Paradise Lost; Apartment Found


I was reading the NYtimes’ Complain Box tonight, and the current article is about a trip the author had taken with his children to P.S.1., one of his favorite places to view contemporary art in NY. Unfortunately the trip turned sour when they were suddenly ambushed by a bunch of dicks and pussah’s all over the place. Well:

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.

Funny, I’d come across that same giant photo not too long after reading the article.

The author continues on about how, though he is against censorship, he feels that there should have been a more clear warning  regarding Couric’s flaming news labia. His reason? A “harried parent” wouldn’t have noticed the small printed sign which warned of the 18 plus. But when did it become a museums responsibility to make sure that children don’t come across lewd paintings? and I use that term extremely loosely because it is a fucking museum. Does it have something to do with the fact that paintings typically hang about 3 to 4 feet high, which inevitably leads to a childs head being level with cock, pussy and/or ass? Irregardless,  a harried parent shouldn’t bring their child to a museum. A harried parent, with children with a ton of energy to expel, should bring their child to a park, or a pool. Not an illusion of a pool. I’m all for bringing your kids to the museum but perhaps P.S. 1 isn’t necesarily that educational oasis of child distraction in a sea of mind numbingly bland parks and playgrounds. I was brought up on the MET and the Natural History museum. They may not be genitalia free, but if you’re not okay with your kid seeing a nude oil, or statue, then maybe the reccenter should be your next destination of choice.

The author concludes

Do New York museums really want to make parents scared of what their kids will see around the corner? I propose this rule: The warning signs should be at least as large as the exposed genitalia.

Do New York parents really have so much wreckless abandon as to let their kids run wild in a contemporary art museum? I think the author should just be glad that the signs aren’t as big as his genitalia. In which case they would look something like this:

In other news, I found an apartment. Good bye alleyway, hello Brownsville! Just kidding. I’d never live in that broke ass ghetto. (Sorry Brownsville, you know you’re my boo.) Instead, I’ll be living a stones throw away in Bed Stuy: A Step Above the Rest. Just kidding+1. Their motto is Bed Stuy: Do or Die. As in kill or kill yo’self cuz you a pussay, ya pussay. At least I’ll be able to tell my kids I lived in Bed Stuy pre gentrification. CUZ IM REAL LIKE THAT

Kanye/A.Rose Celebrity Scoop

I usually don’t do this type of thing but tonight was a slow night, and I just happened to come across the biggest celebrity scoop to hit the corner of Blog&who gives a fuck .

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

A Sit Down With War Torn Grandpaw

Who the fuck joins the Navy? says me, a deluded city kid who knows nothing but the smell of burnt pretzels and trash which has yet to be collected in the morning. well, that was the first thing that crossed my mind when my friend told me he was enlisting. To be honest, Im not really sure how to feel about it. I’m not the type of person who becomes an emotional wreck over other peoples shit, and I respect the decisions of others (or at least if I respect the person), but I do have my own opinions, as well as care about his well being. He’s talented as all hell but has that dangerous sense of adventure that makes you do things that most writers, like myself, only have wet dreams about, before deciding to write fiction. But I couldn’t help but think he was throwing a big part of his life away. You know, the part which keeps you not-dead.

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.

Post Grad

So I was watching MTV today with my girlfriend (we needed our fix of spoiled-rich-kid-gets-something-he/she-doesn’t-deserve-then-complains) and this commercial for the movie Post Grad came on. Post Grad is about a recent college graduate, played by that eclectic little twat from Gilmore Girls, who is shocked to find herself living at home and unemployed. The commercial itself wasn’t a trailer, but an interview with a REAL LIFE post grad. These are her exact words:

“So like, umm, I graduated from college, and interviewed with a publishing company, and they were like YOURE SO SMART YOU GRADUATED FROM COLLEGE, and I was like OMG I KNOW, COLLEGE!!! And then like, a week or two passed, and I got a letter and it was like omg no you didn’t get the job, and I was like holy shit. And as a consolation they gave me a box of books. Like What was I supposed to do with that?”

Or at least that’s what I heard . And what the hell are you doing, trying to get into publishing, if you don’t know what to do with a box of books?

So the question is, who is responsible for the surplus of unemployed english majors?  wow, that sounded very op-ed.

Youssouf Drame Is a NYC Bad Ass


“I Didn’t come to America to die” Youssouf told the NYTimes. Mr.Drame had killed two men who attempted to rob his store.

but Youssouf Drame isn’t a cold blooded killer. He’s the owner of Crown Heights Electronics. When four men entered his store last November, one shouting “Don’t do anything stupid Africa” Drame grabbed the mans gun and BLATBLATBLAT’d him in the face-hole. Perhaps you should stop and think before you rob someone who immigrated from Senegal.

What I think is fascinating about Drame is that, even after being shot 7 times, and murdering two men in self defense, he seems to have a pretty firm grasp on the situation at hand. I really do have respect for Youssouf Drame, and it’s not because he can stand his own ground. According to the NYTimes, many shop owners who had held similar stand offs come out shell shocked, and depressed. It seems unjust that they end up living a life of regret for something that wasn’t really in their power to control.

You’re probably wondering if Mr.Drame thinks what he did was wrong. With five kids to feed, and a long life ahead of him he doesn’t have much to regret. When asked if he would have done it all again, Youssouf simply replied “I’d do worse.”

via NYTimes

An Obnoxious Whiny Slob Complains About Not Being Able to Find an Apartment-by me

X doesnt exactly mark the spot. In this case it's the fire-truck red, cat's asshole, that is Brownsville

it took me about 20 minutes to settle on a name for this particular blog. I finally feel like I’m doing this article justice.

My days have been full of work, and my nighta, consumed by apartment cunting, I mean hunting, excuse me. It’s just that my inbox is full of people offering me “It’s a really beautiful apartment in Brownsville, just 900 a month, unfurnished.” It’s not that I don’t appreciate you taking the time to reach out to me, and respond to my ad, but I think if I say “student/intern/m/21 $600″ there are multiple indicators there telling you I’m a broke mother-fucker. And you know what else? I don’t want to live in Brownsville. Nobody wants to live in Brownsville. Chances are, if you’ve posted an Ad on Craigs List for a room/apartment in Brownsville, you’re subletting your own place so you can GTFO.

Quick story: A friend of mine told me this. A few years ago, this bodega owner kept complaining to his landlord that he was hearing these obscenely loud, racketing noises,  coming from above his store. The landlord, assuming the Bodega owner was just being naggy, and he himself being kind of a prick, didn’t really do anything about it. A few days later, the store gets broken into. Turns out the Crips had moved in upstairs and they sawed a hole in the fucking floor of the apartment, to get into the store.

I don’t know if that’s a true story or not, but I kind of hope it is. I mean, Brownsville/Bvile, regardless of the authenticity of that story, isn’t a great place, and wishing that story away wouldn’t make it any nicer, and how cool would it be if it actually happened? The 9 year old inside of me -wait, let me rephrase that.. My inner 9 year old is thrilled with the idea of being able to cut through a wall to steal plantain chips, guava paste, and adobo (the 3 big sellers at every bodega.) it’s so very Wile E. Coyote. And maybe it was just me, but I always thought that the Road Runner was the prickiest protagonist in a cartoon. that is, besides this asshole:
via facefunk

But maybe I just hate the Road Runner because I see a bit of myself in him.. always running…. always running … ANYWAY

I guess you could say I’ve been busier than usual. The usual = watching tv = nothing = moments of clarity. Considering I watch a lot of tv, I have to say I’ve been awfully confused lately, with all this work. One day this NYC intern is gunna get paid….ANYWAY+1

well, I’m giving up on everything for now. I need a moment of clarity. But before I go, tonight,  I want to raise my glass to Brownsville. If it wasn’t for your high crime rates, and ironic namesake (just kidding Brenna), I honestly wouldn’t have had dippity dog shit to talk about today (besides meeting with an authentic, actually, knows his shit blogger, at work, but that’s a seperate blog). So, here’s to you Brownsville. Cheers!

Why Heathrows Driverless Car System Could Never Work In NYC

So Heathrow is getting these futuristic driverless Cars to taxi people between terminals and parking lots, and other shit that you find around airports (Cinnabon? Duty Free shop?) Pretty amazing, considering they appear to run on a rail-less system. They even have touch screens. AND YOU KNOW YOU LIKE TOUCH SCREENS. If the Driverless Car System at Heathrow proves to be successful we might see this kind of thing on a bigger scale, perhaps even around cities. To be honest, I doubt we could pull it off if NYC. At one point or another they would turn into luxury mobile homes for the homeless/portable toilets. What appears to be a Driverless Car from the future will in fact be the warmest, most sheltery-est, half-twin sized bed in NYC. And do we really want them, anyway? A Driverless Car will have a mandated speed limit that it will be unable to surpass. You won’t be able to offer it a ‘really big tip if it can get there in ten minutes.’ Where’s the fun in riding around in a taxi, if you’re not zipping between cars, and clinging to your seat; afraid for your life? The fun is nowhere…that’s where.
I know what you’re thinking.
JUST SAY IT GRANDMAW
G: This is why we can never have nice things!. There, I said it.

via Gizmodo