent him home in two plastic bags. Little prick didn’t see whuat was coming” my grandfather looked up and chuckled. “Well, actually he probably set the damn thing off.” I later learned EOD stands for Explosive Ordnance Detonator. Grandpa Joe wheeled around towards me, and lifted up a towel which was laying next to him in his chair. He unrolled it, and there was a jar of pure china white cocaine. I looked at Grandpa Joe bewildered. He suddenly looked 20 years younger, and twice as festive. I took a twenty from my wallet, and he took a twenty from his money clip. Let’s just say we spent the rest of the night with a pair of escorts, dancin’ and getting blown.

well…. Okay, I don’t actually have a grandfather who lives in a a Vet’s Hospital. I pulled most of that INFORMATION(sure. let’s call it that) from google and yahoo answers.. and I happen to be reading a lot of Tim O’ Brien books right now. Excuse me for having an active imagination and a boring grandfather. well, no I take that back. My grandfather served in WWII, and was honorably discharged because of an injury ( he broke his arm playing ping pong… for real.)

I think there was a point in there somewhere, or perhaps I was just trying to avoid putting any thought into something that deserves some real consideration. Well,

good luck man.