sure do, two .22's in my shoes

Laws do not apply to me. I'm like the prodigal freakin son of goddamn mayor bloombergo. I guess some back story is necessary.

Yesterday I went to court. I was 'summoned' there, as it were. And so I went to fight an erroneous persecution by the powers that be jerks. I guess some back story is necessary.

So right, this one time I was mad illin with Reba on the roof of her building. We were having a marvelous time checkin out the view, when all of a sudden the fuzz came bursting out the roof door with flashlights and tickets drawn.



Unbeknownst to us, or the group of pot-smokin hipstersauruses who were also up there, the roof had just become private property--even to the people who live in the building.

So the poh issued a trespassing ticket to Reba. And then they give me an 'open-container violation,' saying something like I was "drinking this really big can of delicious danish beer, you know the one with the viking on it" or something. Jerks. I think the hipsters hid their pot smokings, so only I got the open container violaysh. I didn't say anything though cause of no snitches.



SOOOO, back to yesterday, I stomped into court repeating to myself: "we're gonna beat this thing. We are gonna beat this thing!"

I waited in a long line with other offenders who were there with similar feelings ("I told that cop I wasn't smokin nothin in that hallway, and I said 'taste it, taste my cup, it ain't no liquor! There wasn't no liquor in that cup!' Not guilty!")

Got to the window and punk behind the counter said: "Your case was dismissed sir. Go home, have a nice day."



Boomshakalaka-shakalaka-shakaboom, I do what I want. I'm gonna go start a methlab in the Statue of Liberty's foot.

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we be clubbed

So Pete really wants to go to this old sailor bar called the "Navy Yard Cocktail Lounge." He passes it everyday on his way to work, but has never found the courage or self-destructive impulse to enter it's creepy front door. See this picture of it's lovely facade? There's just gotta be some ghoulies in there playin a spooky game of ghost darts or something.


Make me an appletini sir! Chop chop!!

'I ain't afraid no spooks,' you say? Well, spooks ain't our biggest concern, you big jerk. It's getting shot or stabbed or fish-hooked by a crusty old sailor with one leg and a bad attitude that's been intoxicatedly stewing since his Navy left the area without him in aught-six.

Anyway, if anyone's interested in going, do tell. And if this outing should prove to be my last, I hereby bequeath this blog to Reginald Veljohnson.

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fishin usa

Once upon a few weeks ago, Pete and I rustled up the fellers for to reassert our Ameri-manliness. And redundantly, to drink beer outside. But how might we truly git r dun in a place like Brooklyn, a frenchy metrosexual's eden? Friggin fishin, der.

So we rented some boats and other fishin fixins, and we were off to encounter god knew what.


Crusty Eric at the prow, living le dream.

We also wanted to bring home the fish bacon, so we made an earnest effort to catcha the fish. We knew this was sure to lead to manly adventuring, and then it did, as predicted. We braved the waves, the soggy sangwiches, and the green squid bits they give you for fish-coaxin. We were awesome.

But then we started catching all this creepy crap like skates and flounderish things, and our wills were tested further.

As the day's end was growing nigh, it began to sprinkle, and there suddenly came from the briny deep a tug upon my rented line. Then ensued a battle betwixt man and fishbeast for what seemed like minutes, and was, until finally I pulled this sucker out the ocean:


Uh, sea robin? Eww.

That thing was so spooky and scratchy-looking. At any goddamn rate, we were all a little queasy, and I was pretty drunk, and it was starting to actually rain, so we went home.

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girls just want to have fun, it's all they really want.

Well Dr. Martin, yesterday I discovered that the color of one's skin can, in fact, be substance enough for a fair judgement of their person, and especially so of their character's content.

It all started and ended when I went to the Hamptonians with my pal Dan, and his younger brother Michael, who is also my pal. As you may know: for many, a trip to the Hampsters is a symbol of status, which they should flaunt in conversation before and after the journey. For me, it is an opportunity to drink beer outside. This fact is key to the story.


Dan munching on seashells like a damned chikmuk.

Well, we made it to the beach all happy and gay, took a swim, ate some sangwiches; the usual beach routine. Of course, what should happen next involves me drinking beer and falling asleep on the beach. Oh, and when you drink beer, you are invincible to the sun's ruthless rays, so no sunscreen required! Or so my drunken self thought!



Anyways, my legs were lobster-red by the end of the day, and this made my bus and subway rides home simultaneously painful and embarrassing-- the latter because it is obvious to the lay passerby that I am an idiot. People pointed at my lobster legs. People whispered about my lobster legs. So I shuffled my lobster legs off the subway and took a cab.


Lobstorious.

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table for four?

Put this in your pipe and smoke it:


cornish game hens + 80z. 'pony' beers

Need I say more? No, no I need not.

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no msg!

Check the goddamn rhyme: on the block directly behind the apt. there stands an estabishment which rivals any and all restauranteuring in its grossnesses and cheapnesses. It is The City Super Buffet. It is a "Chinese Food" restaurant that flaunts any possible restrictions of that title.

Hell yes they have pizza.
Hell yes they have jello.
Hell yes they have me eating there for every single day of the rest of my life.

Below is my cellphone camera photo-essay of City Super Buffet:


Vats upon vats of deliciouses? Check.



Do tell sire, where might I find such delicacies of wonder? City Super Buffet, you say? Oh joy!



Oh right, and their beer is priced like it's the goddamn 1950's.

Try 'n stop me when I'm on my way to City Super.

Try. 'N. Stop. Me.

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tko

Slipslap! You ever been in a fight? With me? No, you haven't. But do you want to? The other night a guy wanted to.

I was out on the street at the eatery whereat I work, fetching cabs for jerks, yea? So I snag a cab and tell the driver to go down the driveway to where the jerks are at, and all of a sudden I hear "Yoooo what the fuck!? That was our cab!!"

So I yells "Sorry, I'm just doing my job!"





Not end of story. I turns around and coming at me is this burly nerd-type feller with one heck of a grizzly beard. Uhoh.

Quoth the nerdling, all hopped-up on some righteousness, or the stuff that maketh man: "Oh yea? Does doing your job involve starting fights?!"

Trop clever, I thought, I sense some hostility. So I was all: "Uhh, I wasn't trying to start a fight with you, you nerd--nice corduroy blazer and--inernet-based cartoon-emblazoned--t-shirt ensemble." (italics, my inner jerkalogue)

Then, his 'probably impressed by such manliness' girlfriend comes roaring out of the background, screaming at me in spanglish, all sassy-like. At that point, I was nearing the end of a 14-hour shift, so I indulged this strangely-paired couple, instead of just, you know, squashing it.



"Honestly? Do you really think I want to be out here on the street hailing cabs for people? Really. Do you think that I am personally getting anything out of taking your cab?" (All sadish-angry-like.)

Then, of course, another cab pulled up, so I gave 'em the old 'right this way, your majesty' bow and hand-over-hand swirl. I walked away. In my ears were half-hearted nerd apologies, and the sound of large tears hitting the lapel of my tablecloth-materialed blazer.

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we bought dinner at the liquor store

What say you we fix up some beer-braised brisket, but instead of using that frenchy monk Chimay crap, we git 'r Ameri-dun and slosh it with some Schlitz? Can I get a 'booya'?

And then let's slip into something a little more comfortable as the beast roasts... I know! How about a delectably intoxicating punch recipe created by Alexis Soyer during the Crimean War (c.1854-1856.) According to Florence Nightingale, Soydawg served up eats "of the most nutritious manner for great numbers of men," on the front lines of battle, and they freakin loved him for it.

Anddd apparently they liked to get silly-drunk as well, so he whipped up this ridiculous concoction for the fellers. I'd say after about 10 quarts of this crap (which includes 2 bottles of champy, a pint of henny, and a mess of rum) I'd be ready to take a whole mess of russkies myself--imperial, commie-bastard-- it's all the same with this juice what's now fit for an unfortunate ending to a frat party.

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trailer trash

Well, what better way to celebrate the release of a trailerpark-based canadian movie, than with a so-themed meal?

Let us pray.

Dear Lord, we thank you for the gifts of completely non-nutritious food-type products which you have bestowed upon our barren table. Tater tots so divinely crispylicious, stacked beside mounds of perfectly deep-fried chicken fingers.

Oh lordly Lord. And that pepperoni, spiced to perfection and placed with cheese and pickled jalapenos upon silver dollar-sized hamburglers ("sliders", dear Lord of bounty, as your infinite wisdom would confirm,) your omnipotence in this realm, among others, hits the biblical spot.

What could possibly punctuate such heavenish gastronomy, but a cool can of Old Milwaukee's finest pilsner brew. Thank you dear Lord, and though this feast may or may not cause me to die much sooner than you had intended, I can now surely do so as a happy man.

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everything's better with chocolate, batter, duck fat, nougat, etc.

Recently I pondered with a friend the milestones of aging. Our lives run in cycles, we unclichély decided. Our innocent and beautiful first bikes or kisses, are replaced by the blindingly pathetic first purchase of all black or white generic sneakers, which we then refer to as tennis shoes, and wear on the commute because they are more comfy.

So in futile efforts to retain our youth we engage in self-deceiving throwings of caution to the winds of time.
No need to wait for midlife to meet these crises; just grab a variety of candy bars from the corner store, mix up a floury batter while polishing off that six-pack of happiness, dip the bars, and start deep-fat frying those suckers in the bubbling duck fat that you just used to cook sixteen pounds of french-fried potatoes.

Yes, it may look like a regurgitated beefaroni, but it tastes something like heaven. I recommend a melty plop of snickers with some medium-rare skor bar and charred potato bits on top.

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for your consideration

the new section:
"Pathetic, or Slightly Less Than Pathetic? You Decide! But Really, I Decide."

This Week

Pathetic:
Aqua-Aerobics

Myopia

Newspaper cartoons that are based on TV cartoons

Snickerdoodles
A case of the dropsies

Slightly Less Than Pathetic:

Camping trips when you bring beer

Skunks

Reginald VelJohnson

Anger

Christmas

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beast river!

Yesterday I was at the job that I wish wasn't mine, and if you think I was bored, then you would be right. Well, I brought my newfangled digi-cam (what that I done got from sinter cloose,) so that I might have some photos for my upcoming Times article entitled "Extra! Extra! Why Asians Love to Have Their Wedding Photographs Taken at a Dirty Pier in Brooklyn: An Exposé, Report."


On any given day, Asians (Above, Above-right) can be observed taking weird wedding photographs. [James Irving/The New York Times]

So I'm clickin and clackin, oblivious to the call of my car parkage duties, when what should the karmatic sea gods bestow upon my supple face but a poorly-mixed cocktail of diluted sewage, industrial chemicals, and death. It came at me in a tremendous spray like that from a dying whale's blowhole--the East River, with its infinite power, had displayed for me its infinite grossness.


Actual photograph of actual spray that actually hit me in the face region of my body. [James Irving/Idiots]

Then, of course, I had to park a car, and then some line cook or something was in the crapper for-freakin-ever, so I had to walk around with eau de NYC's toilette all over my face for like 20 minutes.

To relieve the suspense, I finally washed my face and gave it a little spray with the bathroom's lemon-scented Lysol, for good measure. Then I got back to what I really wanted to do, which was take pictures of kitty.

Me-OW! Kitty looking frisky on the driveway.[James Irving/Cat Fancy]

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remember that time when i hate people?

Someone stole my newspaper.

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ode to neil nice

Once upon a time, there lived across the hall from us a man named Neil. To his friends and DJ-promoters, he was Neil Nice.

Last month he left, and with him went an unpredictable dose of hilarity that our Hopkins Street apartment didn't know that it had until it was gone.

Sure, his six-foot tall stack of DJ magazines is still in the hall, and of course we'll have the memories, which include his biweekly pass-out in bed with his door open to the building's hallway, so all of the upstairs families that walked by had to see his naked backside until his 2pm wake-up; and his arguments concerning the band UB40 being dope beyond the popularity their hit single Red, Red Wine, (during which he would use Red, Red Wine as the example of this dopeness.)

And even after the magazines are drunkenly pushed down the stairs by me (hopefully this weekend,) and we can't quite remember who it was that stumbled into our room at 6AM, wearing only boxer-briefs and a fitted baseball hat, and asking if we've seen his Blackberry; we'll always have this video of him in a typical outfit, trying to kill a bee with a mop:

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joue de jour

When I am bored I play games with myself in my strange, strange mind.

For example, my sister Walker and I were once on a city bus, and a portly gentleman sitting near us was eating a large bag of Funyun-esk chips that are sold on the street in my neighborhood. So I says to me, "Self, I bet you one Chocotaco-brand ice cream treat that this man will finish his bag of ghetto funyuns before we leave this bus." I won't tell you what happened, but let's just say I won the bet.


Anyhows, this is just a preface to my yesterday at work, which was so boring that I was forced to create such gaming to pass the tiempo.


Game #1:

See how long you can go without speaking with, or being spoken to by your co-valet with whom you share a very small vestibule and driveway space. Not to be antisocial or a jerk (and not that I'm not,) but simply for the truly challenging challenge. This involved a lot of walking away from him, and pretending to answer my cellphone when it looked like he was fixin to gab.

And the winner waaas: me, I'd say. The challenge went to the one hour and 45 minute mark, at which point my coworker made some remark about the day being slow, and my expression could not have been more heartbrokenish.



Game #2:

So you pull up a car for some jerk and he gives you four shiny quarters as a tip, and then asks you for directions to Long Island. You give him directions, though not of the most accurate variety. Then! You shuffle over to the group of 15 Scottish touristas milling about the driveway, and drop the quarters in a surreptitiously cacophonous manner. And then you sit back and see what happens.

The results: One lady said something like "Lad, you've dropped your..." which trailed-off as another gentleman in the group quickly knelt down and swooped the quarters into his Scotty pockets, before speeding away to apparently get another look at the other side of the parking lot.



I guess the true result of this nonsense was a less-boring day, which included a variety of other games like "Death Stare Until they Notice!" and "Packed Driveway: See how many cars you can park in the time it takes your slow-ass coworker to park one! (Results: four)."


And this all reminds me of mom's old cheerer-upper that she most likely copped from her mom, "Only boring people get bored, but I ordered a 15-piece brass band that will be here in an hour to entertain you." The moral of the story being that you just have to entertain yourself sometimes, even/especially if you're an idiot.

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bitchin!

Thanksgiving gave me a special break to be reminded of all the things I am blessed with. To list a few things I am lucky to have:

I have $20.

I have to work on Christmas.

I have a bale of debt.

I have to work on New Years, my birthday.

I have two hotdogs.

I have to quit my job.

Honestly, I know I sound pathetic and complainy. I suppose I have little to worry about, and at this age the brokeback bank account is still cute in the eyes of the world. In a few days I won't be so pohh, but for now it's cat food and tap water pour moi.

Alsoly, the job isn't half-shab, but my main hang-up is obviously it's holiday demands. I have the next two days until a two week notice would land me on the street on Christmas, so it's the time for decisions. Now accepting suggestions/other jobs.

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new low faux paux

I got markedly intoxicated over the three day Thanksgiving holiday period. Not for the entire time, but at certain points--and again, markedly. Also embarrassingly.



Though there were other moments of glory, to lazily sum this up in one anecdote: after about ten minutes of talking with a family friend and former babysitter, who I haven't seen since I was ten, I remarked that I recognize her so well, "because of all of the moles on [her] face." She sort of smiled and nodded. I got another drink.



The beauty of this comment was later increased when my sister informed me that the woman has had her major moles removed for cosmetic reasons.



Oh, if only I could liquefy and bottle these completely unnecessary, drunken comments to so-and-so's about their self-conscious such-and-suches; I would save them for a cold winter's night and then bathe in their sweet, self-respect deleting deliciousness.

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jingle jangle jingle

Today I had a sweet, sweet memory cross my mind. It was from a time in the not-so-distant past, though I am a world away from there right now. I'm not sure what made me think of it, but the memory was of me, at my last job, a paralegal at a law firm.

It lasted for about a week and a half. The crazy old clients, who called me incessantly about filling out one simple legal form or another, kept saying that my phone was broken. They would call and call and also call, but would barely ever get through to me. Aside from the complaining--typical of the old ones--the phenomenon also came to my attention because I was receiving an incredibly relaxing dearth of calls during the day.

All around me phones rang and pariahs legaled, but I just kicked it in the cube, filling out crossword puzzles which brought the simultaneous rewards of brain stimulationo, and an exorbitant/fully wasted $19 an hour.

As tech services usually only addresses problems that they are aware of, the phone troubles went unrepaired. My coworkers soon picked up on it, suggested fixing it numerous times, and sent me emails with tone that explained that they were receiving calls from my clients.

But it had allowed me to decend to a new level of slacking, and was truly a glorious gift.

In the end, the receptionist got hip to my flimflamery due to the repeated incidents of her imploring me, via loud-speaker, to pick up calls that she was unsuccessfully attempting to forward me. But you know what? It is better to have loafed and lost, than to never have had your soul dangled in front of your eyes for a fleeting second before it's recrushed by the job that you always dreamed of never having.

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oh how i flatter myself

So last night I was at work right? Yes, right. And among the comers and goers of patronage was a strangely-matched couple of diners. The man: in his late fifties, driving cherry Jaguar, weird. The gal: in her earlier twenties, wearing Sketchers, permed.

We spotted them after they had finished their dinner. They walked out the front door to explain to me and my colleague of carparkology that they were going to go take some pictures in the garden, and would come back to get their car in a few minutes.

At this point, I turned to my homie and said "So, do you think that's his daughter or his girlfriend?" Homie responded, "Jamie, I think that's his prostitute."

This was subtly confirmed by our observation of their photo-sesh in the garden. When most people do this, they have their picture taken standing together by asking the waitstaff or yours truly to photograf. In this case, the man was taking snap shots of the girl all alone. Furthermore, most people don't take pictures of their daughter, or even girlfriend, while she holds plant branches in suggestive positions over her chest, or posed with her backside to the camera while petting the restaurant's cat.

As weird as that was to witness, upon their return the chips of weirdness were really splashed on the pot. The suspected woman of the night came up to me first and said, while staring intently, "So, are you, like, American?"
"Yes, yes I am."
"Huh, that's so uncommon to find here."
"Uh, in America? I guess so."

Then I proceeded to try to get their keys out the key cabinet, asking her politely if she could move so I could do so. She did this weird sort of shifting weight and twisting her hair thing, and barely moved, so I was forced to awkwardly reach around her. Creepy. And lonstorshor, she proceed to try to talk to me before and after I retrieved the Jag, bringing the creep levels to new highs.

Feeling a need to vent about this bizarre incident, I text-messaged Pete: "Just got hit-on by a prostitute, what up wit you?" To which I received no response, until I awoke this morning and read a note he left for me that ended like this:

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holy ham grail

So get this, last night I get home from valeting [not sic] and what do I find in the fridge but a veritable stockpile of Taylor Ham. Pork roll that is...pink gold...jersey jambon...mmmmm.

Yes, it was purchased by Pete. And yes, the great quantity was due to Pete's valid fear that the Food Bazaar (our supermarket) might sell out of it, and fail to restock, as the Bazaar is a never-satisfying mistress.

Pete's excitement upon spotting the pork roll in the market's meat troughs was also pretty legit, as this rare delicacy is typically only found in New Jersey and the dingier regions of Pennsylvania.

At any rate, Pork roll, for the lay eater, is a delectable amalgamation of select portions of the lesser-edible scraps found on the floor of a pig butchery. It's a little like a bologna-sized hotdog, but less nutritious. Yea, and if you think about it, Taylor is a pretty progressive company, so they probably aren't all close-minded about which animals make it into the roll, or what the squares call "meat quality standards."

Though some would be put-off by such a description; on Pete's guarantee, one taste will have you hooked and buying such stockpiles for ages to come. Yum.

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