tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-47988740494246327272024-03-13T09:01:19.213-06:00TACKY TOWNwe're all going to hellRANDALLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08267297870258421368noreply@blogger.comBlogger87125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4798874049424632727.post-40729538602873803722014-02-20T08:46:00.000-07:002014-03-15T16:09:23.132-06:00End-of-Winter Misery Round-Up<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Once upon a time, it
was almost Christmas. Do you remember how good you were feeling back then? I
sure don’t! When I try to imagine a time during which I romanticized snow,
seasonal alcoholic beverages, fabulous winter fashion, and days spent curled up in bed watching movies or reading, I find myself at a complete loss. The
dream is dead. I’m so cold that the divine prospect of me in short shorts sweating my tits off at a
rooftop concert in ninety-degree heat seems like a fucking pipe dream. It’s all
over. We’re doomed to a life of ducking out of the wind and huddling in a miserable cocoon of our own making. My cocoon sucks! It is the product of the most punishing winter I have seen in my eight years of living in the state of New York. It is so goddamn freezing that my life has been reduced to various
sequences of survival techniques that make me feel more and more savage by the
day. Come with me, if you dare, for a day in my S.A.D. winter life. Here's how I do:<br />
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<b>EVERY (OTHER) WEEKDAY MORNING: BATTLING MY NEIGHBORS
FOR HOT WATER</b></div>
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I used to get up at
7:35 a.m. on days where I needed to shower before work. Those days are long gone.
I learned the hard way that the hot water in my building sucks and that if you
snooze you lose. I now get up at 7:00 to steal the hot water from everybody
else. It’s not so bad because this way I’ve been getting to work earlier and I
don’t have to worry about running into anybody I know on the train, but what I
wouldn’t give for those extra thirty-five minutes! In the summer I can take a cold
shower and it is the most refreshing thing, it’s like I’m EXCITED to get up
early and get in there. Nowadays I feel terrified to step into liquid because
the bathroom is cold and the prospect of running out of hot water when I haven’t
even STARTED conditioning my hair makes me want to shit my pants. The thing that REALLY sucks, though, is that even if your shower is piping hot, you will get cold all over again when you turn the water off. Your drafty bathroom will lash your wet, naked flesh with goosebumps. You cannot win. Basically,
everything is painful right now. The cold fucking HURTS! </div>
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<b>EVERY WEEKDAY NO MATTER WHAT: LAYERING THE SAME
LAYERS UNDER THE SAME THREE SHITTY FLANNEL SHIRTS</b></div>
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Remember what I was
saying about being excited about winter fashion? It’s over. I want to throw
every sweater, every wool sock, all of my flannel and both pairs of my winter
boots into the fire. Basically I have been dressing like a fucking MAN for the
past three months because girly clothes are inherently freezing. My cutoff
shorts sometimes surface when I am digging around for a pair of clean jeans and
I curse the day that the sun's warmth ever kissed my pale, pasty skin! Why
can’t New York be in Florida! Or Southern California! Someplace “balmy,” even
though that word gives me the creeps. Why did "god" or whoever bestow this curse upon me of not wanting to live anywhere but here? These are things to think about while throwing on a third layer.</div>
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<b>EVERY WEEKNIGHT NO MATTER WHAT: BINGE-WATCHING A
BUNCH OF NERDY PARANORMAL TV SHOWS</b></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">X-Files, Walking Dead, Twilight Zone, Twin Peaks: </i>Take me away to
a fantastic realm! Entertain me while I order way too much food off of Seamless
and justify it all by being like, “oh well I’m hibernating and it’s okay if I
get fat because the fat will keep me warm and I don’t even care how my body
looks anymore because it’s hidden underneath all of these layers of man
clothes.” Scare the shit out of me! Spirit me away to a place both wonderful
and strange. Where I am right now is not wonderful, nor is it strange! It is
just COLD and DARK, and I live in the night- only the night. I'm in THE BLACK LODGE. Please, Paranormal TV Shows, take me away from the Black Lodge. The truth is out there, I want to believe!</div>
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<b>EVERY WEEKEND WITHOUT FAIL: GETTING FUCKING
WASTED</b></div>
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During the week I
need to take it super-easy and sleep a lot so I won’t want to kill myself when
I have to wake up super-early to take what may or may not be a hot shower. The
early mornings make me want to do very little at night, and this makes for an uneventful, extremely non-social week. When the weekend comes, I am
suffering from cabin fever. Not having plans to see people on the weekend feels
like the kiss of death. The monotony is so great that I will proceed to overschedule
myself, hit up way more social functions than seems humanly possible, and of
course DRINK WAY TOO MUCH. I have been going off the rails. I justify this behavior by saying that these short days are meant for
drinking away, that it is OK to be wild and violent against
one’s own body, and by promising myself that I will do better next year. Revising my winter behavior is, at this point, futile. What's done is done, and things will be better when I can wear cuffed jeans and my lace-up Vans with no socks and my favorite tee shirt- which, by the way, I am currently wearing underneath my favorite sweater that I now hate.</div>
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<b>EVERY NIGHT EVER: WAKING UP IN THE
MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT WHEN THE SPACE HEATER TURNS OFF</b></div>
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This is the worst. In
my room I am always freezing because I am lucky enough to have two beautiful
windows. In the warm months I
leave ‘em open and it feels like being in a treehouse or on a porch. You can
sit up in bed and drink coffee and watch the branches of the trees on my block tossing in the wind. In the winter, I pay the price. The draft from my windows gives me
cold hands and cold feet and hard nips. My space heater is about to eat shit. It has gotten
considerably more rattle-y since I started REALLY running that fucker at the
beginning of January. There’s a timer on it, and I set it to run for
three hours when I go to sleep. I always wake up when it switches
off. The lullaby of its annoying rattling ends, and I wake up when it
is so late and so dark, and everything feels scary because I am always waking up from a horrible nightmare
that has no doubt been brought on by too much freaky TV. This is the loneliest
hour. I am never more aware of where I am and how cold it is than when the timer goes off. I lie in bed and think about my
dream and curl my toes around my comforter. The white noise is replaced by silence, and I get that thought that everybody thinks in the dead of winter:<i> It will never get warm again</i>.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
BOO HOO! Terrible, I know. Summer is the time for sulking, fall is the time for brooding, and winter is the time for misery. Whenever daylight savings time begins, I always feel strangely excited for this misery, and I have always failed to understand why. In the beginning it is exciting: it's like the cold and the dark provide an excuse for melodrama, for sloth, for terrible decisions. At the end, it's as old and crusty as the hybrid piles of snow and garbage lining your street. I suppose extreme sadness and recklessness are just cheap rushes that winter is the most willing to accommodate. What more can we do except wait for it all to be over?<br />
<br />
By the time you read this, I will be on my way to catch a plane out of JFK. The freak warm spell will hit while I am away, but I like to think that by the time I get back most of the ice will have melted and that the rotten thaw of spring will have begun. Misery will give way to wistfulness, because wistfulness is the fairest of all the forms of anguish, and spring is the fairest of all the seasons. </div>
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RANDALLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08267297870258421368noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4798874049424632727.post-39698917187257296642013-09-10T18:24:00.000-06:002015-02-24T19:38:57.527-07:00Concert Hazards: A Guide<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Ah, "going to shows". So worth blowing money on, and so many fabulous ones to go to this fall! Some
stuff I’m excited for includes Chelsea Wolfe on Friday the 13th (perfect), Clinic at Glasslands next Tuesday, the Frankie Rose release at Bowery Ballroom, and the Pendu showcase at Europa. All of this is wonderful. But do you know what is not
wonderful? CONCERT HAZARDS. They can be night ruiners: people ODin' (electric
zoo-yikes), creepers creepin', jacked-up alt bros knockin' fools to the floor! These are all things that any seasoned concert-goer will (hopefully)
avoid, but what about the littler things, the less-serious things? These less-serious things are unfortunately <i>kind of</i> unavoidable. Here are a few of them:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>1. CELL PHONE PHOTOGRAPHERS</b><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Okay, so I gotta own up to something: on labor day weekend I took a picture of Liars performing at MoMa PS 1 with my phone. I felt
like kind of a bitchass, but not really, because I didn't spend like ten
minutes composing my ultimately-shitty concert picture. I raised my arm,
pointed my phone in the direction of the stage, snapped a picture, and waited
until AFTER the show to post it on Instagram. The whole thing took maybe two
seconds. I feel like this is acceptable behavior. Get in and get out, as they
say.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But, as always, there are those
who cross the line. I do not understand people who will hold their glowing phones
in the air for one minute-plus, which, in cell-phone-picture-taking land, is an
eternity. It's like, look, I know that you are "killing it on Vine" or whatever, but don't you think you could maybe, I don't know, <i>watch
the show?!</i> Also, I don't know if you know this, but you are ruining the show
for other people. Your phone is in my line of vision. Your phone is BLOCKING MY
VIEW OF WESLEY EISOLD.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh28zt73LZTGa_5u6j5Kl2YU5ZzcTuN5k7qddEZWYkWEXHXEEXbc5lHuHrjYnlvXjst0TuLLk7NQaKAG8TH7BIfpSfizDGokBuwn7QTIxSYMRMWSSEgH_GwF-Vs2HUNwd-acrJbI_e1Cd7/s1600/tumblr_mox9ytZDwh1qa4skko1_500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh28zt73LZTGa_5u6j5Kl2YU5ZzcTuN5k7qddEZWYkWEXHXEEXbc5lHuHrjYnlvXjst0TuLLk7NQaKAG8TH7BIfpSfizDGokBuwn7QTIxSYMRMWSSEgH_GwF-Vs2HUNwd-acrJbI_e1Cd7/s320/tumblr_mox9ytZDwh1qa4skko1_500.jpg" height="320" width="220" /></span></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Why would you do this to me? Deplorable. Unforgivable. (Good God, what a handsome man!)</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>2. DOOR PEOPLE</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Why do they hate me? All the time it's like I get this super "fresh" attitude. Normally I am in support of "fresh" attitudes. I am not one of those people
who complains about how the people at Beacon's Closet or whatever are <i>soooo</i>
mean. I am not afraid of shop girls, I am not afraid of bartenders, and I am
not afraid of goth-y artisan jewelry makers at the flea market. It's the door
people who scare me. The Silent Barn door people are the scariest. 285 comes in
a close second. Over the Fourth of July I had purchased two tickets for the Gigawatts festival, one for myself and my one for my good college friend, Ben. We
entered the courtyard outside the venue and I told the door girls that I had
two tix reserved under my name.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Aw, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">really</i>?” one of the girls said disparagingly, like I was some
fresh-off-the-boat person who didn’t know anything about anything around here. It was just another way of saying “oh how <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">cute</i>,
she reserved <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">tickets</i> for the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">big cool concert</i>. ” Ugh! Why is that
shit necessary! I don’t know. Maybe it’s good that door people are often dicks
because somebody needs to be mean to all these vanilla bastards who are
ruining everything for everyone. But shouldn’t they at least be civil to <i>me</i>, a non-bitchass? Whatever. I ain’t special and neither is anybody else. Bring on the death stares, I guess? Speaking of door drama, check it out:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>3.
THINKING THAT YOU ARE ON THE LIST WHEN YOU ARE NOT (SRRY!)</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjjmAaOaJ1z4RoKEm4FUjWRL0ME7VDarI2hUD4gTGbkcfK_lumnlCXK9HwTbd-dmVJVFzPdHj80MUOQsoQwLCjJ_iIvK2bVuI4L3mYIN45s3-9Yvrcr-qEZtjS46hJK8ZGZMspji4xAeNf/s1600/0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjjmAaOaJ1z4RoKEm4FUjWRL0ME7VDarI2hUD4gTGbkcfK_lumnlCXK9HwTbd-dmVJVFzPdHj80MUOQsoQwLCjJ_iIvK2bVuI4L3mYIN45s3-9Yvrcr-qEZtjS46hJK8ZGZMspji4xAeNf/s320/0.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Huh???</i> The shock, the embarrassment, the forking over of
your money to the door person who hates you! After she stamps your wrist with a
little black star you walk into the venue, shamed, disgraced... and dang mad! What is the meaning of this! When you are romantically involved with somebody
and they do not put you on the list even when you say that you are “almost
positive” you're going make it... I have no words. And then you stand in the crowd
and all of the other band girlfriends got in for free and you didn’t and it’s
like, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fuck</i>. It’s not even about being
out seven bucks (b.f.d.). I should be on the list- not just the guest list, but
<i>your</i> list! I should be number one on your list of favorite people. In a case like this, not being on the list is a hazard that lingers far after the show has ended. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Oh well,
some things are not meant to be. There are other shows, other people. I’m cool
with not being on any list right now. Nothing beats the thrill of racing against
the clock to purchase tickets to a show that is about to sell out! But anyway,
let’s end this list of concert hazards on a crass and maybe humorous note...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>4. DIY
VENUE BATHROOMS</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Last year I bought tickets to see Magik Markers and Psychic Ills at 285. However, I couldn't go because I think a pipe burst and shit was raining everywhere? Obviously,
the show was subsequently cancelled. Which reminds me: I heard a rumor that a certain
promoter claims to have reached inside "the throne" at 285 way back in the day to
remove the turd that was clogging the toilet WITH HIS OWN BARE HANDS. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Hahahahahaha. Luckily I have never witnessed anything akin to the above situations. Normally it goes a little something like this:
there is never toilet paper. There is never soap. There are never paper towels. You will wait in a long-ass
line for the <i>one</i> bathroom in the whole place and you will be on the verge of peeing your pants. When the dude in front of you exits the bathroom you burst in there "like a bat out of hell" and slam the door behind you, barely having time to fumble with the shitty little lock on the door knob. After you <i>finally</i> get to go, you will wash your hands and wipe them on your jeans and and stare helplessly at all the beer cans on the back of the toilet seat. Which one of them is yours?</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> F</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>uck it,</i> you say, and you grab a beer that you are <i>pretty</i> sure is yours and hope for the best. then you hurry back out and hope that nobody hates you for taking too long (<i><u>did</u> I take too long? Or was that like, normal speed?</i>) or thinks you spilled beer all over yourself because there are dark wet spots on your jeans.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">As you can see, I get really stressed out about using the bathroom at these kind of things. Sometimes I will just walk up to the roof but that's kinda nasty and disrespectful to the intrepid maniacs who are letting hundreds of people get fucked up and listen to live music in their freaking <i>house</i>, so I try to keep that behavior to a minimum.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">You know
what, I would like to retract one of the above statements. Sometimes there <i>is</i> soap, but when I say “soap” I mean a
bunch of water that somebody poured into an empty softsoap bottle and shook
up a bunch of times in the true DIY spirit. However, nothing is more DIY than
digging shit out of a toilet with your own two hands. Bravo, bravo.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It’s
amazing how one little annoyance can tinge your evening with a dull sense of disappointment. After
spending all day getting ready and painting your nails and planning your outfit
like it was the prom while blasting the new album with the new
songs that you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">can’t fucking wait</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">to hear</i>- it hurts when something happens
to make the whole thing not-so-fun. Usually these little things are easy to brush off, but
sometimes that withering look stays with you and the cell phone auteurs make
you feel depressed for your generation and you hate all those people in the bathroom line who are staring at you because you didn't piss fast enough. What to do? I’ll tell you what not to
do: DON’T be a Debbie Downer and harsh everybody’s vibe. <i>That</i> is a concert
hazard in itself. Suck it up, try to ignore whatever petty trifles are pissing
you off and just enjoy the show. Remember how you were counting down the days? Remember how you were in such a great mood on the day of the show at your
shitty job? Don’t forget that. Here you are. There is loud music playing. Later
in your life you can tell people that you saw them live and that they were fantastic.</span></div>
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RANDALLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08267297870258421368noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4798874049424632727.post-87917863336690839802013-08-29T21:06:00.003-06:002015-02-24T19:44:08.517-07:00SULKING: Yr Doing It Wrong<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-MwUPp9uHw3T4vruEak_lvC9Jh3qhF9a-VPCjcjIhuE0AJ2d-87k1mF8GDpxp3ONLxITS3VUj74ZRF4mGw3Jr3l8KrC85UrP0B0FvCBGLeKtn5vkNI4fy2s1KO9Zgx1j3HAB1D4ZxYtt9/s1600/4854052065_1f89a4a8ea_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-MwUPp9uHw3T4vruEak_lvC9Jh3qhF9a-VPCjcjIhuE0AJ2d-87k1mF8GDpxp3ONLxITS3VUj74ZRF4mGw3Jr3l8KrC85UrP0B0FvCBGLeKtn5vkNI4fy2s1KO9Zgx1j3HAB1D4ZxYtt9/s320/4854052065_1f89a4a8ea_z.jpg" height="144" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">(<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/mysticalhomegirl/4854052065/" target="_blank">via</a>)</span></div>
If fall is the time for brooding, summer is the time for sulking. Summer does not feel like summer anymore and everybody is bummed out. Aside from the sadness that accompanies summer's end, it is easy to be bummed in the summer, I'm guessing because everybody is drinking too much and not really paying attention to anything real and is suspended in a frivolous fantasy world that will suddenly disappear for nine months? Yeah yeah yeah, I guess I had fun, but full disclosure: for me, this summer sucked. I will not go into detail as to why- romantic disappointments, mainly- but I will say this: I have mastered the art of the sulk. I have sulked all over town and now you can, too! Quick, before time runs out: have yourself a sulk before you wrap yourself up in fabric to brood when it's cold again. Here is how ya do:</div>
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<b>1. GET A GIANT ICED COFFEE, CHAIN SMOKE, AND DON'T YOU DARE TAKE THOSE SUNGLASSES OFF</b><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>like this girl, only it's summer and there are no dogs and she's miserable</i></span></div>
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Sit in a public place. It helps if you are wearing mostly black. If you run out of your giant iced coffee, go get another giant iced coffee. It is very important that the coffee is iced because it will allow you to consume the coffee at an alarming rate. The goal is to feel as crazy as possible while pouting like you've never pouted before. Sometimes resorting to the most college-like behavior feels super-good when you are feeling bad. You may even want to bring a slim, depressing volume of poetry with you.<br />
<br />
When everybody around you starts to think you are a psycho, you have done your job. There are only so many iced coffees and cigarettes one can consume in whatever window of time you have allotted yourself for this ultimately unproductive activity. You must now suck it up and go do whatever it is you need to do next in your day. If you are like me, when you are walking or taking the train you like to listen to music. You need mood music. so:</div>
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<b>2. MAKE A BUMMER JAM PLAYLIST</b><br />
Some choice bummer jams of this summer have been Pharmakon's A<i>bandon</i>, deafheaven's S<i>unbather</i>, and Boards of Canada's <i>Tomorrow's Harvest</i>. Listening to Pharmakon <a href="http://pitchfork.com/features/staff-lists/9163-overlooked-records-2013/2/" target="_blank">on your morning commute</a> is an experience, people. Yes, perhaps I am setting myself up to be in a bad mood all day, but I firmly believe that if one is to get the sulk out of one's system, one must commit to the sulk completely. Once it takes hold of you and gives you a squeeze it will slowly let go of you again. Let yourself be squeezed. Let yourself be consumed by the terrifying, visceral musical stylings of Margaret Chardiet:<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="263" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/e_5Xmk5zBpk" width="350"></iframe><br />
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PERFECT. Sulking music should always be furiously slow-burning and sexy, NOT self-pitying. That is not my kind of sulk. Basically, don't listen to any namby-pamby bullshit like this:<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="263" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/wwmTf0dmjRY" width="350"></iframe><br />
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FUK DAT.</div>
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<b>3. SPEND MONEY YOU DON'T HAVE ON SHIT YOU DON'T NEED</b></div>
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Because summer is the time for FUN, right!? Whatever. Nothing says "I don't give a fuck" like dropping too much money at (if you are me) Beacon's Closet. I like tearing through racks of clothes and pulling out shit I would never ordinarily wear and then taking an armload of garments into the dressing room. The unfazed, nihilistic shopping addict is a role I like to play sometimes. It feels good to immerse oneself in the melodrama of overspending. Yes, it's true: when the sulk is over you are like "oh fuck I have to pay rent," but then you are like "oh well lesson learned but it was worth it because LOOK AT MY SHIT."<br />
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So, you know, pick your poison, but for me it's vintage clothes. After purchasing said clothes, I like to put 'em on and "go out on the town". It ain't a sulk without booze. See next:</div>
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<b>4. <u>ONLY</u> DRINK COCKTAILS WHEN YOU GO OUT</b><br />
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">(tom cruise in <u>cocktail</u>: wayyyyy too happy)</span></i></div>
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To me, there is always something very somber-seeming about complex, difficult-to-make cocktails. I'm not talking about trash-ass cocktails, I'm talking about finely crafted works of art, here. The Narrows makes a concoction called Caulfield's Dream that is my sulking cocktail of choice. Delicious moodiness in a shallow, elegant glass. And, as a plus, it is named after the patron saint of sulking, Holden Caulfield. Perfecto!<br />
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Again, money I do not have on shit I do not need. Just don't get TOO toasted- that usually ends in crying spells or fits of rage or (god forbid) barf. You do not need that. If you play your cards right, sulking can be a very sophisticated form of suffering. You need to keep it chill.</div>
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<b>5. PUT ON A CRAZY OUTFIT, WALK SOMEWHERE YOU'VE NEVER BEEN BEFORE, PRETEND LIKE YOU'RE RUNNING AWAY</b><br />
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The sulk gets old eventually, and you want it to go away. In your life, you are doing everything right: you are showing up to work on time, the bills are paid, nobody is angry at you and you've been eating lots of healthy shit instead of a bunch of junk. WHY IS THE SULK CLINGING TO ME, you may ask. I don't know. Sometimes you need to shake it off.<br />
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Last weekend I needed groceries. I wanted the sulk gone, I was tired, I wished I could be somebody else so that this would just STOP HAPPENING TO ME. I went through my closet and put on my red Hare Krishna-lookin' dress. Hair up, sunglasses on, here we go, off to Valentino's, a grocery store in a part of Ridgewood I hadn't yet been to. I knew I would not run into anybody I knew. That's why I love Ridgewood. Here, nobody wants to be seen,<i> I</i> don't want to be seen. <a href="http://tackytown.blogspot.com/2013/08/too-much-ridgewood-ornot-enough.html" target="_blank">Like I said before</a>, Ridgewood is a magical forest realm. It felt good to push deeper into that forest, to recede from the places that were the sources of my troubles, to travel incognito, to pretend to be another person while pretending to run away.<br />
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At Valentino's, I picked out some peaches and some plums, some pasta and some sauce, a loaf of bread and all the rest. I pretended I was in the country and that I would be taking all of these things to my cottage, where I would stand in my kitchen and prepare myself a meal. In this life I lived in solitude, and there were no boys to cry over and no night ruining-ly shitty parties, no terrible morning commutes and no depressing account balances. I put the most pastoral products possible into my basket, which I imagined to be an actual basket instead of a red plastic shopping basket. I paid for my things and headed home back down the woodland path, also known as Woodbine Street.<br />
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I came home to my railroad apartment and changed into my regular clothes. Incognito clothes are very exhausting to wear and it feels good to put on your normal clothes because in the end it feels better to be yourself instead of somebody else. After I'd changed, I put on S<i>oundtracks For the Blind</i> and got to work on dinner. It felt like a moment in time like any other, and that's when I knew that the sulk was finally lifting. Sure, I wasn't OVERJOYED with life, but it was the first time in a long time that everything didn't feel completely awful. I think that going incognito and pretending to run away is a good way to give yourself a shake. It's like going through a wormhole. You tumble into another life and then crawl back into your own, transformed somehow and feeling lucky that it's just you, that this is your life and this is your house. If things can be so lovely in the body of the person you just pretended to be, why shouldn't they be just as good in your own?<br />
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It ain't all bad, I suppose.<br />
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***<br />
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Well, Labor Day weekend is upon us. Like I said before, it wasn't the greatest of summers, but I am letting myself enjoy what's left of it. I feel very good right now, actually: it all came to me on the train upstate to my friend's house. Everything out the window was so gorgeous, and the feeling of not caring whether what's-his-name or who's-his-face ever called me again was luxurious. I realized that even though summer is basically over, I have a lot to look forward to: Liars at PS 1 this weekend, some last-minute house party bangers, maybe one last psycho beach journey at dawn. And hot dogs: have I eaten a hot dog at all this summer? Or a popsicle? There's so much left to do. I'm willing to cram it all in, I think.<br />
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But, as you know, everything is up and down. Bad moods come and go. For now I'm enjoying being in a good mood, but when the next bad one comes I'll say BRING ON THE BROOD!<br />
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RANDALLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08267297870258421368noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4798874049424632727.post-29519109191089556842013-08-11T14:02:00.000-06:002015-02-24T21:30:06.081-07:00My Red Hook Ikea Love Test<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Two years ago, I went to the Red Hook Ikea for the very first time. I took the water taxi, I sat on the upper deck and let the wind mess up my hair while I tried to not to think about my most recent failed romance. I needed a rug, a nightstand, and a lamp to put on top of the nightstand. After obsessively visiting Ikea's website and telling myself that I should really go out there one of these days, I was finally doing it, I was disembarking from the water taxi and entering Ikea and trying to find my way through its labyrinthine interior. I knew the exact products I wanted. It didn't take me long to find them. I impluse-bought a couple of ice cube trays that made ice in the shape of hearts. </div>
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When I got home, I assembled the nightstand. It was the first time I had ever assembled furniture. I was shocked that I didn't fuck it up and a little sad that there wasn't a boyfriend present to help me in case I did. I put the lamp on top of the nightstand and the rug on the floor beside it. I sat on the rug and and drank white wine from a jar with little heart-shaped ice cubes floating at the surface. I was fine, I knew this, but I felt jealous of all the couples I'd seen in Ikea. I wanted to be like them, I wanted to go to Ikea with somebody I loved and not by myself. Being at Ikea with your boyfriend seemed like heaven. Why couldn't I be in heaven? Why the fuck was I still single when my ex-boyfriend was already on his second girlfriend since we'd broken up? The whole thing made me want to drink even <i>more</i> wine with heart-shaped ice cubes.</div>
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Fast forward: it's two years after my first trip to Ikea, and I'm wandering the aisles with my new boyfriend, the first real boyfriend I'd had in 2 1/2 years. It was great, except in my heart I knew it wasn't working, was never <i>going</i> to work, but how could it not work when we were here in Ikea together! <i>Maybe everything will be okay,</i> I told myself, <i>how could everything <u>not</u> be okay? C</i><i>learly we are on another level because we are here, we are at Ikea and he is helping me shop for a dresser and he will help me assemble it, right? </i>I lied and lied and lied to myself and when we were in the checkout line I said thank you for coming with me baby, and obviously we were supposed to kiss but he only kissed me because I was offering my lips to him. It should have been obvious, it should have been instinctual, but he was gone, he'd been gone, and I could see it- but again, <i>how could this be when we were in Ikea</i>! </div>
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I paid and we wheeled the shopping cart into the parking lot. One of the boxes was too heavy for me to lift but he said come on, you're strong, you can lift it. I thought about the time when we were getting out of a cab in front of my house right before Hurricane Sandy and I had all of this shit that I'd bought at Duane Reade so that we wouldn't starve or be without light in case everything got all fucked up. I was struggling to get out of the cab and there were cars waiting behind us honking at me to hurry up and the whole time my boyfriend was just standing there not doing anything. "You know, you could help her!" said one of guys in one of the cars. It was humiliating. Why couldn't my boyfriend take one of my bags? Why couldn't he help me load a box into his car while we were at Ikea? Why couldn't he help me carry it to my apartment building when we finally got there?</div>
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"You know," I said, "this is a man's job."</div>
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Let me pause here. I'm sorry, but when you are a woman and there is a heavy object that needs lifting and there is a man present, IT IS A MAN'S JOB. Yes, if I REALLY wanted to, I could lug that box up the stairs, but it would take forever, and why should I have to do this when there is a perfectly capable man beside me who can cut the time it takes to do this task in half? I believe in gender equality, but I also believe that a man should make a woman feel like a woman and a woman should make a man feel like a man. My boyfriend didn't get it and I was too exhausted to try to explain it to him. I was so angry, but I still wanted it to work. I wanted things to change, I wanted <i>him</i> to change, I wanted him to lift, or at least <i>help</i> lift, my fucking heavy Ikea box up the goddamn stairs!</div>
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Once the boxes were deposited in my room, we drank a glass of water in the kitchen and then drove back to South Brooklyn. We went to a show our friend was playing and fought on the way home. It made me feel terrible the next day, but the thought of finally having a dresser buoyed my spirits. It had been almost a month since I'd moved into my new apartment and I was still living out of a suitcase. When I got home, I set to work on assembling the dresser. Since assembling my nightstand two years prior, I'd put together a couch and a bookshelf. The dresser was the most complicated thing I'd attempted, but I was confident that I could do it.</div>
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Except I couldn't do it. Something had gone horribly wrong and I couldn't figure out what it was. None of the drawers would close and it was a catastrophe. I pored over the instructions but none of them made any sense. I texted my boyfriend about it and my obvious distress did not faze him. There was no offer to come over the next day to take a look at it, only half-hearted reassurances that I could do it, that everything would be just fine. I knew that I could figure it out, but I didn't want to figure it out on my own, I wanted a partner who would be in the room with me, somebody who was on my team! I ended up drinking too much and crying myself to sleep that night. <i>This is so <u>fucked</u></i>, I thought. <i>This is so <u>not</u> how it should be.</i></div>
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The next morning I phoned in my outfit (default plaid shirt with jeans and slip-on k-mart shoes) and held a paper towel full of heart-shaped ice over my eyes to make them look less puffy, to make myself look less tired. At work I was completely checked out. I ignored everything I was supposed to be giving a fuck about. Midway through the morning I got a text from my boyfriend. He obviously felt guilty that he'd abandoned me the night before, that he hadn't offered me anything and hadn't provided me with any sort of solace. I asked him if he would please, please, please help me with my dresser and he said of course but then I asked him if he would come over later and he said he was just going to "lay low" that night and that's when I said that's it, I'm sick of this shit, we need to talk and you <i>will</i> meet me in the park after work so that we can talk. I was furious for the rest of the day, and when we broke up that night I felt insane, I felt relieved and devastated and awesome and awful all at the same time. I stopped at The Narrows on my way home to buy myself a fancy comfort cocktail. I wrote in my journal and then left so I could call him one last time to tell him that I loved him. When I hung up I felt like a fool on the corner of Morgan and Harrison, smoking and crying and whatnot. When I'd composed myself as best I could, I got on the train to go home.</div>
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At home, there it was: TARVA, i.e. this hulking object in my room that didn't work and that I couldn't fix. I was sad that the life my now-ex-boyfriend and I had shared together was gone, but there was something about that dresser that was infinitely more troubling. My clothes were everywhere. I didn't feel like a person: I felt like a pile. I wished, I wished, I <i>wished</i> that sometimes somebody could just <i>explain things!</i></div>
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A week went by. I was sad. My roommate offered to help me smash the dresser. The idea was enticing, but there was still a part of me that wanted to save it. One day after work I came home and sat on my bed and stared at the dresser. I'd bought it with my own money, and I'd assembled it, however poorly, with my own hands. I realized that I didn't want to give up, that the dresser didn't have to be a monument for my ill-fated relationship if I didn't want it to be. I picked up the directions and stopped caring that I was on my own. I was surprised to find that I figured out where I'd gone wrong relatively quickly: I'd installed the runners on the drawers incorrectly. I was too excited about having figured out the problem to think about any of my unrealized visions of ikea-level domestic bliss.<br />
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I took apart the drawers and put them back together again. The speed at which I'd fixed the problem was astounding. One by one, the drawers slid into place exactly as they were supposed to. Holy shit, I'd pulled it off! I'd known that I could do it all along, but it was so difficult to acknowledge that I would have to do it the way I'd done it before, that I was back where I'd started: alone. It wasn't what I had planned, but as I started folding my clothes, I knew it was the right thing. I unearthed shirts that I'd thought I'd lost in the move and socks that were missing their partners. I lovingly folded my sacred, precious vintage dress collection. Everything that was down came up again. I could finally see my floor.</div>
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When all of my clothes were finally put away, I fixed myself a celebratory gin and tonic complete with little heart-shaped ice cubes. My room finally looked like my room, and I started to feel a little bit like me again. I drank to the fact that though my relationship didn't survive Ikea, I did.<br />
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">i did it!</span></i></div>
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RANDALLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08267297870258421368noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4798874049424632727.post-20391611771656830432013-07-21T17:44:00.000-06:002015-02-24T21:42:46.151-07:00My Shittiest Apartment Ever<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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August, 2010. There I was, back in New York City after living at home for the better part of my first year of postgrad. I had convinced a crazy artist lady to let me sublet her $700 per-month studio apartment. <i>No way!</i> WAY. I couldn't believe this was happening to me. No roommates! Freedom to walk around in the nude! Loud sex! Eating hot pockets on the couch while watching <i>Sex and the City</i> free of judgement! I was "living the dream." I thought that this was pretty much the best apartment situation I could ever hope to have in New York.</div>
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Except it wasn't. The price was right, but everything else was wrong, wrong, WRONG!!! Let me lay it all out for you:</div>
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<b>1. IT WAS LOCATED IN A GALAXY FAR, FAR AWAY...</b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">("you live <i>where</i>?")</span></div>
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The apartment was at the very bottom of Crown Heights, so far at the bottom that it wasn't even Crown Heights anymore and I had to tell people it <i>was</i> Crown Heights just so they would know what the fuck I was talking about. (The neighborhood is actually called <i>Wingate</i>.) A few days after I arrived back in the city, I told one of my friends where I was living, which was a ten minute walk from the Sterling Street 2/5 and the Kingston Avenue 3.</div>
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She took a long, bored drag of her cigarette. "I don't know what those things are," she said.</div>
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As you all know, I <a href="http://tackytown.blogspot.com/2012/08/impromptu-power-walking-adventure.html" target="_blank">love</a> to <a href="http://tackytown.blogspot.com/2013/06/another-long-walk.html" target="_blank">walk</a>. but when that walk entails me trying to get to the subway in a timely manner so I can avoid getting fired from the Strand for lateness because I haven't been inducted into the gosh-dang union yet, it's not fun. You know what else isn't fun? Carrying Trader Joe's bags for that long in 90 degree heat. Or opening the door to find that it snowed three feet while you were asleep and having absolutely no choice but go to work (once again: still not in the union). At least I was "feeling the burn" from trudging through all that snow. Tres inconvenient.</div>
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<b>2. THE CRAZY ART LADY WAS LEGIT, OUT-OF-CONTROL, BATSHIT CRAZY</b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> illeana douglas has nothing on this woman</span></div>
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First, there was really bad "art" all over the walls. It was all like, "cool-looking" sticks that were painted and tacked above the couch, above the bed... Wherever. In the bathroom there was a "cool-looking" stick "statue" sitting on the back of the toilet. IT WAS A FUCKING STICK STUCK IN A BLOCK OF PLASTER. My friend came over one night and accidentally broke the statue. It was hilarious. What was not so hilarious, however, was when I finally moved out and she came home and discovered the broken statue (which i had neglected to tell her about) and threatened to charge me SEVEN HUNDRED DOLLARS for that piece of crap because that's how she makes her living, by selling sticks encased in plaster to discerning patrons of the arts. I said no way, Jose and got away with only paying for some teflon pans that I "scratched up and destroyed." (As if!)</div>
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She didn't have a vacuum but wanted me to sweep her carpeted floor. It was absurd. Obviously, like any sane person would do (or in this case, would not do), I did not sweep the carpet. When she came back she said that the carpet looked like "it hadn't been swept in months." Also she said that if the drain in the bathroom ever got clogged I could just pour a can of coke down there and it would solve the problem because obviously coke is the same thing as acid. Well, I didn't sweep the carpet and I gleefully bought Drano to take care of the clog. </div>
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Needless to say, she screamed at me about all of this shit over the phone when I finally moved out. </div>
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<b>3. A MOUSE RAN ACROSS MY FACE WHILE I WAS IN BED</b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">(an example of what i was dealing with)</span></div>
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This was the cherry on top of the fucking cake. I feel like this woman knew that she had a mouse problem but didn't tell me about it<i>. </i>W<i>hy, why, why???</i> I struggle with this question to this very day.</div>
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It all started one evening in the early fall when I was watching tv and drinking a beer and having a grand old time. Then I saw the mouse. Whatever, I thought. I've lived places where there's a mouse or two afoot, and as long as we mind one another's business then I really don't care that they're there. But then something awful happened: the mouse ran into a glue trap that the crazy art lady had placed underneath the radiator. I didn't know what to do. I was horrified. I called my mom and had a nervous breakdown. That poor little mousey, I thought. I could hear my stepfather making fun of me in the background and my mom put the phone down and said, "this is not funny! there is a dying animal in her apartment!" In the end, the mouse ended up getting itself out of the trap, which was a relief. That sense of relief, however, was to be short-lived.</div>
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I saw that mouse running around on a daily basis. But then there was another mouse. Then there was a third mouse. There would be, like, two mice (haha I almost wrote "mouses" LOL) running around the living room at the same damn time. Oh, did I mention that my bed was one of those beds where you sleep on THE FLOOR??? I went insane. I bought it all: steel wool, snap traps, glue traps... They were all over my apartment. These mice were diabolical. They ate the peanut butter off the snap traps. They pulled themselves out of the glue traps with their incredible strength. Eventually, I killed two of them. Now there was only one left. the worst one. The most evil mouse of all.</div>
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I was trying to sleep. It was going NUTS all over my apartment. Sleep evaded me, despite the fact that I'd taken, oh, I don't know, three xanax pills? The clock struck three. I prayed to god to let sleep come to me and turned off the light. I lay there, frozen, listening to every little rustling noise that may or may not have been caused by a mouse. Then, I heard that dreaded sound coming from behind my pillow. I sighed. The inevitable was finally happening.</div>
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<i>That is a fucking mouse, </i>I thought.</div>
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It sure was! It crawled across my neck (okay so it wasn't my face- sorry). I screamed and flung the covers off me, sending the mouse flying across the room. It ran into the closet and I leapt out of bed, filled with murderous rage. I rearranged every single trap in my apartment around the closet so that the little bastard would finally meet his maker. Then I got back into bed and waited.</div>
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And then do you know what happened? I got it. I heard it run out of the closet and then stop abruptly. I threw on the light and there it was, mired in a glue trap. Halle-fuckin'-lujah! But now what? I wasn't about to put it out of it's misery (or, more appropriately, MY misery) by hitting it with a frying pan or something. I decided the best course of action would be to use one of the "cool-looking" sticks to place the glue trap in a large saucepan. I carried the pan downstairs and out of the building. The neighbors' trash can was missing its lid so without thinking I just flung the mouse into it. Only it didn't quite make it: the glue trap ended up getting stuck to the rim of the trash can. By that point, I'd had quite enough and went upstairs. I went to bed and never saw another mouse at that apartment ever again.</div>
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***<br />
Well, that's it. My worst apartment ever. I've had a few years to think about this, and I realize now that though the apartment had treated me badly, I had also been bad to the apartment. I let things fall into disrepair: the wardrobe rack that collapsed under the weight of all my clothes, the filthy carpet, the clog in the drain. I sucked at paying the bills on time. The ghosts of all my rebound fucks and almost-boyfriends filled the place with a distinct sadness that I felt awful leaving behind- out of everything I did, this, I think, is what I feel the worst about.<br />
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Sometimes I wonder if the apartment would have been better if I hadn't been so angry and sad about what was going on in my life at the time. Had I not experienced my first catastrophic break-up days before I was scheduled to fly back to new york, I would have been better to my body and better to my home- thus, everything might have been not-so-terrible, right?<br />
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Then I remember the mice. And then I say, "oh, right. nevermind."<br />
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At least I got to walk by this everyday:</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">(<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/33498942@N04/7687833942/" target="_blank">via</a>)</span></div>
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Sweet.</div>
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RANDALLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08267297870258421368noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4798874049424632727.post-43029676113844168062013-07-13T17:29:00.000-06:002015-02-21T11:12:47.308-07:00I Would Do Anything for Love, But I Won't Do That: My Beef with Brooklyn Boys<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">(image via <a href="http://www.thelmagazine.com/newyork/13-brooklyn-dates-for-13-potential-dating-scenarios/Content?oid=2207430" target="_blank">the l magazine</a>)</span></div>
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I've dated/"hung out with" my share of jerks here in the borough of Brooklyn. However, I do not feel jaded or cynical about the whole dating/"hanging out" situation that exists here. "You'll never find love here," my friends say. "They're all insane."</div>
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I do not believe this! Yes, the amount of insane men that live here is...well, insane. But I think that maybe we've been going about this thing the wrong way. Maybe we need to redraw our boundaries, to make a new set of rules for ourselves. In order to distinguish the winners from the lunatics, we should take into account the area-specific things in addition to the usual things. Thus, I have come up with a list of things that I absolutely refuse to do for a brooklyn boy, no matter how cute/smokin' hot he may be.</div>
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<b>1. I WILL NOT HAUL YOUR GEAR BACK TO YOUR REHEARSAL SPACE</b></div>
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I'm sorry, but this is not my problem. I came to watch you play at Death by Audio and your set was good and all but in the end it's your gear and I'm your lady friend, NOT your groupie-mule. A real man will haul that shit himself because he has sexy muscles with which to lift heavy things. I don't mind stopping at the rehearsal space with you, but from now on? I'm waiting in the car and I'm not lifting a finger.</div>
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<b>2. I WILL NOT FOLLOW YOUR ASS AROUND THIS BAR/WAREHOUSE PARTY/WHATEVER WHILE YOU TALK TO THE 7849384938 PEOPLE WHO KNOW YOU BECAUSE YOU NEVER LEAVE BUSHWICK AND YOU'RE JUST THAT POPULAR AROUND HERE</b></div>
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Umm, this is really boring. Can we please have sex now?</div>
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<b>3. I WILL NOT HANG OUT WITH YOU IF YOU DO SMACK</b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(no offense, d)</i></span></div>
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What the fuck is going on with everybody doing the big H again? I guess it has something to do with the whole early-nineties thing being back in vogue? Well, guys, while your self-destructive tendencies are unfortunately kind of sexy, in the end I'm not going to waste my time with any dude who "only does it once a month." You know why? Because once a month turns into once a week and once a week turns into once a day and before you know it you're at a shady pawn shop in the shittiest part of bushwick arguing with the employees to give you back your camera that your stupid ex-boyfriend pawned for 100 measly bucks.* I hope those drugs were worth it, asshole. </div>
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Also, if you're going to break up with me, please do not do heroin beforehand. K THNX BYE</div>
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(*this is a true story- though it's not my story to tell.)</div>
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<b>4. I WILL NOT HANG OUT WITH YOU IF YOU LIVE IN SOUTH BROOKLYN AND MAKE ME SLEEP AT YOUR HOUSE EVERY SINGLE TIME WE HANG OUT</b></div>
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Going into Manhattan sucks, even if I'm not leaving whatever subway station I need to walk through in order to transfer to whatever train I need to take to get to your house. I also don't like going to Broadway Junction to transfer because you know why? I've OD'd on it. I've had to use it SO MANY TIMES in order to hang out with you. How about you come up here once in a while? Do you understand the trials I go through to spend time with you? If we live in completely different neighborhoods off of completely different train lines, It is inevitable that somebody must be inconvenienced. It's not right that the inconvenience should always fall on me.</div>
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Also, I do not roll out of bed magically looking <i>fly</i>. Sometimes I need access to the following things: my shampoo, my conditioner, the stuff I put in my hair while it's drying, my blow dryer, my flat iron (for my bangs), my face wash, my moisturizer, and my makeup. As you can imagine, this is too much shit to put into my bag. I'm fine with staying with you and throwing some bare essentials in there so I can look presentable at work the next day, but it would be nice to stay at my house every once in a while and shower in the comfort of my own home.</div>
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You know what, forget it. This wasn't meant to be. Next!</div>
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<b>5. I WILL NOT STAY INSIDE WITH YOU EVERY SINGLE WEEKEND...</b></div>
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...when there is so much cool shit to do here.</div>
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***</div>
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Let's be real here: Brooklyn chicks are some of the most beautiful, smart, and hilarious women in the world. We are adventurous, ridiculous, and fucking FUN. Guys, you are a bunch of spoiled brats. Perhaps you think that you can pay no mind to how you treat the fabulous women you are surrounded by on a daily basis because hey, if you get bored of one of them, there's always another equally-hot one to be found, right? Well, here's a news flash: we're onto you, and you're not as smooth as you think. </div>
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As for you awesome brooklyn guys who I'm SURE are out there: give your not-so-awesome friends a talking-to! You all are too cute to be assholes.</div>
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RANDALLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08267297870258421368noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4798874049424632727.post-61527598331972268132013-07-09T21:25:00.003-06:002015-02-21T11:30:11.335-07:00Whose Bar Is It, Anyway?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I've only had one person ever tell me to "stay out of my bar." The bar was Harefield Road, and the person who told me this was a girl who was upset over the fact that I'd gone on one (1) (uno) (terrible) date with her ex-boyfriend. What's even lamer is that she didn't even say it to my face. She had a mutual friend forward this brand-new information along to me. I was also informed by said friend that this woman would fight me if she ever saw me in person. Well, none of those things happened: I love Harefield Road and I go there most weekends for brunch. I was never attacked by this woman, either.</div>
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"My bar." What makes a bar "yours"? It's silly, and we know it's silly, yet we say it, or at least think it, anyway. There are two ways to delude oneself into believing that a bar is "yours":<br />
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<b>1. "I'M THERE ALL THE TIME!"</b><br />
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<b><br /></b>You stop in after work and stay for a couple beers. You get to know the regulars and you are on first name basis with the bartenders. It feels just like a big living room filled with a bunch of friendly semi-toasted people with whom you'd never associate outside of this setting. If you're there often enough, people will know where to find you. They'll know that you're at "your" bar. Except, as I've stated before, it's <i>not</i> your bar. All you're doing is sitting there getting loaded! The worst thing is running into somebody who really doesn't like you in "their" bar. You know what, I don't care if I come into "your" bar and you're there giving me the death stare and thinking that you're really teaching me a lesson by not talking to me. Chill, bro.<br />
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A few years ago I dated a guy who was a bar regular- and a full-blown alcoholic. It was bad news. I knew that I shouldn't be hanging around him, but he was an ex-model and oh-so handsome and I just couldn't tear myself away from him. Soon I became a regular in the bar, too, and shit hit the fan. We were wasted all the time. We had a horrible fight when we broke up. He said mean things to me and I slapped him. "Get out of here, Randall," he said. "Just go, get out!" I was devastated and I felt like a monster. I pleaded with him to stop saying the things he was saying and to not tell the bouncer to kick me out but then he said, "fine, <i>I'll</i> leave." and he was gone. It was awful. That's when I realized: you should never be in a bar all the time. Once a bar becomes "yours" in this way, it's time to get the fuck out of the bar. At that point, the bar doesn't belong to you: you belong to the bar.<br />
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From that incident forth, whenever I went to that bar with my friends, all of the regulars would glare at me. At first I felt very uncomfortable, but as I started getting closer with my current group of friends, the regulars receded from my life and their presence stopped mattering. The regulars have since disbanded. The man I dated is sober now, I think. Once in a while I'll drop in to unwind from work and write in my journal. When I do, I sit in the seat I used to sit in when we were together. It makes me sad to think about everything that happened, but it feels satisfying to think that I'm a little wiser than I was back then.<br />
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Ah, romantic entanglements. Once you throw a bar into the mix, anything can happen! This brings me to the next rationalization of bar ownership:<br />
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<b>2. "I TOOK SOMEBODY THERE ON A DATE AND WE BROKE UP AND SINCE THE BAR IS IN MY NEIGHBORHOOD AND SINCE IT WAS MY IDEA TO GO THERE THEN OF COURSE I GET TO KEEP IT, RIGHT?</b><br />
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Okay, so you went on a date. It doesn't even have to be a romantic date. It could be a friend date. You and the other person perhaps frequented this bar on a regular basis once your relationship began to flourish. But then it all went to shit, and now you are both wondering: <i>who gets to keep the bar? </i><br />
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I ran into a guy I just broke up with at a bar this past weekend. I knew it was going to happen sooner rather than later because that little strip on Wyckoff Avenue off of the Jefferson stop is TINY and there are only so many neighborhood bars to go to. (Plus a friend of his is a bartender there and if there's one thing that friends of bartenders love, it's free drinks.) We only live two stops apart, but the bar is definitely more in his neck of the woods than mine. We both party in Bushwick, so shouldn't any bar around here be fair game? But then again, we went on our first date at this bar. I'd never been there before. Should I stop going there just because he started going there first? Then there's the whole bartender friend thing. I like the bartender friend. I do not feel awkward seeing him. But does he feel awkward seeing me? Does he think I'm stalking my ex? Does he think to himself, <i>what is she <u>doing</u> here? </i><br />
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All of these things were on my mind upon going back to the bar for the first time since we broke up. I was having a cocktail with my girl Kelly, and we thought we were home free. But then he appeared. Out of fucking NOWHERE. Seeing him for the first time since it ended was awkward as fuck and it made me sad. It was a night-ruiner, but I steeled myself and resolved that<i> I would not lose this bar in the divorce!</i> Those margaritas? That rad mac and cheese dish? Yeah, I don't think so. Get used to it, yo. Move over, I'm not going anywhere. I do suppose that the laws of bar ownership dictate that this bar is his for the keeping, but, like I've been saying, the laws of bar ownership are bullshit. This is a public space, y'all!<br />
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I guess running into somebody you don't really want to run into is part of the risk you take when you refuse to relinquish a bar you once shared. However, we are all adults, and as time goes on things gradually get less awkward. One day maybe you won't even care or notice that the other person is there. Maybe you'll even have a drink and shoot the shit with them for a while. But there is a more complicated element to sharing a bar with someone, and that is the memory of you being there with that person. Maybe you made out all night at the dark end of the bar or played drunk scrabble or crammed into the photobooth to take stupid pictures, or maybe you had a horrible fight at that table right over there, the table you will never ever ever sit at again because of all the awful vibes emanating from it. These kinds of things make me very wistful. Returning to the bar sometimes feels like returning to a crime scene. Some of these memories always make me want to come back to the scene. At times, some of them also make me want to run away.<br />
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***<br />
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In the end, nothing good can really come of claiming a bar as one's territory. It only makes things weird and awful. Instead of "owning" a bar, we should just <i>love</i> it. It's nobody's bar but it's here for everyone, and aren't we all just trying to have a good time? Cheers to that! Now drink up, fools.<br />
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RANDALLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08267297870258421368noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4798874049424632727.post-49901369464973074842013-06-30T20:08:00.000-06:002015-02-21T11:59:41.947-07:00Fast Food Disasters: When Hunger, Drunkenness, and Despair Collide<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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On monday night I was so hungry and toasted and tired and angry that I went to McDonald's. I "ate my feelings." I even got bacon on my Quarter Pounder. I ate it on my stoop despite the fact that it was raining a little. I sat there and shoved a burger and fries into my face. I didn't even care that maybe my food was getting wet. It was a fast food disaster. A minor fast food disaster, but a fast food disaster nonetheless.</div>
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You may be wondering what the difference is between simply eating fast food and having a fast food disaster. Well, I'll tell you. Whenever you are on the go during your busy day and only have time to pop into whatever eating establishment is closest and most convenient to get a quick bite, that is no disaster. To be sure, you are committing an act of violence upon your body by ingesting this food. Sorry, as awful as it sounds, it's the truth. However, there is nothing nihilistic and/or inherently ridiculous about what you have just done. A fast food eating experience is elevated into a disaster when the following elements come together:</div>
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1. INTOXICATION</div>
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You normally don't eat fast food, but now you want fast food really, really, really badly because you are WASTED and it seems like a great idea because you are hungry. Really, really, really hungry. Which brings me to the next element:</div>
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2. STARVATION</div>
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You wouldn't feel this way if you had eaten a proper meal before going to all those bars you just went to. You would have been able to afford to do both were you not working a shitty job, and you wouldn't feel so shitty about your shitty job if you hadn't been working there for as long as you had. Hence:</div>
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3. DESPAIR</div>
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Nothing matters, guys. Let's get two Big Macs and a giant dolphin tank-sized cup of Sprite. I don't even care how fat and/or constipated this will make me feel in the morning.</div>
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There you have it: the trifecta of badness. Prepare yourself, for you are about to embark onto some <a href="http://www.youtube.com/user/EpicMealTime" target="_blank">epic meal time</a> shit. I think that fast food disasters are the eating equivalent to binge drinking. The glee with which you will devour your food will disturb you in the morning. But, as is the case with many wild nights, it will also make you laugh your ass off. Or could it be that are we laughing to keep from crying?</div>
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I first recognized that fast food disasters were an actual thing right after Hurricane Sandy hit. As you recall, there was no subway service for a few days and we had to take the bus everywhere. Which is fine- I love the bus. But that's neither here nor there. The point is, I'd been drinking for hours with some friends of mine in South Williamsburg. The fucked-up nature of the storm and all of the havoc it wreaked drove us to drink, but we also overindulged because we were all going completely stir-crazy. When the night finally wound down, I walked to Borinquen Place to get the B60 bus home. That's when I saw it: The golden arches. That's when I realized: <i>I am fucking HUNGRY and goddammit, I refuse to dip back into the vat of homemade lentil soup that i've been subsisting on for the past two days.</i><i> </i><br />
<i><br /></i>So, I went inside and ordered food. I didn't go too crazy: I got a double cheeseburger and jammed out of there. I walked to the bus stop and what do you know, there's the B60! There's the B60... and it's pulling away. NOOOOO I thought, and I ran like a bastard. Busses are slow, right? They are hulking, lumbering pieces of machinery. Surely I could sprint five blocks or whatever ridiculous short distance that the average bus travels before it stops again.<br />
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Well, as you can guess, I wasn't as capable of this as I thought. I almost made it, but then it pulled away again. Undeterred, I kept running, hoping to catch it at the next stop. Again: failure. I gave up. I sat on a stoop with my burger. Before I bit into it, I took a moment to reflect on my life. I had just drunkenly run after a bus with a sack of fast food in my hand. Something about it seemed/seems very gross to me. <i>I need to make some changes, </i>I thought, sinking my teeth into my delicious/terrible/delicious burger.<br />
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Predictably, those changes I planned on making did not end up happening. A few months later, after drunk shopping at Brooklyn Night Bazaar and paying a visit to a friend off the Gates stop on the J, starvation set in. I was with my best girl, Kelly. We wanted fried chicken but fried chicken was nowhere to be found. Hark: in the distance we saw a- you guessed it- MCDONALD'S FRANCHISE. Jesus Christ, they are everywhere and I am doomed. Anyway, we approached this reprehensible mecca of crap and were devastated to discover that they were only serving people who were getting drive-through. Even though we knew it would be fruitless, we walked up to the microphone and tried to get somebody's attention. Of course, we were ignored. "Now what?" we wondered. But not for long: a green SUV pulled up beside us. The driver's window rolled down and a guy leaned out and asked us what we wanted. He offered to order it for us from his car so we could eat. Kelly and I high-fived and told the dude what we wanted. We gave him our money and hung out next to the car while he pulled up to the necessary windows.<br />
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As we waited for our food, K and I both agreed on something: this was the stupidest thing we had ever done.<br />
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While we were in line, a group of gay dudes approached us on foot. They were also hungry and about to have a fast food disaster that was on another level (you'll see what I mean momentarily). "How did you guys do that?" they asked. "We tried to order but nobody paid attention to us."<br />
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We explained to them that they needed to find somebody in a car to help them out as we had done. They were like, "okay," and went to the back of the line to wait for somebody to pull up. Meanwhile, Kelly and I got our food, thanked our guardian angel, and sat down on the curb next to a giant dumpster. Yeah: a dumpster. We reiterated to one another that this was, by far, the dumbest thing we'd ever done. Then we dove into our 20-piece Chicken McNuggets/Double Cheeseburger/large Coke/large fries with a level of gusto that some might find unsettling. <br />
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In the middle of gorging on all this shit, we spied the gay dudes walking across the parking lot towards us. The guy who was the most wasted was leading the pack. "Please!" he called, "there is nobody pulling up to the window! I'm so hungry!"<br />
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"Ummm-"<br />
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"PLEASE JUST LET ME HAVE A FRENCH FRY! JUST ONE FRENCH FRY! PLEASE, JUST ONE!"<br />
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"No way, get your own!" said Kelly. "We worked hard for these fries!"<br />
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The dude was pleading and pleading as his friends began leading him away and mouthing apologies to us behind his back. The despair was palpable. I suppose we could have given him a french fry but quite frankly it kind of freaked us out how desperate he was. Like I said before, these dudes had fallen into a fast food disaster that had eclipsed our own. The only thing worse than eating a shit-ton of fast food while wasted is not eating ANY fast food while wasted and hating life because of it. Getting led away by your friends has got to be the cherry on top of the whole thing. Oh well. I suppose they probably didn't feel as shitty as we did the next morning. I had to go to <i>work</i>. Needless to say, it proved to be a rough shift.<br />
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Luckily, these are the only two (three?) fast food disasters of this caliber that I have experienced. It is getting dicey, though. I live right next to a twenty-four hour McDonald's. I have been going through this phase where I suck at going to the grocery store. As you can see, this is a recipe for a fast food disaster. It is up to me to stop the cycle. Today i dropped forty bucks at Food Bazaar in the hope that I will stop being lazy and get back into the habit of making my own meals in the comfort of my own home. When I wake up in the morning after having been out late the night before, I sometimes feel badly about the things I've done: kicking over traffic cones, falling down, sending hostile text messages, flirting with people I wouldn't normally flirt with, breaking things, losing things- all of this does not happen often, and when it does I get over it fairly quickly, but it still feels kind of shitty to think about for the first half of the day. I am still young, and I feel that I am not doing anything wrong. However, if I can eliminate something that makes me feel gross in the morning, I think it's worth it. Instant gratification proves not to be so gratifying in the end, and how much longer would it actually take for me to just get my ass home and make a sandwich? I'm happy to say that I did as much last night. Not bad for three in the morning, I'd say. </div>
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RANDALLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08267297870258421368noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4798874049424632727.post-18530979744152994522013-06-11T20:40:00.001-06:002015-02-21T13:31:17.046-07:00Another Long Walk<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">"my favorite thing is to go where i've never been."</span></i></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">-diane arbus</span></i></div>
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Last summer I went on a walk. Originally, it was my intention to walk from the apartment building I lived in at the time to another building, one that I almost lived in. The reason I didn't end up living in this building is because the roof was caving in, as we discovered on the day we signed the lease. It was very rainy that day and there was water cascading down the staircase when my almost-roommates entered the building. (We never spoke to one another again after the debacle was resolved.) I decided to take a walk over there to reflect on the whole episode, maybe take some pictures and file them away for a future piece of writing.<br />
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It took me about twenty minutes to walk to the building. I found, to my disappointment, that the sight of the building did not rouse any significant emotion in me. I took some photographs and it all felt completely perfunctory, completely arbitrary. It was very hot that day, but it was dry heat, and the wind was hot, too, and it felt good. I didn't want to go home. I wanted to see more than this building, to which I never managed to attach myself in any significant way. I decided to keep walking and to keep taking pictures. The possibility of me getting lost was real because I did not have an iPhone back then and plus my sense of direction is not always so good. But, I suppose one's sense of adventure sometimes prevails over one's sense of direction.<br />
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I walked all the way from Wilson avenue to Bedford avenue. All told, it took me about three hours, what with stopping to take pictures and also to drink a beer at Bodega. I wasn't entirely sure that I knew the way, but I found the way. It was all very significant for me, but even now I'm not entirely sure why. Maybe it was the thrill of finally fully realizing where I was and how to get to where I wanted to go. One half of it was based on what I knew, the other on intuition. Whatever, it's the subject for another post. What I want to talk about in THIS post is my latest long walk.<br />
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On saturday I woke up X-TREMELY hungover and for some reason I thought it would be a great idea to get a giant iced coffee and a Double Cheeseburger from McDonald's for breakfast (???????????). After that I watched several hours of <i>Arrested Development </i>on Netflix, and then I decided to take a nap. After my nap, I was like, "okay, this is getting ridiculous." I wanted to take a walk, but I didn't want to go on the same walk I'd gone on last summer. I wanted to walk somewhere I'd never walked before. I decided to walk to where Newtown Creek begins (ends?) in Bushwick. I packed up my camera and my smokes and began my journey from my new home in Ridgewood. HIT IT:<br />
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This is in Ridgewood, somewhere on Cypress Avenue. It has occured to me that I should be taking notes as to exactly where I shot all of these things. Anyway, I wanted to get a better angle on this tasteful garden decoration but I heard somebody open the door and I got scared and ran away.</div>
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Still in Ridgewood. </div>
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Super kewl sign for a bar that is no more. I wish somebody could reopen it and restore the sign but that would equal more white people which would equal shittier rent so oh well.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(*not actually johnson avenue)</i></span></div>
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Eventually Cypress Avenue turned into Johnson Avenue. The tree-lined street gave way to a vast corridor of lofts and warehouses. I've never extensively walked down Johnson Avenue before. Crossing the street was stressing me out because there are like, huge trucks everywhere:</div>
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Well, these trucks are parked. But you get the idea: THEY'RE EVERYWHERE and they can't wait to to try to RUN YOU OVER.</div>
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I like graffiti on trucks because it's the closest thing to subway art that we'll ever see in this city right now. Having said this, I must admit that I am not a huge enthusiast of street art. However, whenever I'm walking around with my camera I always feel that I can't NOT take pictures of it when i see it. </div>
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After traipsing down Johnson, I had to make a left on Varick Street, which smelled like unholy garbage. It was very desolate. I decided that it might be a good idea to take my headphones off, despite the fact that I was walking around in broad daylight. Perhaps a bit overly cautious, but whatever. Anyway, it would be a while before I actually saw newtown creek. Until I hit Metropolitan Avenue, the entire left side of the street was a "no trespassing" zone. The Department of Sanitation had a monopoly on that shit.</div>
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Walking down Varick was not so interesting. Not much to be seen besides sanitation vehicles, mostly-empty parking lots, and a bunch of industrial-looking buildings that obscured the view of the creek. These were the only two things of immediate interest on Varick Street:</div>
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1. THIS SICK SET-UP</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBY8_Gyl6YzH1oo977I-EqKrNqBWpcUMU7SF-ITEgGEY1i0XrJzXPyAgLHyp5ATMhf86-6phcOHLgBgGMqomKjy6QKadOocdQvULHi7nydsWOijuS6OdokJMxQ1u1ugDTElQ53ekV1UPOy/s1600/IMG_1358.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBY8_Gyl6YzH1oo977I-EqKrNqBWpcUMU7SF-ITEgGEY1i0XrJzXPyAgLHyp5ATMhf86-6phcOHLgBgGMqomKjy6QKadOocdQvULHi7nydsWOijuS6OdokJMxQ1u1ugDTElQ53ekV1UPOy/s320/IMG_1358.JPG" height="212" width="320" /></a></div>
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Nothin' like some indoor furniture parked all up in an outdoor setting. I support this.</div>
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2. THIS DEAD RAT</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifb9URQ32SFEheuQPd7eyKV04ZE-_fybTJiidkAVtaRJxMwf22EStXJCrO96UaAwfOtJ90imnyjslDYlFyJKKcMoEPddlLmML4xGcwVq-UiNQb9bchmKVgj1kjnRttdy4pRO5nKxyRUmNY/s1600/IMG_1368.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifb9URQ32SFEheuQPd7eyKV04ZE-_fybTJiidkAVtaRJxMwf22EStXJCrO96UaAwfOtJ90imnyjslDYlFyJKKcMoEPddlLmML4xGcwVq-UiNQb9bchmKVgj1kjnRttdy4pRO5nKxyRUmNY/s320/IMG_1368.JPG" height="212" width="320" /></a></div>
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It scared the shit out of me. I had just finished taking the preceding picture when I turned around to go on my way. As it turned out, there was a rat sitting directly in my path. I almost screamed (I hate them so much), but then I realized it was dead and instead of screaming I was just like, "oh my god!" I did what any sane human being does when confronted with a dead animal: I took a thousand pictures of it. I kept having to inch closer to the rat to get a better shot. Some guy drove by on his bike and probably thought I was a psycho. Even though the rat was dead I was still afraid of it. Every time a car drove by the flies went crazy. Look how bloated that thing is! Gross. I think it was a boy rat.</div>
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Anyway, I walked and walked and walked and walked and I began to think that I was in the wrong place and would never see Newtown Creek. But then I reached Metropolitan Avenue.</div>
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BOOM. There it was. I was kind of disappointed to find that the Gowanus Canal is way smellier. Whatever. North Brooklyn wins in so many more ways.</div>
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Newtown Creek: not much to see in the end. I was not even very psyched about possibly becoming radioactive because I probably already am, having dated a dude who lives in Gowanus. Radioactivity: OVER. LAME. Next!</div>
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Speaking of next... what was next? I was "helluv" hungry. I decided that the only thing that could save me was a Mother's burger. But first...</div>
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Haha. Just kidding! Can you imagine!?*</div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">(*Contrary to what the above statement may imply, the author admits to having been to pumps and enjoying herself kinda sorta a lot-a.)</span></i></div>
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Anyway.</div>
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On my way to Mother's I saw a potted plant on top of a minivan.</div>
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A mechanic wanted to be a photo star.</div>
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And I found out who to call whenever I need A REAL GOOD PLUMBER.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpBbSZoZtIiNxGaRX6wd854YIlgK_V78vk9sLjN9kBmtmIjhFHMDK_y09HUvibRm2kpS_2p-qJQohQWSMJ0vODMzSelvbxCBChF9MiLvuSMBTTCwm6G6PMgrFZTxXHh13WjN1RlaF34-pv/s1600/IMG_1399.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpBbSZoZtIiNxGaRX6wd854YIlgK_V78vk9sLjN9kBmtmIjhFHMDK_y09HUvibRm2kpS_2p-qJQohQWSMJ0vODMzSelvbxCBChF9MiLvuSMBTTCwm6G6PMgrFZTxXHh13WjN1RlaF34-pv/s320/IMG_1399.JPG" height="212" width="320" /></a></div>
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I was simply famished by the time I got to Mother's! I ordered a veggie burger and a Mexican Coke. I applauded myself for not ordering beer. When I was sufficiently sated, I thought about how I'd get home. The thought of riding the subway sounded repulsive to me. The previous day was so rainy and it was too beautiful outside to possibly go underground. Even though I knew my feet/legs would hurt by the end, I decided to walk back to Ridgewood.</div>
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So, I walked all the way home, all along that path. Metropolitan to Humboldt to Grand to Bushwick to Siegel to Bogart to Flushing to Wyckoff. I like walking down Siegel Street because I like to pretend I'm in another state. Sometimes it makes me feel like I'm in Indiana.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOXaJN2WnRSjJUfuTWSpqhouxc7Yl39IFnly4lr_YcPsNJ3b6-GuGtKqoyP7Fr0YdSipyHMqCZbPXPaCuSwfdzxuVAZBUknmav5zr1ZZkYQxQOxuzb6FJFqm_GLsvYDY40UE7uFwEw9Uix/s1600/IMG_0346.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOXaJN2WnRSjJUfuTWSpqhouxc7Yl39IFnly4lr_YcPsNJ3b6-GuGtKqoyP7Fr0YdSipyHMqCZbPXPaCuSwfdzxuVAZBUknmav5zr1ZZkYQxQOxuzb6FJFqm_GLsvYDY40UE7uFwEw9Uix/s320/IMG_0346.JPG" height="212" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">(*this is from last year's long walk)</span></i></div>
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The last thing of interest I came upon was a Harley Davidson rally at Cobra Club:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdKmfKCjtX5XaPA93MFt9M6lAIDSb7DtWHNokN5I_zRwyHvayReKUJOqGbQ2PcjxpLfjxwZHK30xXD5Qex6nZaw1vytIbOrOY6z-mKNuIF9aNEocuimLqWd7WByk24kKLw-W4tlarQxBKr/s1600/IMG_1403.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdKmfKCjtX5XaPA93MFt9M6lAIDSb7DtWHNokN5I_zRwyHvayReKUJOqGbQ2PcjxpLfjxwZHK30xXD5Qex6nZaw1vytIbOrOY6z-mKNuIF9aNEocuimLqWd7WByk24kKLw-W4tlarQxBKr/s320/IMG_1403.JPG" height="212" width="320" /></a></div>
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Why didn't I go inside!? I vow to never overlook another Bushwick Harley Davidson rally EVER AGAIN, cross my heart and hope to die.</div>
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And then I turned onto St. Nicholas and walked the rest of the way home.</div>
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I always feel the need to close out any piece of nonfiction writing with some big lesson about life, but the only thing I have to say about all of this is that WALKING IS AWESOME and that you should walk as long and as far as you possibly can whenever you can. Walk someplace you have never been before! It will be worth it, even if the only interesting thing you happen upon is a rat carcass. You can get some real good thinking done on a long walk, don't you know.</div>
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RANDALLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08267297870258421368noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4798874049424632727.post-5764089693748393902013-06-11T17:50:00.002-06:002013-06-11T21:09:36.380-06:00popgun booking<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvqcH4LVWjm8chgHPogXlrEubba1PInijS9aGb3If65zctERVKrK92NytMi_qOuC11eUc59ECYFlX1PUr6byuMD6t0xPfBtEtnLxyqgB6z8QPgHPRtFZZzcTpUQtr_NY5cgqO2tJ_lkTD5/s1600/Picture+10.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="27" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvqcH4LVWjm8chgHPogXlrEubba1PInijS9aGb3If65zctERVKrK92NytMi_qOuC11eUc59ECYFlX1PUr6byuMD6t0xPfBtEtnLxyqgB6z8QPgHPRtFZZzcTpUQtr_NY5cgqO2tJ_lkTD5/s320/Picture+10.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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oh, sweet. i can see SLAVVE and JIIIIIM all in ONE NIGHT. BITCHIN'.</div>
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RANDALLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08267297870258421368noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4798874049424632727.post-55571678113450095102013-04-10T17:54:00.002-06:002013-04-10T17:54:42.090-06:00I MOVED<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguHX-6fLN1hyphenhyphenxQoEttlF4Izvctvu4fC23d7MzDZHFlcUBY-RkxB6KlA71-rcadHLMvuinIBFC1nxkTU1MZbIC8o5qNGKbQv_v4oUnP2wUEf4jSx2xbAhag7_gj_j9obo_Nz7_OaoLku-a1/s1600/MovingDay.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="184" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguHX-6fLN1hyphenhyphenxQoEttlF4Izvctvu4fC23d7MzDZHFlcUBY-RkxB6KlA71-rcadHLMvuinIBFC1nxkTU1MZbIC8o5qNGKbQv_v4oUnP2wUEf4jSx2xbAhag7_gj_j9obo_Nz7_OaoLku-a1/s320/MovingDay.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Ah, moving. It is
never not stressful, but sometimes it can be stressful <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and</i> exciting. The degree of excitement lies within the
circumstance. Perhaps you are ready for a change and are switching apartments
purely of your own volition. Or, conversely, you are moving because you have no
choice <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">but</i> to move. I found myself on
the latter end of this spectrum a couple months ago when my then-roommate and I
found out that our landlord was planning on selling our apartment, leaving us
no choice but to find a new place to live. It was then that the dread of
finding a place to live in New York City hit me for the first time. All I wanted
was something comfortable. Judging from how hard it had been to achieve the
level of comfort I’d had at the apartment I’d been living in, I thought I’d
never find that comfort again.</div>
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I had a couple of
leads that fell through. I had a nervous breakdown about it at work and cried,
cried, cried. I resorted to combing Craigslist, where I would try to find an
apartment that I would share with the least-freaky freaks I could find.
Everybody is a freak on Craigslist. They are either prudish neat freaks or
slovenly weird freaks. I resigned myself to the fact that I was doomed.</div>
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But thank god for the
internet and thank god for my boyfriend, who sent smoke signals out over the
internet that were seen by Maud, a coworker of mine who needed to move by April
1<sup>st</sup> as well. We now have a super rad apartment RIGHT NEAR THA L TRAIN.
As soon as the deal was sealed, I finally started feeling super excited about
my move and super over my old apartment. As I packed all my shit into a
thousand banker’s boxes, all I could think about was what I hated about it and
how I couldn’t wait to leave. When I finally got all my shit out of there and
was taking one last look at the place, I could only think about the things that
I loved about living there. I made a list. Let’s start with the things I hated.</div>
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<b>PART ONE: THE BAD</b></div>
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1. THERE IS NOTHING
AROUND THERE</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Kv4iFg89rRc5IhZ2ACwOFnD3jTz8CGrSFFzRZWkEA9CqD2iQfGbHXPgD3pMYEwJy1jAx3JfPKAPwlLqj21mXM8KFpWk21xXNicc7dAcxrEV1EGnLgvGQL8J5KrhpU5KohyZ8Yiamazz2/s1600/FD-Logo.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="174" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Kv4iFg89rRc5IhZ2ACwOFnD3jTz8CGrSFFzRZWkEA9CqD2iQfGbHXPgD3pMYEwJy1jAx3JfPKAPwlLqj21mXM8KFpWk21xXNicc7dAcxrEV1EGnLgvGQL8J5KrhpU5KohyZ8Yiamazz2/s320/FD-Logo.gif" width="320" /></a></div>
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Except Family Dollar.
Fuck those people who robbed the old Silent Barn because that was the only
worthwhile shit within walking distance of my house. Since moving to Ridgewood,
my mood has improved about 10,000 percent. There are STORES and FOOD TRUCKS and
PEOPLE walking around. If I want to go to brunch, I can take a nice walk down
Wyckoff Avenue to Café Ghia. Shit, there’s even a 24-hour McDonald’s if you’re
into that. Which I am, but only while intoxicated.</div>
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2. THEY GOT RID OF
THE BAT CAVE</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGJSY0ttDveCtbnS5I5OgDQomoBSbWQfJ3euP1ed3Prl1MD9JTaO-AqUs1lqSP4NBsbutlo9YfBtN56kfjmmL7tC2k8LA39qRvpBpJkOztJMB5g7fsZkzLlq3ZloAW4Jk6IJ2E7dQeF5z-/s1600/Picture+9.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGJSY0ttDveCtbnS5I5OgDQomoBSbWQfJ3euP1ed3Prl1MD9JTaO-AqUs1lqSP4NBsbutlo9YfBtN56kfjmmL7tC2k8LA39qRvpBpJkOztJMB5g7fsZkzLlq3ZloAW4Jk6IJ2E7dQeF5z-/s320/Picture+9.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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What the fuck, y’all?
I don’t know what this used to be- I am assuming it was some sort of bar. One
day I was walking down the street and was very disturbed to find that somebody
had painted over the sign, which was one of my favorite idiosyncrasies of the
neighborhood. Why had I never bothered to take a picture of it to show my
future children!? Oh well. Some person from the internet did it for me. Thank
god for Google Images.</div>
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Anyway. The space of
the former Bat Cave has been empty ever since the sign was painted over. I can
only hope that they are doing some work inside to make it into another bar
because as I said before there is nothing around that neighborhood except for
Family Dollar.</div>
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3. MY SHITTY NEIGHBOR
DID PULL-UPS IN THE HALL</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKcZ6zdOZZQUq1_mmUDqjFoxzbywxV60qCxfm5DiQMSWDqPa6kkV4nxFVK4aUyZIrkEDaolFUNRGZMTRyGP-a_tprIGcO5Z8fpGRf1lO7ImUOcjoeNBmQiqrbdQVgxWe9JZrtA0Oak2fs2/s1600/arnold-pull-ups.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKcZ6zdOZZQUq1_mmUDqjFoxzbywxV60qCxfm5DiQMSWDqPa6kkV4nxFVK4aUyZIrkEDaolFUNRGZMTRyGP-a_tprIGcO5Z8fpGRf1lO7ImUOcjoeNBmQiqrbdQVgxWe9JZrtA0Oak2fs2/s320/arnold-pull-ups.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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At first, I was
indifferent to the pull-up bar that my neighbor had installed in the doorway of
his apartment. Whatever. That’s kind of weird and bro-y but okay if you’re into
that then who am I to be a hater. But the more I thought about it, the more I
was like, dude, why don’t you join a gym? You own the apartment. Surely you can
afford a gym membership? Everybody who visited my apartment commented on and
would make fun of the pull-up bar. The ridiculousness of it became fully
apparent to me when I realized that my neighbor seemed to think that since he
owned the apartment he owned the hallway, too. Every day there was at least one
of the following clustered outside his door: sneakers and/or boots (at least
two pairs), glass/plastic recycling, cardboard recycling, a tub of car litter,
and a bike pump. JESUS. Can we say FIRE HAZARD? However, all that pales in
comparison to what came next.</div>
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One day I was
relaxing as much as one can relax while reclining on the least expensive couch
available at Target. I heard the door to my neighbor’s house open. He was
blasting Lana del Rey really, really loud. That wasn’t my problem. My problem
began when I realized he was doing pull-ups. At first, all I could hear was
heavier breathing, work-out breathing, if you will. He went inside for two
minutes. Then he came back out and resumed doing pull-ups. This occurred
several more times. The breathing turned into grunting. The grunting turned
into... I DON’T EVEN KNOW. All I know was that it was LOUD and gross. Lana del
Rey singing “Blue Jeans” in the background made it even worse. Yeah, I get it,
dude. You’re a sensitive guy who is still manly. That’s great. Now get out of
my freakin’ hallway. Because, believe it or not, OTHER PEOPLE LIVE HERE and
they don’t want to be hearing your work-out sounds while trying to read/write
on their Target sofas.</div>
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4. IT WAS TOO EXPENSIVE
AND THE HEAT WAS ALWAYS BUSTED</div>
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Actually, that’s not
quite true. The heat was working when our evil landlord decided that he wanted
to sell the apartment. As rich people spun through our apartment with a real
estate broker with a Louis bag and Restylane-filled lips (that was way harsh,
Tai), our apartment was nice and toasty. My room was always very drafty no
matter what, though. It was the one huge drawback from having the room with
windows.</div>
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5. THE LANDLORD NEVER
CALLED ME BACK</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio5hebw8fERb_0Izkp-PJuVvCDvWmKVGj-ECENrVkKFVuHmdQYaKADXVhBDY_8Y6uH6BAeuBefeyUO_gssixP8u5tuaT0QsbsCjKFlXpfPC1oTH4ZuLQ3K0_639NqlutTTnc1BWuAUmbQY/s1600/slumlord-e1340598131453.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio5hebw8fERb_0Izkp-PJuVvCDvWmKVGj-ECENrVkKFVuHmdQYaKADXVhBDY_8Y6uH6BAeuBefeyUO_gssixP8u5tuaT0QsbsCjKFlXpfPC1oTH4ZuLQ3K0_639NqlutTTnc1BWuAUmbQY/s320/slumlord-e1340598131453.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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Even when some jackass
broke my toilet while we were throwing a party. Come fix my shit, this is
serious business! It sucked to be ignored all the time. I guess the thing that
bummed me out the most about the apartment was the bad vibes I got from the
management company. True, our apartment was nice and not-falling-apart, and I
was thankful for that considering my previous two apartments. But there is
something very depressing about living somewhere that belongs to a man who is
never in his office, who doesn’t care, who doesn’t like women. A man who pulls
the rug out from under you! Evil, evil man. Good riddance.</div>
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***</div>
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Well, that was the
bad. I always think of the bad before I think of the good whenever I move. It’s easier to
think of the bad, to focus on the things that you didn’t like in order to like
another apartment better. That brings me to the next part of this post:</div>
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<b>PART TWO: WHAT I
LOVED</b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlKnZ9Wb2n1Ie5Noh4aFTKJOfkPorb5DFdX3C9ONTE8SWzOYidYMsOo6iQh651xOKp45CdtR7ldpdvVwOXNiWAFTqn9lDWOyzAfhkWB7MZhYF_0OdXll6ikbkeuErC1by4M33-OSDZtnuW/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlKnZ9Wb2n1Ie5Noh4aFTKJOfkPorb5DFdX3C9ONTE8SWzOYidYMsOo6iQh651xOKp45CdtR7ldpdvVwOXNiWAFTqn9lDWOyzAfhkWB7MZhYF_0OdXll6ikbkeuErC1by4M33-OSDZtnuW/s320/photo.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>my old room</i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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I won’t go into much
detail, because it was nebulous, dreamlike. I remember good things the way one
experiences happiness- in fleeting impressions. I don’t think it was the
apartment itself that I will miss. Instead, I will miss the life I lived inside
of it, even if that life was at times a huge mess. In semi-chronological order,
here are the things I will never forget:</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
The sense of relief I
felt upon getting out of Crown Heights and finally moving to Bushwick, where
I’d always wanted to live during all of the time I’ve resided in this city.</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Everything we ever
did on the roof. Laughing with friends uncontrollably until dawn, drinking far
too much, listening to music and dancing and streaking (!) and not having any
neighbors catch me.</div>
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Sleeping in my old
room with no windows and leading the exquisitely miserable and desperate lifestyle
that I continue to romanticize.</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Moving into the room
with windows after my horrible roommate moved out and my awesome roommate moved
in.</div>
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My 25<sup>th</sup>
birthday house party, our housewarming party, and Andrea’s birthday party.</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Hosting the M1 Eve
sign-making party. Solidarity forever!</div>
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Those pussy willows I
put on the living room table last spring.</div>
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The breeze blowing into
the front room. Waking up to tree branches heavy with green leaves.</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
The lull of the B20
bus chugging down Decatur Street. Hearing laundry turn in the dryer and water
churning in the dishwasher.</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Having the coolest,
most non-judgmental roommate ever.</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Loving the man that I
do in my bed, in my room.</div>
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The last morning I
spent in my room. The pink and orange sunlight and the mourning dove cooing in
the tree at quarter ‘til seven.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
I suppose the good
outweighs the bad, yes?</div>
<!--EndFragment-->
</div>
RANDALLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08267297870258421368noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4798874049424632727.post-22548568435973452482012-09-15T11:52:00.000-06:002012-09-15T11:52:21.885-06:00my sibling is talented!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: center;">
my san antonio-based sister and her man have created an absurdist sketch comedy web series entitled <i>lost in texas</i>. you can view all of the episodes <a href="http://www.youtube.com/user/LostinTexasShow" target="_blank">here</a>. i've posted the most recent one for your enjoyment. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="197" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/QtestzGj5Wo" width="350"></iframe></div>
</div>
RANDALLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08267297870258421368noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4798874049424632727.post-24018503768005104082012-08-27T20:32:00.001-06:002013-01-05T15:20:56.651-07:00photos: roof show at 1085 willoughby, 8/25/12<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div style="text-align: center;">
who doesn't love watching cool bands on a cool roof? click to enlarge and all that.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
DISCLAIMER: i think/hope/pray i got all of the band names right. if you, dear reader, find that i've been mistaken in any instance, please do not hesitate to let management (i.e. ME) know.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://soundcloud.com/jimmy-deroth" target="_blank">garage sail</a></div>
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czech neck (members of <a href="http://videodaughters.bandcamp.com/" target="_blank">video daughters</a> and <a href="http://teendemon.bandcamp.com/" target="_blank">teen demon</a>)</div>
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heirloom</div>
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???? (plus crowd)</div>
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RANDALLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08267297870258421368noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4798874049424632727.post-43314935045126234902012-08-21T18:04:00.002-06:002012-08-21T18:04:59.503-06:00from my blog to your mag<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
some sarah lawrence friends of mine have been doing on online lit/art mag called <a href="http://runawayparade.com/" target="_blank">runaway parade</a> for some time now, and i finally contributed to their efforts. the quality of work is amazing on this site, and i am proud to be a part of it. i contributed a fiction piece which can be read <a href="http://runawayparade.com/Teeley081612.html" target="_blank">here</a>. </div>
RANDALLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08267297870258421368noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4798874049424632727.post-63762136504604943742012-08-12T21:03:00.000-06:002012-08-12T21:09:20.787-06:00impromptu power walking adventure<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwPzYw_L6zJE08yoztypsytf2gxEyF5Qkf2j3IqczjvoeW6DVzh4z5Bu8ZqAbFOQY4nVvUUJWW5vm0y3vA5yX6Iq0zQmyKOB5jcJJFmY7kcfOMIEK2N11pX1CJ2BUghWuUsI22gn0FWdGa/s1600/IMG_0367.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwPzYw_L6zJE08yoztypsytf2gxEyF5Qkf2j3IqczjvoeW6DVzh4z5Bu8ZqAbFOQY4nVvUUJWW5vm0y3vA5yX6Iq0zQmyKOB5jcJJFmY7kcfOMIEK2N11pX1CJ2BUghWuUsI22gn0FWdGa/s400/IMG_0367.jpg" width="265" /></a></div>
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today i walked from my house off the wilson L stop all the way over to bedford avenue. i have no idea what possessed me to do this. at first my plan was to walk over to an apartment building that i had almost moved into, photograph it, and then come home to compose a piece on the nightmare slumlord battle that i and my almost-roommates had to endure in order to get out of that particular lease, which would have trapped us in an apartment with a roof on the verge of collapse. (i still intend to write about that, but not now.) however, i wasn't ready to go home after i paid my respects to 1428 putnam avenue. it was too beautiful outside. the streets were quiet and the hot stillness rising from the pavement would periodically get swept away by a summer breeze that seemed to unfurl from the trees. i decided to keep going and to keep taking pictures. </div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">irving square park</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">chess board x-treme closeup</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">bushwick, nearish to myrtle-wyckoff</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">putnam avenue</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">bushwick high</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">rubber plants and rings for two bux</span></div>
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by the time i reached the jefferson stop, i decided that i was just going to keep walking until i reached bedford avenue. it was also at this time that i decided to take a beer break at bodega bar, where i drank, smoked, and wrote in my journal. </div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">thankfully i was able to sit outside and gaze upon this rad mural.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">r.i.p. sweet action</span></div>
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when i was through with bodega, i kept going. as i walked, i thought about how i love it when certain parts of brooklyn make you feel like you're not in brooklyn. i have been hanging out in red hook a bit lately, and one of the things i love about it down there is that i can pretend that i'm not in new york anymore, that i'm in the midwest, that i am nineteen again and on my way to visit my best friend in columbus, ohio. i know i can't live anywhere else- i wouldn't be happy anywhere other than where i am now. that's why i'm glad that sometimes there are small pockets of this city that can take you away, that can make you feel like you are someplace else, someplace you used to know and maybe love. </div>
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in the end, i made it to bedford avenue alive. a normal person would perhaps drink gatorade after a workout. i, on the other hand, opted for a "gatorita"- a tequila-spiked glass of lemon-lime gatorade served at the bastion of classiness and civility that is the levee. i also asked for free cheeseballs, which i NEVER do. i figured that i needed to cancel out my invigorating walk with a bunch of crap. mission accomplished! </div>
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ONE MORE THING: is it rude if somebody helps themselves to a handful of YOUR free cheeseballs without asking? i mean, i know they're free, but they were MY cheeseballs! i was writing in my journal and i see this hand traveling over to my balls. i watched in utter shock and horror as this hand helped itself to several fluorescent morsels. "i'm just going to take some o' these," announced the owner of the hand. a guy. of COURSE. i didn't know what to say to him. get your own, dude!<br />
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ALSO ANOTHER THING: i can't believe i walked four miles today!</div>
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RANDALLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08267297870258421368noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4798874049424632727.post-42609671032241513722012-07-14T21:04:00.000-06:002012-07-15T20:55:16.382-06:00ACCESS DENIED<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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there are many things that are worse than being DENIED ACCESS, but that doesn't mean that it still doesn't totally suck! here are all the times when i have had my ACCESS DENIED.</div>
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<b>1. king and grove hotel, july 2012</b></div>
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when i heard that admission to king and grove's saltwater pool could be obtained by merely purchasing a drink at the hotel bar, i was like, fuck yeah, let's go! my friend and i went yesterday only to be told that we could not use the pool because we did not have a reservation. a RESERVATION? for a <i>POOL!?</i> they are now charging a forty-five dollar cover for said reservation. i guess a couple of beers just won't cut it anymore. lame!</div>
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<b>2. random street fair, july 2012</b></div>
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i was sitting in macri square park eating a healthy hummus wrap from hana food. i looked up, and what do i see in the distance but a ferris wheel! <i>i am <u>so</u> getting on that</i>, i thought to myself. so, i finished half of my wrap, shoved the rest of it in my bag, and made my way across meeker avenue, which always freaks me out. when i reached the street fair, i asked the ticket lady how much it cost to ride the ferris wheel. "five bux," she said. i gave her five bux. i got in line. the ferris wheel operator glared at me.</div>
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"YOU CAN'T RIDE THIS," the he yells at me.</div>
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"WHAT???" (the ferris wheel music was deafening.)</div>
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"I SAID, YOU CAN'T RIDE THIS!"</div>
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"WHY NOT?"</div>
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"YOU NEED TWO PEOPLE!"</div>
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well, shit. i skulked back to the ticket counter. "NO REFUNDS," proclaimed a sheet that was taped to the window. this did not deter me. i calmly explained the situation. the woman gave me my five bux back. i walked away from the street fair in shame. however, i was able to relive the thrills of childhood elsewhere. i ducked into jaime campiz playground to ride the swingset. this maniacal child was swinging next to me. "i'm higher than you!" he yelled. i let him win and then went home.</div>
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<b>3. mccarren pool, summer 2008</b></div>
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okay, so when the first MGMT album came out, i was really into that shit. you know what, i still like "electric feel." anyway. they were playing a free show at mccarren pool back when it wasn't a pool anymore. i dragged my then-boyfriend with me to see them, and i knew we should have gotten up early to make sure we got in, but we were stoners back then and i convinced myself that it would be fine, we could just roll up and get in and listen to some groovy jams. WRONG. the line was insane. it just kept going and going and going and GOING. we stood in line anyway. why? i will never know. we both knew that it was game over. sure enough, after standing there for way too long, a dude on a loudspeaker announced that "IF YOU ARE STANDING IN LINE YOU WILL NOT BE GETTING INTO MCCARREN POOL TODAY." ugh. awful. we went home and smoked more weed and looked at gawker. gawker told us that kirsten dunst had been at the show. she had been chilling in the VIP area. she didn't have to stand in line.</div>
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"bitch," i said.</div>
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"for real," said my boyfriend.</div>
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<b>4. douche-y manhattan club, may 2007</b></div>
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the day a bunch of my friends graduated from college, we were cruising around the city looking for drugs. my boyfriend knew a dude who worked at a club where these drugs could possibly be found. at the time, i was underage. i had a fake ID that i'd purchased for 60 dollars at a shady store in chinatown. it had worked in most bars and even at the mobil station in bronxville, so i was feeling pretty cocky when i tried to follow my boyfriend into the club. i handed the bouncer my id. he took one look at it and stuck it in his pocket.</div>
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"i keep these," he said.</div>
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"what!?" i cried.</div>
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"i said, i keep these."</div>
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i was so mad. i stormed across the street and hurled my body against a chain-link fence. my boyfriend left the club when he realized what had happened and we all ended up going home without finding drugs. it was okay, though. i think everybody was exhausted from senior week. we all went our separate ways and faded into the night. i'm glad we never found the drugs.</div>
</div>RANDALLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08267297870258421368noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4798874049424632727.post-35671140317936390082012-07-07T20:13:00.001-06:002012-07-07T20:15:56.003-06:00this is how we do<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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i can check this shit off my list:<br />
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-securing a spot to see the east river fireworks that is ACTUALLY good</div>
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-taking a bus out of port authority</div>
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-visiting the lovely town of sparta, nj</div>
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-going for a night swim</div>
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-riding in the back of a cop car</div>
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-posing for pictures with antiquated handguns</div>
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-partying in NY, NJ, and CT all in one day.<br />
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it was a true tri-state weekend. happy birthday, america!</div>
</div>RANDALLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08267297870258421368noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4798874049424632727.post-3767860825681404972012-07-03T17:55:00.000-06:002012-07-07T20:05:59.418-06:00highs and lows<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://smileinyourface.com/2012/06/10/ryan-mcginley-animals/" target="_blank">via</a></span></i></div>
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ryan mcginley cancelled on us three times before FINALLY coming in to sign his stock. the day after he cancelled for the third time, one of my supervisors asked if he'd made it in and i said, "what do you think?"</div>
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whatever. today he was there and today i brought a stack of copies of <i>whistle for the wind</i> up to the third floor, where he was seated at a desk in a far corner of the room, silently scribbling his signature again and again in each of the fifty billion copies of his book that were already stacked on the desk.</div>
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"wow," i thought, "sometimes my job is cool...i guess?"</div>
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i went back downstairs only to be called up again 15 minutes later to fetch the signed stock and bring it all back to the art floor. i did so. ryan mcginley was nowhere to be seen and i assumed that he had peaced the fuck out. i waited like, a thousand years for our terrible elevator to take me down to the second floor. when i got off, one of my colleagues was standing by the door. i wheeled the cart onto the floor.</div>
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"HE CAME!" i cried. "HE SIGNED! HE CON-"</div>
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"shut up!" my colleague hissed. "he's right over there!"</div>
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i turned my head towards the photography table. ryan mcginley was browsing the photography books. oopsy! he had earphones in, so i don't think he heard me? oh well. on a side note, i really don't like when people wear earphones while they are browsing around in stores.</div>
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so, that was the high point of my day. the low point came while i was on the train coming back to brooklyn. when i got a seat, i sat down and examined the couple sitting across from me. the first thing i noticed was that the woman was wearing THESE SHOES:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9fFmrtYp7qYDbaTsspCxu2j_VG-RmG0XYKQ-zAPOlar0VIOY1WbPeMe3VIMsfzic48CCU-OTigW-EJza689zHUfxrXWQuMftMs0GPn3YSeSpWeSst5oAI62NctlVQKFKoFm7ORjBQDMKX/s1600/s34s342.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9fFmrtYp7qYDbaTsspCxu2j_VG-RmG0XYKQ-zAPOlar0VIOY1WbPeMe3VIMsfzic48CCU-OTigW-EJza689zHUfxrXWQuMftMs0GPn3YSeSpWeSst5oAI62NctlVQKFKoFm7ORjBQDMKX/s1600/s34s342.jpg" /></a></div>
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GROSS. then, something happened that was, if you can believe it, EVEN GROSSER. this woman was eating the following CONDIMENT right out of the jar with a SPOON:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg40JXOl-wwIr9yCiL6deopEnvtyPZlmWObLCfsaMMaUX0vvUV3A1OcLwju_77TyotqQWg9Wohk8qTHlT1zCZ4BwOrQQ5FbCQLHVO5BJr_UCEU098Fvc8l9hDNLyqEnxM9b4lrOyeOGhofc/s1600/hellmans-Mayonnaise.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg40JXOl-wwIr9yCiL6deopEnvtyPZlmWObLCfsaMMaUX0vvUV3A1OcLwju_77TyotqQWg9Wohk8qTHlT1zCZ4BwOrQQ5FbCQLHVO5BJr_UCEU098Fvc8l9hDNLyqEnxM9b4lrOyeOGhofc/s1600/hellmans-Mayonnaise.png" /></a></div>
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i almost barfed in my mouth. i ACTUALLY gagged when she handed the jar to her boyfriend, who put the jar to his mouth and DRANK the rest of it. WHAT THE FUCK!!!!!!!!???????????</div>
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anyways. now it is time for my cleaning party, as my room is a complete disaster area. loud music and beer are in order! wish my luck. i am about to go into the shit.</div>
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LATER!</div>
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</div>RANDALLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08267297870258421368noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4798874049424632727.post-34156052831784826992012-07-01T20:47:00.002-06:002012-07-01T20:47:55.571-06:00YOUR CONVERSATION IS TERRIBLE<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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i don't know if any of you have experienced this phenomenon, but every now and then one may find oneself in close proximity to a group of people who find themselves so clever and interesting that they feel they must talk very loudly so that the whole world may be dazzled by their wit and enthralled with their fascinating lives! perhaps you have even been involved in such a group. well, the truth is that OTHER PEOPLE'S CONVERSATIONS ARE TERRIBLE. especially if you must listen to them while waiting for food. hot dogs, if you will. at two in the morning. when you only have one dollar. while wondering to yourself, w<i>hy did i have to spend my last two quarters on two gumballs earlier? i could have afforded papaya dog and avoided standing in line with these jerks!</i> ah, such is life.</div>
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yes, i know what you may be thinking: <i>why, not <u>my</u> conversations! i only talk about intelligent things and i have a great sense of humor! </i>and you may indeed! but your conversation still sounds terrible. i can't explain it. the end!</div>
</div>RANDALLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08267297870258421368noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4798874049424632727.post-53100486209665947162012-06-30T15:57:00.003-06:002012-07-15T21:04:15.960-06:00water sports<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">image via </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://gothamist.com/2012/06/30/day_after_opening_mccarren_park_poo.php" target="_blank">gothamist</a></span></i></div>
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yesterday i took mccarren pool redux for a test drive. i anticipated there to be an insane amount of people there so i decided the best thing to do would be to get up early and arrive at the pool around noon. obviously the main reason for my going was to swim, but i was also intrigued by the idea of being in the middle of a complete fucking mob scene. sure enough, there was a huge line to get in. i think i waited for about twenty-five minutes, but it was okay because in that amount of time i figured out how to work the lock i'd just purchased. i have always had problems with locks with dials. i wrote my combination on my arm with a fat black sharpie, just in case.</div>
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when i FINALLY got in, i chose a locker and got changed. i love the feeling of wearing a swimsuit under your clothes, especially when people can see the strings of your bikini creeping out of your shirt. i think it is a look that says, "here i am! i am ready for anything!" i am contemplating getting a camp towel and a jansport backpack and carrying the towel, my swimsuit, and my lock around with me all summer. baller! anyway, the locker room was airy and didn't feel all gross and sweaty and disgusting like most pool locker rooms do. it was a bit small, though. however, i'll take a small locker room if it means more room for a HUGE FUCKING POOL! which brings me to the next thing...</div>
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...the pool! i have only been to one public pool in the city, and that was the one in sunset park, which is kind of an awful pool. crowded, and waaaaaaaaay to many kids. like, the kid to adult ration was probably 7-1 or something ridiculous. anyway, in its newly-pristine state, mccarren pool looks spectacular. the bottom is painted a beautiful cerulean shade, and the very sight of it looks refreshing. there is tons of room for both lounging and swimming. i found a really great spot on these things that resembled steps that were big enough to lay out and sunbathe on. later that day i managed to score a shady spot in the same area. there was even a little potted plant right next to me for some added ambiance! FANCY! also, i was shocked to see that the crowd was not nearly as big as i'd expected. it was a pretty standard amount of people for your average public pool, i thought.</div>
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anyway, i had two swimming sessions and then sat in the sun reading <i>air guitar</i> for the rest of the time. i contemplated going in a third time, but by then the sun was wearing me out and i was starving. i love swimming. i always have. when i was a child, i learned how to swim nearly instantly. i was always the last one out of the water, the one who always begged to stay at the beach a little longer. as i gathered my stuff, kids were going psycho all around me and the lifegaurds were constantly blowing their whistles at all of the stupid and incredibly fun things they were doing. i thought about how i could never be that way again. for a moment i was sad as i contemplated the amount of energy that leaves you as you get older. oh well. i left the pool and ate tacos from calexico in the park. one kind of fun replaces another, i suppose.</div>
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i was saddened to hear that hours after i'd left, a lifegaurd was <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2012/06/30/nyregion/lifeguards-attacked-at-mccarren-pool.html" target="_blank">assaulted</a> by a bunch of idiot kids. in the past few years, mccarren pool has become a symbol for urban regeneration, both in its incarnations as a concert venue and now a swimming hole restored to what people hope will be its former glory. i don't think that the pool will become what it became at the time of its closing. chill, people! the security in that place is pretty fucking tight. i don't think anyone is going to be dealing crack to five year olds there anytime soon.</div>
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in other water-related news, i partied until dawn and then streaked through an open fire hydrant on my street. i realize that this was an incredibly stupid thing to do but it was really fucking fun and i do not regret it in the slightest.</div>
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in conclusion, i highly recommend the refurbished mccarren pool. i also highly recommend streaking through an open fire hydrant. however, if you are not looking to get arrested (or worse), the former option is probably best. A+!</div>
</div>RANDALLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08267297870258421368noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4798874049424632727.post-29060813760787794612012-06-24T22:20:00.000-06:002012-07-15T19:14:27.410-06:00ocean, oshin<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i>coney island, 6/23/12</i></div>
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yesterday was fantastic, an absolute success. i have decided that the only way to live is to over-schedule oneself. i had made plans weeks in advance to attend the record release of DIIV, but then i learned that the mermaid parade was also happening on that day. BOOM, solid! i had been psyching myself up all week and was worried that june 23rd, 2012 would not live up to the hype, but it was everything i could have wanted. there is no better feeling than going to bed knowing that you have just lived one of the best days of your life.</div>
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i woke up and i thought to myself, my, what a gorgeous day for all of these activities i have planned for myself! then i realized, shit, i slept in way later than i wanted to. THEN i asked myself, "did i remember to take my ipod home from steffanie's house last night?" NO, of course i didn't. i didn't even look in my bag. i texted stef and she confirmed my suspicions. i threw on some clothes and exited my building at half-past noon with the intention of catching the bus to ridgewood to fetch my 'pod. however, i looked at the bus schedule and realized that i had just missed it, and there was no way i was going to stand around in the heat waiting for the damn bus. so, i decided to walk to stef's house, even though i had no idea which way to go. i thought the best plan of action would be to follow the trail of the b20 stops. i walked for about 25 minutes into ridgewood in my unsensible k-mart slip-ons and it was fucking great. i decided that i would not be adverse to living in ridgewood. in a weird way it reminded me of walking in LA. there were tons of two-way streets and trees everywhere and lots of little houses. everything was spread out and nothing felt stacked or crammed. i love stacked and crammed, but it felt nice to walk in an urban area that also felt airy.</div>
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i passed a 7-11. without warning, i felt the incredible urge to purchase a slurpee. it was an amazing phenomenon. i haven't drank a slurpee since 2007. it was the most random thing. i went with watermelon-lime in a medium-sized cup. it was delicious and i felt like kind of a weirdo because i was booking it to steffanie's and pounding this slurpee. for some reason i felt like i was in the early nineties, probably because i loved to drink slurpees in the early nineties as a sugar-crazed seven year-old.</div>
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anyway, i got to stef's, retrieved my ipod, and swooped out the door to the train station. the M was running as a shuttle bus. it took an ungodly amount of time for it to come and an even longer amount of time for it to dump me off at myrtle-broadway. at this point my slurpee was dunzo and i was worried that my entire mouth was stained red. <i>WHY DIDN'T I GET THE PINA COLADA FLAVOR? </i>i always wondered why my mom would only get pina colada flavored slurpees back in the day, and that is because it is the only flavor that won't make you look like you are five years old. ah well, the more you know.</div>
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the j train took forever. the f train took forever. <i>i'm never going to get to coney island,</i> i thought. i knew i had to be patient. i listened to the grimes record the whole way down and looked out the window. long train rides are better with scenery, so at least there was that. it wasn't that i was miserable on the train, i just felt like i was terribly, terribly late for everything. well, i ended up doing all right: i rolled up to surf and stillwell a little after 2:30, where i met ken and a friend of his on 15th street. ken had fashioned himself a lovely cardboard mermaid tail that he promptly threw away as we were leaving the parade. sad! oh well: the mermaid parade was wonderful like it always is. there were mayan mermaids, steampunk mermaids, occupy wallstreet mermaids, IWW mermaids (solidarity, holla!), mermaids from the titanic, and, of course, stripper mermaids. it was great. every mermaid parade is always such a wacked-out little microcosm of what's been going on in the world. i remember back in 2008 when everybody was protesting how astroland was in trouble and how all of the oceanfront property was going up and all that jazz. this year, we are all going to die when the world ends and atlantis has been occupied. wonderful!</div>
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the floats were boring and slow and ken and i decided to call it a day when the roving bands of weirdos on foot had passed. ken went home and i went across the street to check out the beach. i hadn't drank water all day because i am a goddamn fool, so i slaked my thirst at a public water fountain. i made my way down to the water, which felt perfect. a girl with a diana camera asked if she could take my picture and i said that she could. i bought an italian ice and stood in the surf while i ate it. it was getting late. i didn't want to use the boardwalk, so i just walked down the beach until i got to brighton. leaving the beach to return once more to the streets of new york city is always such a strange physical experience. the wind is in your hair, everything is golden and blue. then you know you must go and so you pull yourself out. or is it that you are being sucked out? on the train ride home you find yourself to be a complete mess: you are burned, your hair is everywhere, your lips are stained red and the heat has pushed you nearly to the point of delirium. it's like that feeling you get right after having rough sex with somebody you love so, so much. so there you go, completely fucked and completely exhausted and suspended in a state of jittery wonderment.</div>
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when i got back to my 'hood, there was a gigundo psycho block party happening on my block. i bought a brooklyn summer ale and smoked a cigarette on the roof. i jumped in the shower and drank my beer while showering. the time was approximately seven-thirty. i felt really nervous about going to the show. i always feel that way when i'm by myself and going to a SUPER COOL MUSIC VENUE even though my friends were the ones playing and that i would see people i knew eventually. my makeup was melting as i was applying it.<i> i am not cool enough for anything,</i> i thought, even though i knew/know that it isn't/wasn't true.</div>
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i got on the train anyway. duh! on the way to glasslands, i told myself that williamsburg is nothing but a glorified nerd fiesta. cool: party on, losers! i started to chill out once i smoked another cigarette and got inside the venue. glasslands is probably my favorite place to see music in brooklyn, i've decided. if you are alone, you can sit on the bench. if you are with friends, you can stand anywhere! and if you want to smoke, you can go across the street and sit on the sidewalk like a badass. the sound is great, the drink prices are not, but the drinks themselves do the job. the brooklyn lager tallboy was my drink of choice for the evening. i think it truly is the better deal.</div>
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vincent cacchione provided the opening DJ set, of which i caught the tail end. pc worship was warming up as the set was going on, and one of the dudes was doing the sound-check to the beat of the music. "check, check, checkcheckcheck. check. check. check. check. cheeeeeeeecccckkkkk. yeah. good. that sounds good. check, check, checkcheckcheck." awesome. shortly after they started playing, i noticed cole standing off to the side and i went over to say hello to him. we chit-chatted about the opening bands, all of whom he knows and hand-picked to play the release.</div>
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"i am so happy for you," i said.</div>
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"aw!" he replied modestly. then: "do i have anything in my teeth?"</div>
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"you are good to go," i told him.</div>
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pc worship was very cool, and so was forma. pc worship was very slacker-y, very pixies-ish, while forma had a staid, slow-building kraut rock thang going on. the pairing of the two for the show was perfect. i ran into gwen in the bathroom line and then i ran into andrew while i was outside smoking. as soon as andrew went in to start setting up, matt appeared, having just emerged from imbibing an alcoholic beverage in the van. we smoked and talked and i told him all about our fucked up union contract at my place of employment. we went inside and pushed our way up to the front of the room just as DIIV was about to start playing. i couldn't stop smiling. i felt so happy for them. the energy was amazing. they started playing and everybody went nuts and started shoving each other around. i thought about the first time i'd ever seen them at shea stadium, what, like a little over a year ago maybe? i instantly knew that this was <i>something</i>. it has been a pleasure to watch this band unfurl. </div>
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i am not sure, but i'm pretty sure the set ended with "doused." the boys did not play an encore, but that was okay because you cannot imagine witnessing the comedic gold that was catching a glimpse of andrew spitting up a giant swig of veuve cliquot as the curtain to the backstage area swung open for a hot second.</div>
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gwen, matt and i went outside for air and smokes. andrew and cole and the other dudes were making the rounds, so we sat on the sidewalk and took discrete sips of booze. ("LET ME SEE THAT VOOOOOOVE!") "i am always looking for the DIIV band members," gwen said, referring to post-show round-ups. "it's like where's waldo. oh, look, there's andrew."</div>
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the men of the hour filtered through the crowd. eventually we went inside for a spell, and eventually each of us grabbed an amp, a drum head, or a case of something to put into cole's van. the bartenders informed us that they were locking up, and it was over. by that time, it was very late. i wanted to stay later, but i had to work in the morning and i knew that ending the day at that point would let it remain as it was: perfect. there was no bombastic ending. it ebbed away, never to return, just like a wave. today i felt sad that this day i had been thinking about for weeks was gone, but now, as i am sitting in my living room searching for an ending to this story, i know that the best thing to do is to let it go so that i can get taken by another one. </div>
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</div>RANDALLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08267297870258421368noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4798874049424632727.post-36323191809002323922012-01-27T20:14:00.001-07:002012-01-27T20:15:45.468-07:00spellwork<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnv5_mZog3MupRhzvkFzqNnHsDHjV0l3498h6q3B6dWKJ9NbzldquQFv_RG1S23NCPRF80f6Ptj0ct2TKZB6lATd_I7Z2AVBw5vwoMPK3C0S5ZDENP1cd9vM0BfS8d-5y_0Drq57ASYsuw/s1600/tumblr_lydcoikebO1qbeumgo1_500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnv5_mZog3MupRhzvkFzqNnHsDHjV0l3498h6q3B6dWKJ9NbzldquQFv_RG1S23NCPRF80f6Ptj0ct2TKZB6lATd_I7Z2AVBw5vwoMPK3C0S5ZDENP1cd9vM0BfS8d-5y_0Drq57ASYsuw/s400/tumblr_lydcoikebO1qbeumgo1_500.jpg" width="391" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">i saw this woman from the above charles brittin photograph in a dream a few nights ago. i dreamt that she had been put into a trance before the picture was taken. in my quest to uncover the story behind this image, i found that the woman is shirley berman, the wife of the artist and poet wallace berman. i was disappointed to learn that she wasn't anonymous. that seems like a hurtful thing to think. at least she has a name, thank god she has a name! there is something very sad and very unfair about photographs in which people are pictured and not named. when i see images of anonymous people i always feel bad for them because it seems like common decency that we should know, or at least want to know, their names. however, there is also the obvious enticing mystery that accompanies looking at an unknown. who is she, what is she doing, what is she thinking, how is she feeling? i suppose this photograph has not been ruined for me by learning the woman's name because i still like to pretend that in this moment she is tragically anonymous and possessed: robbed, posable, a vessel. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">i've looked at this photograph so many times now that i can see her pupils and connect her gaze to a point in space, but i'll always think of her as being in a trance. i see it in the whites of her eyes; her tousled, haloed head; and the sunlight resting in her open hand. i like to be on the side of the photographer, the one putting the spell on her, the one who can look and impose whatever i want upon her. i also like imagining that i'm her, that my entire being has been sucked away and that i am free from making choices or being affected by anyone or anything. there is something irresistible about a body that moves at the command of a mind that has been overtaken, but nobody wants that, <i>i</i> don't want that. i want my body to do what my mind tells me to, and i want my thoughts and my thoughts only to be the ones that make me do the things i do and say the things i say, stupid and floundering as they sometimes may be. i guess that's life: you want somebody to tell you what to do, but when they tell you, you say, "no! leave me alone! you can't tell me what to do and it's better this way!" and then you fuck up and learn from it wish you were in a trance but not really.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">let's just agree on this: it would be nice to be in a trance for an instant, like the one that i will always imagine shirley berman having been in on that day in venice in 1956.</div></div>RANDALLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08267297870258421368noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4798874049424632727.post-6384619443549835962012-01-18T19:47:00.002-07:002012-01-18T22:24:36.842-07:00old-school polish cobbler/clickity-clack<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">SETTING: monday afternoon in greenpoint, yelena shoe repair.<br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;">RANDALL enters YELENA SHOE REPAIR, a space no bigger than a manhattanite's walk-in closet. the whole place smells like rubber and there are pieces of rubber that will become soles littered on the counter. THE COBBLER stands at the counter doing something to one of said pieces of rubber.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">RANDALL: hello, i am interested in getting my shoes repaired?</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">THE COBBLER: yes?</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">RANDALL proceeds to remove the shoes in question, a pair of vintage roper boots, from a re-used trader joe's bag. she flips them over to reveal the soles that are cracked on BOTH of the boots. fucking ebay. why does anybody trust ebay ever?</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">RANDALL: i need to have new soles put on. do you think you can fix them?</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">THE COBBLER picks up one of the boots and inspects the sole.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">THE COBBLER: these very old. sole made of plastic. the heel? also made of plastic. you need rubber sole and heel. i replace sole and heel and put rubber on. okay?</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">RANDALL: ...okay...</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">THE COBBLER: friday will be ready. you come in on friday? it will be thirty.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">RANDALL: thirty dollars?</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">THE COBBLER: yes.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">RANDALL: that's fine... but can i ask you a question?</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">THE COBBLER: yes?</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">RANDALL picks up one of the boots and taps the heel and the sole against the counter.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">RANDALL: i really like the clickity-clack noise they make. if you put rubber on the soles and the heels will they still make that noise?</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">THE COBBLER shakes his head and looks exasperated.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">THE COBBLER: no clickity-clack! you want me no fix?</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">RANDALL: oh, no no no! yes, please fix them!</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">THE COBBLER: you be in on friday?</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">RANDALL: yes, i will. thank you.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">THE COBBLER writes RANDALL a receipt and they part. END SCENE.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;">IN CONCLUSION: i am sad that i'm losing the clickity-clack. i like when people can hear when i'm coming. i hope my stomping and marching tendencies are not hampered by these new soles. to be continued. i have heard good things about this guy.</div></div>RANDALLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08267297870258421368noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4798874049424632727.post-36135241156353244192012-01-15T23:52:00.002-07:002012-07-15T19:23:00.251-06:00me around the house<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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i think this is best done in list format. i love lists. i haven't written a list in a long time. let the list begin!</div>
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1) i woke up to my alarm clock (i.e. my cell phone), which i had set to 10:30 a.m. so as to avoid the debacle of last sunday, on which i slept until 5 in the evening due to a combination of sleep deprivation, depression (i'm S.A.D.), and an epic and embarrassingly obvious symbolic dream from which i could not wake. i rose at 11, and suddenly i was filled with the urge to listen to that song "time warp" from <i>rocky horror picture show</i>. so...</div>
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2) ...i went into the kitchen, put that shit on LOUD, and proceeded to make my epic sunday breakfast (eggs-in-the-hole, fool!). some songs are really good in the morning. "time warp" is one of them. you know, <i>rocky horror</i> is one of those movies you watch when you're thirteen, and when you're thirteen you think it's awesome but then time goes on and you're like, "this shit sucks and is totally stupid and monster mash." but then you get a little older and then you don't really care anymore. that movie and the soundtrack are really fun. i would never go to a midnight showing. all i'm saying is that you should give it another chance and accept it for the goofy semi-stupid yet amazing movie that it is. tim curry, people. you know you want to do him, no matter which way you swing.</div>
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3) i looked at the internet and drank way too much coffee and got into the shower. i blasted echo and the bunnymen in the shower. then i went into the living room and watched porn for a while. THEN as i was reheating some potluck leftovers, i heard a door open in our apartment. i froze. who the FUCK was there? "hello...?" i called. <i>that's it</i>, i thought, <i>my worst fears are coming true. somebody is burglarizing my apartment and i am about to be violated. </i>BUT! just as i was about to drop my reheated sloppy joe and run like a bastard into the streets wearing nothing but my mom's old silk kimono (in twenty-one degree weather!), who walks into the kitchen but ANDREA! "you scared the shit out of me!" i said. i started laughing and then i started crying and i couldn't stop shaking. as it turns out, AJ had taken a personal day and i had no idea she was home. "i was watching porn and listening to loud music!" i cried. she didn't care. i live with an awesome person. she is much more preferable to a burglar.</div>
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4) i continued my herzog/kinski marathon and watched <i>my best fiend</i>. kinski is fascinating, seductive, an utter maniac, a complete lunatic. herzog is, i feel, a bit of a lunatic himself, but he is a sneaky lunatic, a very composed maniac. sometimes i question the claims that they, at various points in their working relationship, <i>truly</i> wanted to murder each other, but then i think of the gigantic, almost uncontainable nature of <i>fitzcarraldo</i> and <i>aguirre: the wrath of god</i>, and how they almost seem like products of strangulation. their relationship is tragic in its turbulence. it is simultaneously frightening and enviable. kinski died in 1991. i'm sad he isn't alive anymore. he and herzog made five films together. i suppose i am sad whenever any epic saga ends. lump-in-the-throat and all that shit. </div>
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4) after watching <i>my best fiend</i>, i felt the urge to utilize the B-level vodka somebody had left in our fridge after the potluck. i put on like, A THOUSAND layers and went to family dollar. god bless family dollar. it is a fucking oasis in this wasteland that is the ass-end of bushwick. however, family dollar was out of orange juice. there was orangeADE and TAMPICO and SUNNY D, but i was not about to fuck with that shit. so i went to the bodega on knickerbocker and THEY were out of huge jugs of OJ too! so i had to buy a bunch of small bottles of OJ to satisfy our need for screwdrivers in the evening. i also bought more coffee. WOW!</div>
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5) i arrived home and fixed myself a drink and had some smokes and worked on my writing. andrea came out of her room and we scrolled through the best and worst dressed ladies on the golden globes red carpet. we didn't know who half of them were. a few years ago i would have known every single one of them. today it felt good to not know and just be like, "ew, what the hell is she wearing." i am going to hell! oh well. i pressed on with my second draft and now i am here, writing on this thing and exhausted. these days are so long and sad. i love winter, but it is a masochistic kind of love. i wish that i was not so fascinated by misery, by things becoming darker earlier and lighter later. it is safe here in the house. it is safe if you hide underneath thermals and sweaters and leggings and socks and blankets and comforters. i suppose i'll have to leave the house tomorrow if i am to complete the many things on my to-do list, but it feels good to have sequestered myself inside for the day. in winter, you must hide yourself away as much as possible. you must do as bears do and hibernate as best you can until things are not so cold.</div>
</div>RANDALLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08267297870258421368noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4798874049424632727.post-29639274640907535592012-01-14T22:01:00.000-07:002012-01-14T22:01:53.685-07:00the bus rules (except when it sucks)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL8c-_KJHaaJ8XTHt3x7SwT2UuVFFUwDvbAZaIPC82HS-A8USyFj6pjtJnKO9jVtzM1Vmmtod86w6XEakq4Rkcq4TogzYp6kfhC1fXezYfND5TOKtA_QtAIp3IPkv05EIukrcjTefdNtwS/s1600/NYC_Transit_Authority_FACCo_GM_TDH-5106_Old_Look_3100.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL8c-_KJHaaJ8XTHt3x7SwT2UuVFFUwDvbAZaIPC82HS-A8USyFj6pjtJnKO9jVtzM1Vmmtod86w6XEakq4Rkcq4TogzYp6kfhC1fXezYfND5TOKtA_QtAIp3IPkv05EIukrcjTefdNtwS/s320/NYC_Transit_Authority_FACCo_GM_TDH-5106_Old_Look_3100.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">i am all about taking the bus right now. the subway hogs all the attention and nobody pays any mind to buses. when somebody who isn't from new york asks you what subway they should use to get to wherever they're trying to go, you know exactly what to tell them: which line to take, where to transfer, and an alternative option. boom, boom, boom. people aren't intimidated of the subway like they are with the bus. i recently discovered that the bus that stops right down the block from me goes directly to the east new york post office, which has saved me the trouble of having to haul my ass AND my undelivered packages down atlantic avenue and back to broadway junction. i tell andrea to take the bus when she needs to go to the post office, but she says she doesn't want to because it's hard to tell where you are and the bus announcements aren't always clear. all of these things are true. the bus can, indeed, suck. i must admit that i am still a bit of an amateur bus rider. just the other day i freaked out and got off at the wrong stop because i thought i was lost. i think the key to the bus is to just not panic and let it take you for a ride. of course, you have to have an <i>idea</i> of where you're going, but i've noticed that all of my shitty bus-riding experiences have always been made that way by anxiety about where i'll end up. if you get lost, you can just go across the street and ask whoever is waiting around for the next bus to point you in the right direction. it's embarrassing to be lost, but i also feel that people who ride the bus are nicer than people on the subway. it takes a great deal of patience to ride the bus, i think.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">if you make a habit of pausing at various bus stops to check out the route, you can make your life a whole lot easier and more fun. i like the feeling of being whisked away by a bus. it stops with a sigh and the doors open and you can get a seat by a window, and there is nothing more bomb than looking out a window and totally spacing out while listening to music. i never get on buses when i'm in a hurry. i like the way they move through traffic. there is something very lumbering and majestic about them. when you discover these magic little deer paths that buses make around the city, it feels like inheriting a secret recipe or joining a sacred order. to dole out subway directions feels like barking orders; to suggest a bus route feels like passing on a precious trinket of information. i like the feeling of accumulating these little trinkets. now i know that i can take the B20 to my post office, the B54 to clinton hill, and the M14 to library bar directly from work. perhaps taking the bus isn't any easier than taking the subway, but at least you can look out the window. it's a nice change from looking at the floor or a stupid advertisement or at fellow subway riders and thinking, <i>god, what is that girl WEARING? those are the worst boots i've ever seen. dear god, i need to shut up. i need to think positively. find one thing about her that looks good. fine: her bag is okay. </i>dear god! exhausting! we need more windows and slow-moving vehicles in our lives.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">so, yes, i do enjoy the bus quite a bit, but i'll tell you something i sure DON'T enjoy about it, and that is hearing it chug past my building on weekends when the L is fucked up and there is double the bus traffic (via the shuttle). go away, evil shuttle bus! you made me fifteen minutes late for work today! </div></div>RANDALLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08267297870258421368noreply@blogger.com0