Best/Worst

To continue the rundown of 2007's greatest hits and misses, I give you the top shows, as judged by Bohemigrant's theater and entertainment editors:

1. La Vie (Spiegeltent)
2. Fuerzabruta
3. The Seafarer
4. The Farnsworth Invention

Worst attraction: Bodies (read an anatomy textbook instead)

Happy New Year Weekend Everyone!

Now watch this baby say "truck."

Man Bites Dog

The story of 2007!

http://news.yahoo.com/s/nm/20071228/tc_nm/dating_dc

Wonderful Tragedy

Something struck Bohemigrant the other day: like it or not, the Holocaust is chiefly responsible for keeping mainstream Judaism alive into the 21st century. Ironically, if not for Hitler's pesky little plans to wipe the Jewish people off the face of the Earth, the partially successful mission resulted in the kind of Jewish resurgence the world had never known. Without the WWII genocide, the German reform movement that engulfed much of European Jewry in the 19th and early 20th centuries would surely be whittling away synagogue attendance through social assimilation and liberal political mobility. The Orthodox (as they surely still will) would become the stewards of the Jewish tradition.

Instead, the impossible to ignore (thanks to mass media and the Jews' growing political power) massacre effected the most unintended and unprecedented of consequences: A Jewish state drawn up overnight and mandated by world powers. A Jewry wielding the (temporary) power of guilt that, along with their rapidly expanding geopolitical and economic capital, gave it strong sway over the foreign policy of the world's greatest superpower. The Jews effectively came under the protection of the toughest kid on the street (or the world's greatest bully, according to some). Without the Holocaust, God's chosen might still be, in a relative sense, "sucking their paws" as the Russians say.

Why is this important? Secular and reform Ashkenazi Jews, the ones threatening assimilation over half or more of the race, are the ones with the talent, success, the cachet. The Orthodox, more often than not, are the poor students, the nuisances, the radical extremists. How long would a group of bearded yokels dressed, as a friend of the blog might say, like 17th-century Lithuanian nobility, be able to effectively lobby a government for protection from the vicissitudes of Jewish existence? What pride would they inspire beyond the undistinguished pride of faith? Would there be a Jewish state? A Jewish army? The keepers of the Torah, like the Hassidic anti-Zionists smooching Iran's president, are more concerned with breeding and eschewing pork than they are with preserving the dignity and legacy of an ancient people.

Rootless, survival becomes a goal, not a source of pride. Today, we build museums to commemorate our resilience. We honor fallen heroes and celebrate our victories. Thousands of years into human existence, we are still God's chosen people. And we have the Holocaust to thank for it.

Russian New Year's Special

Russia, You've Arrived

music fobbery

this has been an exhausting semester and year for me, so i can't really say anything conclusive or comprehensive about the year in music. anyway, here are some of the albums i enjoyed the most this yr (no particular order):

okkervil river: the stage names (best track: unless it's kicks)
radiohead: in rainbows (best track: videotape)
the national: boxer (best track: fake empire)
arcade fire: neon bible (best track: intervention)
lcd soundsystem: sound of silver (best track: new york i love you)
the ponys: turn the lights out (best track: double vision)
beirut: the flying cup club (best track: nantes)
sunset rubdown: random spirit lover (best track: for the pier (and dead shimmering))
spoon: ga ga ga ga ga (best track: the underdog)

and here are some trax i really enjoyed (not off of any of the aforementioned albums):

voxtrot: blood red blood
aesop rock: none shall pass
pharoahe monch: desire
electrelane: to the east
los campesinos!: you! me! dancing!
frog eyes: bushels
cajun dance party: the next untouchable
menomena: muscle 'n flo
les savy fav: the year before the year 2000
misha: summersend
fiery furnaces: my egyptian grammar
white rabbits: the plot

Vox Populis

Social commentators often unfit to comment socially often overstate the case against modern crowds. Are we duller, dumber, less demanding than previous generations? Or are we sharper, savvier, more critical? Watching the end of No Country for Old Men the other night, one could hear the groan from the full house enjoying I Am Legend across the megaplex.

Harp as I might on the banalities of herd mentality and the LCD. I'd rather focus on the tragedy of low expectations. Now, we all know what a reliable majority of the small audience (who earned points by even coming to a showing of the Coen brothers flick at the blockbuster-driven UA theater) wanted at the end, despite all logic and faith to adapted text: the cleanest, tidiest ending possible to make up for 2 hours of disturbing, unapologetic violence. As the genre shift from noir to western back to noir jerked the audience back and forth, they became that desperate gambler trying to break the ball in a spinning roulette wheel away from the force of inevitability to land on a single number.

After all, they invested a long time in coming to this rarefied movie--not the crime caper or quirky comedy the Coens have been known to make in the past--certainly not the zombie flick or CGI fantasy their friends had opted for. They even sat through the slow pacing, the drag of the dialog, all the way through the unsatisfying conclusion, all the while getting their wads ready to blow at the payoff point. But it never came...at least not in the way they expected.

With the modern gimmickry of the last decade and a half, audiences have gotten used to slick editing, narrative shifts, and all manner of twists. How is it that these audiences still expect the most prosaic coup de grace in a movie whose mood and trajectory, enigmatic as it might be, has been firmly established in the first act? Vin Diesel and The Rock are expected to come through and annihilate their enemies. We usually know that Mel Gibson will stick a flagpole through a Redcoat's windpipe at the end of a revolutionary revenge epic. Yet how can we expect the same in a movie whose stakes, if not higher, at the very least like on a different emotional plane. Never mind that--give us payoff or give us death!

All my dreams revolve around eating

I don't get it, I usually don't have very lucid dreams. For a long time, I barely had dreams where anything happened at all. But lately in all of my dreams, I'm always about to eat a huge meal, craving a huge meal, or somewhere with a lot of potential to have a huge meal. As an SF vagrant (and old running joke) might say, "what does it all meeeeann?" Do I want to become a super fatass? Am I unfulfilled? Do I not eat enough? WHAT IS MY SUBCONSCIOUS TRYING TO TELL ME? I'M SO CONFUSED I MIGHT WATCH ELF AND THEN OLD SCHOOL.

Eastern Medicine

Wouldn't you have to be mad to run against One Russia?

not you too Ron Villone!

As a Yankee fan I'm obligated to comment on the Mitchell Report.
(Or the REDSOX version of what happened in the last two decades REPORT)

20 million dollars for 20 former Yankees. Though only ONE true Yankee was on the List (and I'm not talking about Ron Villone).
As many of you know George Mitchell is a Share holder in the Redsox. What you don't know is he sleeps in Redsox pj's too, often massaging the back of John Henry. Why is it that the only people he could get to talk were a former Yankees trainer and former Met's clubhouse boy.
What about David Ortiz's comments last year. "I used to buy a protein shake in my country. I don't do that anymore because they don't have the approval for that here, so I know that, so I'm off buying things at the GNC back in the Dominican (Republic). But it can happen anytime, it can happen. I don't know. I don't know if I drank something in my youth, not knowing it." LIKELY! take a look at his pictures from when he was with the twins. Was that Eddie Griffin or ORTIZ?
I think the pressure got to Mitchell and he knew he had to put some names in there to spice it up. The report had no substance, there was weak evidence and he tried to mask that with Clemens and 80 something other names. As much as I enjoy seeing the Rich shamed, I'd rather it be fair.

A Work of Fiction

We met at Park Bar after a brief exchange on Match. She was quirky and cute, just my everyday type, the perfect quick date. The dark bar struck the the right balance of pretension and conviviality. In a New York minute, I grabbed two seats vacated by financial types (hard to isolate—the bar’s full of them). Checking my phone for texts, I scanned the room, making sure I knew where the hot girls to keep my eyes from straying.

Inadvertently eavesdropping on an Aussie’s Myth of Origin and other ex-pats’ bland tales of world travel, I awaited my date. She arrived shortly after I did, looking cute as a button in the I-just-got-out-of-college-and-have-the-acne-to-prove-it way. We slipped fairly comfortably into a fairly predictable line of questioning. Another Jew from the South. Always fascinating.

It was a half-hour into our chat when something was afoul. Now, I’d been eating free food pretty much from the time I’d entered the office shortly after 9, when I polished off several pastries, till sometime around 6:30, when I was sinking my gluttonous teeth into a bag of Chinese fish snacks. In between were several sandwiches, wraps, salad, and fruit. And some more pastries.

Back at Park Bar, there was no doubt—something foul was in the air, and it wasn’t the usual: snobbery or liquored-up fratboys. With swift sangfroid and aplomb, I calmly continued the conversation. Until a Senegalese immigrant ordering a drink over our heads shouted, “Who sprung dat leak, man?” Only two suspects. Deciding not to cop to the charge, I hung my head—in my mind, anyway. On the outside, I was cool as a flatulent cucumber.

Truly, what could I do? The popular middle-school option of blaming an anonymous loser was closed to me—lest I wanted to open the possibility that my date was the culprit. Apologize? It’d be more acceptable to confess to a murder at that point. I had no recourse—so I kept sipping my glass of California Pinot and playing twenty questions with my companion.

Then, just as I thought her confidence had been restored, I smelled it again! Are you fucking kidding me? I asked my gastrointestinal tract. This time, a more sportsmanlike yuppie stood, extending money over my head in exchange for brews, keeping the mockery to a polite chuckle. But the damage was done. Fart once, shame on your oblivious ass. Fart twice, shame on you, asshole!

Looking at the clock, I decided to call it a night and save the poor girl from the burden of courteously lingering. I even walked her home to her West Village domicile. I figured we could both use the fresh air.

Stickin' It to the Man

Take that, Airport Security! Not a drop spilled, atta boy!

Back to Pinot

The 2006 Chalone was a steal on sale for $13. Lots of cherry and sweet, ripe fruit with a legitimately medium body and hints of spice. Doesn't linger on the palate, but has all the velvety, fruity character you expect of a good Pinot. 92

O'Donnell Raging Again

http://newsbusters.org/blogs/mark-finkelstein/2007/12/08/larry-odonnells-anti-mormon-rant-demented-racist-pro-slavery-crazy

Boy Who Cried Adolph

It strikes me that in the wake of all the political hand-wrangling and self-congratulation over the nuke report, the real winner is Ahmadinejad--not because he's been acquitted--but because we've lost trust no matter what we say next. No one actually know how far along they are, but does anyone doubt the regime's intent to harness nuclear energy for purposes other than lighting the Jewish minority's electric menorahs during Hanukkah?

Courage

Some of you may be following the campaign trail. Last week, Mitt Romney made an ostensibly ballsy speech defending his Mormon faith, the "faith of his fathers." What is so courageous about stating that you follow the same faith your father indoctrinated you into, the same faith your father's father indoctrinated him with? Never mind the merit and tenets of the Mormon faith. I find little courage in being born into tradition you don't question. Those who find or lose faith, based on life experience, scrutiny, and personal choice, can sometimes be considered courageous. Is Bohemigrant courageous for not renouncing his ethnic background?

Politics by the Fat Man

Does anyone else find the drastic difference in Huckabee's before and after hilarious?

Music

I know you're all really here to see whyduck's Best-of-Music list, but here's my early shortlist for 2007:

1. The National - Boxer
2. Fiery Furnaces - Widow City
3. The Arcade Fire - Neon Bible
4. Voxtrot - Blood Red Blood
5. Radiohead - In Rainbows
   

Build-a-Bear, You're on Notice!

Faux Grace

In another example of how absurd placating PETA can be, there's this pate-ntly insincere attempt to create "guilt-free" liver spread. Now that they're no longer being force-fed to harvest fois gras, the birds are sure to be lining up to donate their own livers to the noble effort. Ducks and geese could not be reached for comment.

Look Who's Talking

Anglican uberhack Rowan Williams uses his credentials as a "theologian" to rebuke U.S.A.'s exercise of sovereign rights and criticize the Western civilization that makes it possible for a clergyman to speak his mind freely. No word as to when Williams might be clipping his owlish eyebrows.

Danish Wisdom

How absurd men are! They never use the liberties they have, they demand those they do not have. They have freedom of thought, they demand freedom of speech.
-SK

Saturday

Thursday

Wednesday

Congrats, NERDS!

Author Weinreb delivers a hard-hitting expose of the chess world after following the players at Bohemigrant's alma mater, E.R. Murrow H.S., around for a year. Winner of the Quill Award and one of Amazon's most recommended reads of the year. Whaaaaa?

Finally, Something to Cheer About

What Jets fans do when they're not hauling cement to Piscataway.

Language Lessons

Young Russian protester comes out of the closet via facepaint. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Renaissance Man

John Mayer is the Leonardo Da Vinci of our generation. Not only is he a competent singer/songwriter, but an amateur comic, enthusiastic designer, avid sports fan, and occasional columnist. Still, despite some females at work comparing him to Frankenstein, the role he'll be remembered for is heartthrob. But do we really need to see him out and about every other weekend? And what's the deal with his bosom buddy sidekick Sherrod Small? Surely he's just hoping for leftover nookie?

hitman

There's a new movie called Hitman based on the video game. I'm not sure if it's been pointed out before but Hitman the video game is some nerd's wetdream re-imagining of the Besson movie Leon. Leon was not a great movie, but it was a cool movie. So cool in fact nerds would use the same motif for other assassin films.

"The "Hitman" is a genetically-engineered, elite assassin known only as Agent 47. His hallmarks are lethal grace, unwavering precision, and resolute pride in his work. But even 47 couldn't anticipate a "random equation" in his life exactitude: the unexpected stirrings of his conscience and the unfamiliar emotions aroused in him by a mysterious Russian woman. "



The protagonist is a shaven more handsome version of filthy frenchmen Jean Reno. The hot chick is an older chris hansen-less version of the mathilda character. Here is a movie that tries so hard to be cool it resembles Marky mark's The big Hit. I don't even think tits can save this movie.
please movie viewing audience i implore you to not watch this movie.

also this movie was produced by vin diesel.

Rap Major

I can't promise this is as entertaining as bitching about grad school, but you can't fault me for trying.

The Farnsworth Invention

The Farnsworth Invention, from talented West Wing creator/writer Aaron Sorkin, is a new play concerning TV's invention and ascendance in the 20th century. Simpsons voicer Hank Azaria plays Russian-Jewish immigrant David Sarnoff, who becomes head of RCA after the requisite struggle to wrap his arms around the American Dream. His chief opponent in the race to invent TV is Philo T. Farnsworth, a Mormon prodigy and grade-A egghead.

Fans of West Wing and The American President will pick up on Sorkin's fascination with television--the great promise and the grim reality. It is in these moments that the play veers into social utopia and grandiloquent monologue. Mostly, though, Sorkin pays homage to an even greater fascination--the urge for exploration and discovery. The highly effective script speeds the story along without excessive exposition or moralizing. The actors are charming and engaging, helping the writer tell his story--a simple--but highly entertaining one.

No More Heinous Crime

Israel's existence might be to the 21st century what being called a Nazi was to the 20th. From Gaza:

"Abbas, who dismissed the Hamas-led government after Gaza's takeover and governs from the West Bank, compared his rival's actions at the rally with "crimes of the Israeli occupier."

See That and Raise

Who knew formulaic right-wing fake news could be so fucking bad? This show might make the Fox News' transcription of The Daily Show look good.

On Thought, Part I

Far short of bringing new insights, getting older reinforces old prejudices. This is evident in every observation or meaningful idea I've had in the last few years of my life. My once fertile mind now populates a little leather-bound journal (ideas book to some) with regurgitations of past suppositions and undeveloped arguments. To some extent, no doubt, this is a direct result of existing outside academia for half a decade. While I could hardly claim more than incidental scholarship during my school days, it must be said that a university environment, at the very least, provides food for thought and fodder for intellectual feuds, no matter how childish. Post-collegiate life, it seems, offers 2 general paths: the path to financial success, and the path I'm on, littered with refuse of vague and receding goals.

Few people left to fend for themselves in the arena of reason and intellectual curiosity have enough motivation and drive to pursue questions beyond immediate concerns: amassing personal wealth, finding a reasonably priced urban apartment, climbing onto a more prestigious perch. Schools show us how to fly on a blackboard, fly patterns, trajectories, aerodynamics and all, then shove us off a cliff before we've had a chance to spread our wings. Reluctant slackers, among whose numbers I must count myself, are left to make gross assumptions about others and form generalized opinions of life in the vacuum of relatively carefree living. Ideas become informed by subway rides and bar crawls; creative energy misdirected at solipsistic trifles and snarky condescension; until a caricature emerges--another wasted mind?...

Old Dogs, New Tricks

Certain as I am that Bohemigrant's esteemed audience is well aware of those corner handicapped seats on the 6-train (you know, the ones that make that slamming sound when released), I offer the following not-so-original observation: people are retarded. Rarely if ever has Bohemigrant seen an actual cripple occupy said seats. Instead, they are usually taken up by a zit-faced teen, overweight laborer, or sleeping woman. Yet that's little matter to gripe. What really gets us steamed is the fact that people still haven't learned how to gently let the motherfucking seat fold up without causing so much as a stir. Instead, 90% of the seats' occupants are content to let it come crashing up with a sharp thud, scaring the bejesus out of me and other sane riders.

Manumission

All year they spit, curse, and hurl distrusting looks on one another. And then, one fine day on the second fortnight of October, they throw their inhibitions out the window. Brotherhood and sisterhood always a pair of horns or cat ears away, a mere viking helmet, Scream mask, or go-go outfit enough to free their minds and loosen tongues. There's revelry. And then, it's back in chains for most of them. Silent and supple, they slip the fetters back around their wrists. See you next year!

My Life is a JDate Profile

For roughly a month after I got back from Israel, my office served as nothing more than a Mac-based environment for receiving JDate and Match alerts as well as Facebook pokes while getting paid. Two months removed from my Jewish reawakening, my work commitment is barely more intense as I continue to "mail it in." Probably not the definition of the ambitious mensch those frauleins are ransacking the NY dating scene trying to grab. And what do I do it for? Mediocre dates, trite interrogations over drinks, jaded girls too afraid to show their emotional cards? And some of my best material wasted on this half-appreciative audience. Sure, there are a few nice chicks sandwiched here and there. And I may not be the smooth Lothario I fancy myself to be every time out. But is it too much to ask that a girl not immediately assume that I'm the spiritual brother of the last 10 J-clicks she's gotten drinks or dinner with?

Then there are the dispiriting times I assume every girl worth knowing is either taken or halfway across the world volunteering for Peace Corps or building an oil rig in Riyadh. These are the times a boozehound hits the bottle, while I drown myself in the desperate folly of indiscriminate emails and flirts...
tbc

Ranting and Okenshield's Raving

(I want to put out the standard disclaimer towards anyone out there that may read this and be concerned about my mental health: I'm fine, just disgruntled about various idiocies, mostly my own.)

You would think that a semester in which I helped out in writing my first grant and got my first journal article accepted (in addition to being published in a humor anthology coming to a B&N bargain bin near you--LOL!) would be cause for me to be "excited" about my progress as a graduate student and human being in general. Think again!

Since I am assisting in writing grants and such, a perceptive reader might infer that the only way I actually receive money to buy takeout Chinese and large coffees is through being a teaching assistant. But of course, most of you knew that already--this is the dumb shit I've been doing the last year plus, without much eventfulness, aside from the fact that I wasn't entirely terrible at it.

Unfortunately for me, in the less than two months of the current school year, teaching (or teacher-assisting) has gone from something I have to do to something I despise exponentially more than Will Ferrell, Willie Randolph, and dance parties combined. Why? Well, as luck would have it, I was assigned (by default) to a first-semester graduate course of roughly 40 students. Now I had taken the course before but as it was "under transition," I became vastly underqualified to be the TA for it. Meaning all the material is completely different (i.e., stuff that I had barely learned well) and the professor had to put everything for the course together from scratch. Which basically means, that I had to put a shitload together from scratch. So in addition to grading all the homework, holding office hours, and handling all the stupid e-mails, I have to write up all the solutions and do all the homework in half the time that students did. And since the course's textbook has no solution manual, and is generally a worthless collection of paper, I am essentially taking this dumbass course as a TA for no credit, and am subject to much embarrassment during office hours.

So now roughly 90% of my time is taken up by something which I get no credit for (besides the measly pay and the hatred of students) and which has nothing to do with getting me the hell out of grad school. And the reason why I couldn't instead be spending roughly 10 minutes a week as a TA and earning the semi-appreciation of annoying undergrads? Because some stupid rule says that people with bachelor's degrees must take the class that is killing me--even know-it-all students who bug me over every last point deduction on HWs and who come to office hours to nitpick stupid shit rather than out of confusion.

And I just can't help getting beyond salty upon realizing that people who finished as undergrads one, two, three, hell even four years after I did will be finish a PhD before I ever do. I can't even make the excuse that I worked before going back to school, all I have is wasting two years realizing how horribly inadequate my undergraduate education was and how much harder I should have worked before I became a grad student. But it's all good, really. At least I'm not making six figures somewhere or something in some awful place like NYC.

The Case Against Science

Any article relying heavily on a 1960s adaptation of Time Machine's gets my attention. Now that we know what happens we can start planning accordingly. Gee, I wonder where my future scion will land on the genetic map 100,000 years from now. I feel for them, assuming girls on JDate in the distant future still won't look for ugly, Morlock-like goblins. Fucking Eloi!

J-Date Blog

Many of you have been clamoring for Part II of the wildly popular J-Date Chronicles. While that's in the oven, let me whet your appetite with some brief periodic updates. This just in: Urban Planner supplants Teacher for most popular J-Girl profession! Sustainable development or burst!

So That's How He Did It

Well, gee, that explains it. Byrd was on HGH that night against the Yanks!

When Commie Nazis Attack

Bohemigrant wrecked his brain trying to find an overarching theme connecting these sundry protesters. Then it hit him: none of them have a shred of fashion sense!

Date Me: A 2-Part Bohemigrant Special

Help me. I’ve got a problem…. Mencken said there were 2 things that ruin a writer: women and drink. As an evolved, 21^st-century man I take issue with the former (though a dash of truth is undeniable), and readily admit the latter. Contemporary life offers many vices besides: the Internet, video games, pornography and, of course, the classics remain: gambling, sex, and drugs. To date, we can’t resist temptation’s soothing hold. Compulsions, addictions, and bad habits will survive the corrosion of the ozone and the Rapture.

A far more dangerous menace has us in its infernal paws. The wicked lure of JDate, most diabolical and unholy, forged by the elders on Mt. Zion’s summit, is now my bane… One day, stewing in a post-cannobial stupor, I clicked the payment button and became what the J-gods term a “Premium Member,” a new world opened up to me. A world of bleach-blonde, cliché-spouting Jewesses from every corner of Nassau, Suffolk, and North Jersey. A veritable harem of degree-wielding JAPs, a few marriage-minded Russian professionals thrown in for good measure.

Unbeknownst to me, romance has become a hodgepodge of formulaic truisms dull and facile enough to make Dr. Phil swallow his own vomit. Any number of Jewish, mixed, and even gentile (they learn quick) speech pathologists, PR assistants, schoolteachers, lawyers-in-training, and non-profiters beckon with comely photos, immaculate profiles, and totally reasonable pre-reqs. Who doesn’t love a sense of humor? Equally comfortable staying in with a book of poetry as they were shaking their milkshake at the club, these ladies are fond of fine art, sports, extreme adventure, quiet moments by the fireplace, and super-quirky weekend jaunts to Peru. More than enough to send a young man’s heart racing in romantic anticipation…

Sleep Easy Tonight

The King's alive!!!

Watch Out, Rostov Ripper

Looks like Russia's catching up to US serial killah standards.

It Was Racist...or Sexist...Well, It Was Somethin', You Ignorant-Ass Hoes!

Hat tip for Duke Bloggins for still receiving Daily Sun alerts on his DukeBerry. Ridiculousness from the Ivy Belt. Why I'd never!

George W. Dobkin

Ah, a perfect bohemigrant moment. Sit back and enjoy the Mayor of Kharkov, Ukraine, display his rhetorical prowess.

Pretty F'in Cool

http://www.ynetnews.com/articles/0,7340,L-3456456,00.html

Does Torre have an open seat on the bench left?

Bye-bye Willie, it's been fun. Actually, wait, no it hasn't. It hasn't been fun AT ALL.

You Go, Sarko!

France is finally moving in the right direction, being the American-Zionist-Papal-Martian Conspiracy. Quite a realignment for Old European powers.

Threats and Ultimatums

Amid a surge of apocalyptic threats against Israel by some of our favorite figurehead supervillains, Bohemigrant Blog shall be commandeered by the Ministry of Propaganda to resume ad hominem attacks against all offending parties. We're the Leni Riefenstahl of the YouTube generation. You've been warned.

The Juice Is Loose

Every cat has nine lives, and OJ must think he's a cat. Instead, he's just a burnt-out, pathetic killer whose post-acquittal innocence charade has made a mockery out of justice, the memory of his murdered wife, and his children. With Attn. JC rotting away in hell, it's up to the Juice to generate persuasive "If the ski mask don't fit..." rhymes. Good luck with all that, OJ.

Shana Tova, Motherfuckers

This a-russian's a gone-a fishin!

You must mean, "Worst of the Lunatic"?

Seeing as how I introduced myself in a discussion section a few weeks earlier as a graduate of "some school in upstate NY," it's quite clear that I am more than willing to dissociate myself from my white trash Ivy past. And if I couldn't care less about the school itself, then surely I'd have even less love for the one activity to which I dedicated any appreciable time, the campus "humor" rag--the only connection to which I maintain is my own middle-school picture which has served as a default avatar for many stalking-only social networking profiles.

So of course yesterday, in my weekly convo with my parents, I found out that I'd received a package from said humor rag's founder, a man best known for writing books about how to use shaving cream to clean your patio. Apparently a "Best Of" collection has been in the works, and a half-dozen items which I wrote or co-wrote were selected to appear. I wasn't sure if I should be flattered or horrified by this, but then I realized that my "pieces" were actually sent as part of the package and that my parents had perused them. If I thought some family gatherings were awkward before, imagine what they would be like with my parents knowing what Duke Nobbins is. Maybe I should have just written about ping bombs and that dude in Cascadilla who always were shorts.

Eh, Nyet, Peg?

That's right, it has happened. Russian further assimilates American culture by adapting the seminal 1990s sitcom Married With Children. Can't wait to watch him squaring off with Russian Marcy, attending NYETM'AM meetings, and denying Russian Peg sex and affection. The question is, does Russian Al even have a septic tank to flush?

(Hat tip: Duke Bloggins)

Fratboy Disses Swissboy

Andy Roddick says what we're all thinking. Roger Federer is a bot. A finely tuned bot who destroys Roddick and all other pretenders to the throne. Watching him is like watching a robot play. It's a different experience than marveling at Jordan's airwalking domination, Barry Sanders' silky smooth evasiveness, or Tiger Woods' record-shattering swing. A pretty-boy robot with a tennis racquet, who just happens to endorse Nike and shred his opponents with Teutonic efficiency. He may be hard to root for, but so was the T-1000, and you just had to admire his skill and finesse.

Craving Complexity

Now there is scientific data to explain why Bush can't help being an idiot and Gore can't resist his natural penchant for complexity and ambiguity. It's the neurons, stupid.

Happy Sunday

Foot-Tutzed

Thanks, Senator Craig, for ruining it for the rest of us. Oh, to be in the innocent days of yore, when tapping your foot gingerly on the bathroom floor indicated nothing more than your gushing zest for life--and for the dance. Sometimes I tap because I've got cause it feels good...sometimes I tap to get the bowels movin'...sometimes I tap cause I've got a charlie-horse. And now, I tap no more.

Why We Lobby

A winding path of desert, braying ibex goats, high-rise developments, endless military exercises from dusk till dawn, pomegranates, cranes, banana groves, Bedouin slums, up-and-coming vineyards, sprawling manmade oases, Hassidic shtettles, simple tombs to unknown soldiers, green lines from filth to fresh, price-gouging food vendors, horny soldiers, virile Jews, coconuts and pineapples, Druid shops, Bahai temples, hummus dripping olive oil and mango nectar on a blood filled alley.

lucas in love

Yankees update.

Ok. Here's a list of what the yankees should do.

1. trade Mike Mussina. when the yankees signed him they thought he was the next david cone, instead he's the gimp version of cone.
2. can't find a taker? move him to the bullpen for long relief, drop Vallone.
3. bring up Ian Kennedy, there's still time to have him in the playoff roster. There's no way he's worse than pussina.
4. edit the joba rules. if he thows less than 10 pitches an outting, he can pitch the next day.
5. who the fuck is sean henn? get rid of him.

painful series vs the angels.

Top Gun Motors

Bocar Toe!

Rejoice, for Bohemigrant is back from the Holy Land. Shalom, everyone. More jetlagged blogging to come...

tonight's the night!

joba comes up tonight and will save the yankees bullpen, goodbye to myers, proctor and farnsworthless (found that in the yankee's messageboard. let's hope torre doesn't blow out his arm like he has with sturtz, paul quantrill, vallone, proctor and viscano.

Apple of My Eye

Say it ain't so, Mets management. The classic Home Run Apple must stay!

catch them all! or die!

The Simpsons Are Going to Paris!

Kudos to the Fox marketing team for running a brilliant campaign.

You Mean He Was Still Teaching?

The biggest shock of this story is that Ward Churchill was still tenured at UC. Guess the wheels of trustee action turn slowly in Colorado. Worst of all, Native American actor/activist Russell Means is legitimizing 9/11 revisionism. Always puzzled at irrelevant ethnic solidarity for killers, losers, and miscreants, Bohemigrant is particularly nonplussed by the fact that Churchill isn't even Native American. I don't care how shiny his moccasins were!

this is bad

bitchslap

http://nigoro.jp/game/rosecamellia/rosecamellia.php
Finally someone has put together a game for a new generation of pimps and beyotches, set in old world anime.

Byrd's Words for Sick Vick

The Exalted Cyclops goes Lawrence O'Donnell on Ron Mexico. Now this is the West Virginia-Virginia Tech rivalry at its finest.

Of Pipes, Caves, and AIDS

If you thought the Grand Central geyser was hot, confirmation of Arafat's demise at the hands of Zionist agents (read: AIDS) is even hotter! Still no word on a possible sex cave, where this Ramallah funboy might have taken his jihadi boytoys.

Every Man Is an Island

For someone whose island escapes are usually limited to the Coney variety, any day trip to an off-shore beach is exciting. When the invitation came at my boss's farewell lunch, we accepted with wild enthusiasm. A day at Fire Island. Sun, waves, and margaritas. Drunk on the Friday afternoon air of a Midtown power-munching, we waxed ecstatic for no particular reason. If a waiter had tried to sign us up for a Mahdi Army boot camp right there and then, we'd have cheerfully X'd the spot.

With each day the reality of a get-together on the Gay Riviera loomed nearer, tapering our zeal. Being the only straight guy in our little department, my zeal was turned inside out the night before the jaunt. Luckily, my comrades shared the lackluster attitude.

Unless you're a seaboat captain, or a resident or Sayville, L.I., the trip to this alternative outpost is deterrent enough. The isle's remoteness ingeniously wards off unwanted douchebags, ethnic riff-raff, and Manhattan singles. It all starts with a train ride to the LIRR, followed by an extended train ride in a car full of bourgeois daytrippers and outerborough gays. Then, we're transported by a so-called "people van" to a dock 3 blocks away for the paltry sum of $4 one way. I lead the group onto the most proximate vehicle, which is crammed.

The dispatcher instructs us to move in even though we're on a tiny bus and there is clearly no more room. This inane directive is not lost on a sarcastic lesbian, who gives voice to our thoughts. Now we're in the lap of luxury. After a few minutes at the dock, we are ferried by the Sayville Clipper to a nebulous strip of land off on the horizon. The foreboding approach left me feeling like Jeff Bridges first seeing Skull Island in the original remake of King Kong.

When one of us poses the obvious question, "Why do they call this Fire Island?" the other shoots back, "Because everyone here's a flamer." We accept the explanation. In a orientational roll call of one, I identify as a hetero to our more spunky companion. This is good. We pull into the Fire Island Pines pier, flanked by an outdoor restaurant and bar scattered with men in cabana shorts. Women appear to be extinct. In fact, they don't appear at all.

Our host, dressed casually, is waiting at the port. It's a beautiful day and I feel as though I'm on vacation, arriving at a four-star resort. The air is dry but very clean and there are men hugging one another, celebrating reunions with smiles and hugs. "It's a camp for adults," he informs us, and this is borne out as we set off down a boarded path of wooden planks past rows of American holly, sassafras, oak, pitch pine, and red cedar. Cars are off limits here, but there are about 75 vehicles officially stationed here. We pass a firehouse that looks more like a country museum and a simple white sign announcing "Whorehouse Auditions" with an arrow pointing the way.

We arrive at the house, which doesn't look like much more than a wooden camp shack with a lovely garden from the outside. But as we step through the portal we enter the type of home you might see on a Greg Louganis version of Cribs. Successful gay men with laptops are lounging everywhere. There is an Ivy League architect, a software entrepreneur, and assorted happy young guys, possibly freelance designers.

Our host shows us the ice-machine and points us to the booze cabinet, replete with rum, vodka, gin and margarita mix. Immediately I cause a stir by jerking the icebox too hard, hurtling it to the floor. This is not a good start to my plan of staying low key. I make several tasty Bloody Marys and sit back, enjoying the conversation with my friends for the day. It doesn't take long for me to remember that gay people are not merely excellent at being fabulous, but quite clever as well.

Each succeeding drink made me more inured to my environment, which, in many ways, was far more laid back and civilized than the mainland I'd left behind.... Soon, we proceeded to the beach, where someone observed that even the "purple sand" is gay on Fire Island and I charged into the empty, frigid Atlantic waters to my colleagues' bemusement. That was the way. To charge into things, plow ahead into the unknown...after several drinks, of course.

Back at the house for more drinks, burgers, and dogs. An All-American holiday centered around the BBQ grill. Our more flamboyant comrade passed out, all flirted out, his uncouth snoring filling the summer stillness with restful resonance. We tried to flip his cot into the pool, but, like Lazarus, he miraculously awoke right at the precipice, stepping off the bed like Hannibal Lecter from his gurney...

We sail back, the two gay members of our squad completely hammered from a few extra drinks they snagged at the dockside watering hole. They harass a middle-aged couple wearing wedding bands. The two stoic consorts remind them marriage is not "awesome" but serious commitment between two loving partners. The lesson, like the last drink, is lost on them. Thing seem to climax as they ask me to show my tits. In the spirit of the moment, I comply, carefully considering if I should leave out this part of my account.

We nap all the way back to Jamaica, the smooth train ride gently lulling us back into the heteronormative fold. Fire Island's charms slowly wear off, the vodka flushing from my bloodstream. On the train back, I look around at my immigrant brethren, their faces wrapped in routine preoccupations. They have no idea...

Federal Express ain't so damn express

Well, here I am sitting in my apartment, 3.5 hours after the start of the time period I requested to have some Amazon.com order get Fedex'd to me. This on the heels of two previous failed delivery attempts when said Fedex personnel attempted to deliver at the EXACT SAME TIME I REQUESTED. Both times said delivery personnel also failed to indicate on his/her impersonal door tag why the package couldn't just be left outside my door, leaving me with no idea whether or not I could just sign and leave said tag on my door. But that's OK, it's not like I had a meeting early in the afternoon or anything.

Celebrity Sighting

Sideshow by the Sea Emcee Donny Vomit was seen, parents in tow, waiting in line for La Vie at the Spiegeltent.

W is for Teh Winnar?

Gimme sum o' dat Kristol meth.

More like, Late Night Bots

The Washington City Paper exposes social networking for southern frat douches who, five years on, have sadly still not left the Kappa Alpha house. For once I actually will voluntarily stand by the side of free alt-weekly reading hipsters, although their predictable commentary to this article still irks me. But it's either that, or not opposing dudes in Izod shirts and plaid shorts with names like Davis and Reed. Score one for the DailyKos/KEXP morning show set.

The Laws of Love

One of the bohemigrant's amigo stole the show with his performance in this flick.

I Swear...

Just when you thought Bohemigrant was trying to diversify its audience...Eh, no, Peg.

Everyday Heroes

And now, for no particular reason whatsoever, I post this pic. Hat tip to Duke Bloggins, Blogger at Large.

In McLane I Trust

Architecture in Helsinki may be the least favorite band of a certain friend of the blog, but apparently they can count one of the last Hollywood Republicans (?) as a fan. Yippie-ki-yay, indie rockers!

Oregon

Oregon now wins, at life.

Residents of Oregon town say shape of traffic posts is offensive

"KEIZER, Ore. - The City of Keizer is taking heat for installing a group of cement posts designed to protect pedestrians from cars, but which some say is a phallic symbol."

The Swords

A plug for the hottest Mormon in Coney Island! Heather Holliday!

Top Dogg

Bohemigrant salutes this year's hot dog eating competitors. Staff will be on hand for up-to-the-day coverage. May the fatter man win!

Meet Milmarge

This was only inevitable. I challenge you to create a more accurate Milmarge.

Japan is the greatest country in the world*

*At game shows...this still does not make up for WW2 atrocities in China, however. Check it out (these may be old news items, apologies beforehand):

Silent Library
Human Tetris

Check it out, a freezer geezer

Good to see that the folks at 7-11 have a sense of humor when there are cross-promotional dollars to be made and dork jizz to collect.

A Bohemigrant Summer

Ah, the dog days of summer. Snow cones and soft-serve custard melts away in the Good Humor man's hands. Unexplained blackouts hurl grouchy New Yorkers into paroxysms of self-important petulance. Construction workers and layabouts too mesmerized by cleavage forget to tilt their necks to mentally ass-grab shapely PR assistants. Innocent dalliances made ill-advised flings over happy-hour margaritas. Comic book conventions abut pride weeks and outdoor afro-punk concerts. High culture meets low expectations on great lawns as mayors deny seeking higher office. Newsmakers drone on to a public trying to catch every minute of Paris Hilton in between commercial breaks. Men on soapboxes rant about yuppy condos to an audience of stray dogs. Ghetto children hose each other down as thousands of gallons stream forth from a fire hydrant. Bushwick freegans eat trash to save the planet. College campuses stock up on keychains and fridge magnets for orientations where strangers fumbling about awkwardly drop them into beer-sodden grass. Booming Reggaeton makes enemies of scraggly Jews and husky Latinos at the beach as python-shouldering beastmasters sell photo ops and cotton candy. Barbecues, porches, weekend getaways, island parties, Christmas in July, populist art installations, weeklong waits for gadgets...

Blood In Blood Out

News of thugs duking it out for thug supremacy don't usually faze me, except when gangland beef encroaches on my turf. Inspired by that glorious lazy weekday at the beach... Of course, some loose-tongued Crips don't even get to enjoy one last day at the park. Know your gang affiliations!

Drop Bombs, Not Bums

Who you callin' a Bum, Bush? America, you're just going to have to live with a more aggressive Russia...and currency sabotage... They're not here five minutes, and the defrauding's in full swing. I swear...

Anti-Gravity, Hammerstein Ballroom

Anti-Gravity, Cirque du Soleil lite, offers a near-zero-G experience set to a pop soundtrack. In the words of a friend of the blog, these guys have banging bodies. They must get a lot of girls...

Sideshow Mel

It hasn't been a good week for the supposedly rejuvenated Yankees, but apparently it was even worse for one of the "stalwarts" of the last dark period of the storied baseball franchise. Somewhere Bernie Williams is laughing.

Jimmy Cracked Head

JC strikes again. The infamous ex-president, back on his world tour of eroding the last shred of good intention invested in the Nobel Peace Prize, weighed in on the Near East. He reminds Bohemigrant of the short, dumpy white kid who never got playing time on the hoops team, so he became a coach...like a more Jew-hating Van Gundy.

Hillblazer

Hillary Clinton zings us again. Wonder how many times this was focus-grouped, and how many Sopranos paisans the Clintons went through before arriving at Johnny Sack.

The Advantage of Disadvantage

“Yo, how you boys doin’?” We were uncomfortable, but not alarmed. After all, these were Giuliani’s late ’90s. We were New York kids, each with his share of street stories, but this was still Manhattan above 96^th Street, and we were still very white. Street sense dictated a heightened awareness of our surroundings.

By the time we heard the vagabond’s cooing, cozy voice, he had already gained on us. Short, slim, and thoroughly unimpressive, he could have passed for Subway Musician or Clock-punching Commuter. Clearly out of touch with the latest fashions, he was just clean enough to pass for a grunt. “Where you boys headed?” “Home, we replied,” in complete accord. “Ah, that’s nice, I’m headed home myself.” Nothing like a universal destination to unite disparate strangers.

Ah, yes, our homes, Mike’s new one in Northern Jersey—which he was technically leaving for the night by crossing the George Washington Bridge. And mine—in Marine Park, Brooklyn—my parents proud to be the first Soviet home-owning family on an old Irish block. And our new friend’s…wait, where was his home? “Man,” he said, clearly dissatisfied self-censoring for a white audience. “I just got out of Attica.” He scowled for a moment then looked back at us for approval as we three descended deeper and deeper into the bowels of Fort Washington.

“You know, robbery bullll-shit.” We really didn’t. Getting mugged for your Walkman by some wiggers at the bus stop, yes. “Robbery bullll-shit,” no. Time to be alarmed, but Mike and I kept moving. Moving and nodding knowingly. Yeah, man, we hear ya. The ex-jailbird threw an arm in the air for reassurance. “Don’t worry none. I jis’ hit ’em rich assholes, I ain’t neva touch no real folk.” Mike and I exchanged looks, but quickly regrouped. Play it cool. That’s all there was to it.

Passing through an endless dark tunnel beneath heavy Fort Washington traffic, we headed toward the 175^th Street A Train. The conversation died off abruptly, like fishing line yanked out of the water on false alarm. It was going to be fine, right? We were a couple of eighteen-year-olds in a public place. We’d seen our share of the streets. Straight out of Gravesend, two crazy mofo’s. The brigand’s lips were still moving. “…on dat train. You boys got a buck fitty, I jes gotta get on dat train home.” It was neither question nor demand.

“Nah, we ain’t got nothin’.” For better or worse, immigration and family conditioned in me a reflexive response to unauthorized request for funds. Every beggar a drug-dealer. Every woman with a sign a gypsy. As soon as I said it, I knew we were toast. But Mike backed me up. We had a straight story. Even brigands respect straight stories. “I knew you boys were po’ like me.” Word to our mothers. I knew I could have used one from her right then. Mercifully, the blue circle of mass transit salvation was in sight. But our felony-flaunting friend was no dope. “How you guys gettin’ on dat train?” Sheeeiiiit.

We were so close and now one tiny little matter stood between us and that downtown A. My little white lie. Mike flashed a glance at me, telegraphing his thought. There was only one thing to do. Jump. Something I hadn’t done…well, almost ever. Between getting force-ducked by my mom ’til I was 13 and abusing a school-issued Metrocard, I had no need. So it appeared Mike and I were about to jump like so many literary heroes before us. “Jump!”

“Aaight. Dat’s my boys. We all goin’ jump!” Touching, nearly to the point of tears. He was proud of us. F’in right! We were gonna stick it to the man—sit on it, maaan! And if the man should get his hands on us, we had an out! He made us, Officer! We thought he was gonna do something!

We’d reached the turnstiles. Deep breath. Leap like a sprint jumper and the sacred bond forged between boys and ex-con is forever sealed in self-preserving lies. Breathe out…turn around…the subway grotto suddenly filled with canine woofs and gravelly voices. We turned to see our unnamed friend detained by a pair of German Shepherds munching on his raggedy pants, backed up by several boys in blue. He seemed much more familiar to them than he was to us. But, like so many temporary New York friendships, this one was over with the sound of a train arriving, and us past the turnstiles without realizing it. Our friend, spouting indistinct obscenities at the cops, watched us holster the Metrocards and race down the stairs.

“What the fuck?” I said looking at the brand new $100 Oakley ski goggles crowning Mike’s head. “Wow,” my friend replied, tugging on the ski pass dangling from my coat pocket.

We Want You!

REVENGE!

Dinosaurs Died Agonizing Deaths
"Fossilized dinosaurs often have wide-open mouths, heads thrown back and tails that curve toward the head. Paleontologists have long assumed the dinosaurs died in water and the currents drifted the bones into that position, or that rigor mortis or drying muscles, tendons and ligaments contorted the limbs."
That's right you lizard motherfuckers. This is revenge for Jurrassic Park! ::::Shakes fists:::::: RAPTORS!!!!!!

http://news.yahoo.com/s/livescience/20070609/sc_livescience/dinosaursdiedagonizingdeaths;_ylt=Ap2i9gACsSR4Hmr6BWZPfdsDW7oF


creationism museum

comickers are a funny bunch

murrow's pride.

Friends, the bohemigrants went to this high school. Listen and laugh.
High School Chess Stars
In The Kings of New York, Michael Weinreb takes an inside look at the national championship chess team of Brooklyn’s Edward R. Murrow High School. He joins us along with coach Eliot Weiss and sophomore chess player Mikhail Furman.


http://www.wnyc.org/shows/lopate/episodes/2007/06/06

happy june 6th!

And the Wiener Is...

Comin' to get ya, Kobayashi. What's next, Andre the Giant wins sumo wrestling title? Oh...right. July 4th, Coney Island, we take back our independence. Be there!

forgotten theater

Remember Freaks and Geeks?

The Revolution Will Not Be Televized

Why are these guys always so predictable? But hey, if it ain't broke...

Ballmer...the Prequel

Just when you thought the series was over...MS brings us Ballmer 1.0, teaching Generation Why a thing or two about great salesmanship. Brin, Page, you're on notice.

Ugly Guys Finish First

Bohemigrant newsroom has just received a breaking story from a well-respected British daily. Several staff members can breathe easier tonight amid reports that ugly guys do it better. While our investigative team checks facts and runs the numbers, we express cautious optimism that tha truth has finally been revealed. Take that, Johnny Handsome! Sexy ladies everywhere have the itch for pudgy, pock-marked men. Out with the shag-a-gay 90s and in with the bag-a-beast 00s! Hooray for the enlightened woman!

Murtaugh Goes Fonda

Bohemigrant moves to lobby Cornell University's school historians to expunge Danny Glover's infamous convocation appearance 5 years ago from the annals of special speakers. Ruining gradutions at a farmer Ivy is one thing Danny, but financing your pet projects with the oil money of our enemies is something else. Danny Glover, you just made Bohemigrant's shit list.

Breakdancing...It's Just an Expression

Who doesn't like breakdancing? The flurry of helicopter kicks, robot shuffles, and dervish-dancing headspins that could humble a Mevlevi monk are candy to the eye. Immigrants love them, old people love them, and need we say it--children love them. Oh, and obviously, the post-modern take.

you will believe a man can fly.

bryan singers got nothing on this.

Whiteface

Far be it from Bohemigrant to ask the good people of New York City for any favors, but hell hath no fury like an immigrant scorned. Subway protocol dictates that we each entrench ourselves in a corner and hold on to our belongings like we do our militia muskets. No looking, no talking, and certainly no touching. And truthfully, on the morning commute, this minimalist approach often makes the maximal sense.

There is one component of this mass-transit reticence, though, that this blog would soon see quashed. Oftentimes, Bohemigrant, in his haste and morning-time sloth, is sloppy brushing his teeth. And on those days, it is not until he walks in the bathroom at work, sometimes as late as noon, that he discovers a huge white spot on his left cheeck. We admit, there is no easy way to engage a man on a train with such a matter without incurring the reputation of a Buttinski and the general scorn of your train-mates.

But come on, you stupid drones—there’s gotta be a way! There’s a huge chalk-white spot on my fucking face, forchrissake! Do you think I might not want it there? What, do you comfort yourself with the thought that I like to show off my Rembrandt whitening gel? Or that I’m careless enough not to wipe down after sucking down on a big one? At least laugh at me, something! Anything! Don’t ask don’t tell is for them soldier boys! We’s civilians, so let’s be civil!

Botanical Gardens

Greek Whites II: Atlantis

The second Greek white I taksted is the 2005 Atlantis from Santorini's Argyros estate. This wine is actually on the international radar when it comes to Greek wines, and is a blend of Assyrtiko, Athiri, and Aidani grapes. Of these, the Assyrtiko, richly packed with Santorini's volcanic ash, is considered to be perhaps the best white in Greece. This was a doozy--big floral nose full of minerals and herbs. The body is as full as any good Sauvignon Blanc or Riesling. Acidic structure makes the residual sugar known. I would call it one of the great off-the-beat-track whites I have ever tasted. 90 points. Pick it up today, as it's a known brand.

Wine of the Week: 2004 Kourtaki

To escape the ennui of the same old whites, head for the region historically primed to produce great wine--but contary to conventional thinking, is not known for it. Greece. The first of my 3 Greek wines, this is a simple but underrated country wine. Produced in Crete from the indigenous Vilana grape, this everyday quaffer is dry, crisp, chalky, and minerally--owing to Crete's sandy soil, no doubt. Straight fruit will greet your nose, with apple and citrus scents. Goes down easy, though it leaves little memory of itself on the palate. It's a hit and, at $6-7, it's a steal, so grab one today. 87 points.

Strawberry Fields Forever

Strawberry Fields in Central Park is a playground for the urban hippie—a Disneyland attraction with nary a remnant of the decade that inspired it, noted my collaborator Dr. Venture. Intended as a memorial to John Lennon, who was shot across the street 27 years ago, the Neapolitan mosaic centerpiece is surrounded by a pitiful gathering of undrafted former dorm lawn hacky sack players, second-rate jammers, and random cripples and vets. Way to branch out, guys.

None of this, however, deterred a pretty girl from sitting on a bench across from yours truly and Dr. Venture and reading a book. Rapt in the bloom-in-progress and the spiraling descent of cast-off flower petals, I failed to notice a middle-aged gentleman sit right next to the girl. Gentleman is a stretch. He looked very much like the owner of a take-out kitchen in Curry Hill—a short and stout brown-skinned midget in dark dress pants that didn’t mesh with a wrinkled windbreaker. His ride and mobile home—I thought at the time—a shopping cart filled with trash bags and the bric-a-bracs of an inner city nomad.

The crippled veteran doing doughnuts around the word IMAGINE on his wheelchair had a Yankees game to his ear on a portable radio. “Wang’s perfect through seven!” he exclaimed to no one in particular. The little man on the bench was in full mackin’ mode, his right arm now firmly planted behind the top plank on the bench. I made an instinctive move to get up, but there was no further encroachment. The girl, stoically reading the book at first, was now smiling; pleased at the attention, disgusted by the source. “I do, but guys my own age,” I heard her mutter, shortly followed by “none of your business.”

Dr. Venture sat still, admiring the gall of this pudgy little man with no prospects to open his mouth to a woman without asking for loose change. The shopping cart crammed with trash bags parked next to him turned out to belong to a tousled couple who now claimed it. And then there was me, sitting on the bench, debating whether I am a writer who enjoys and collects these scraps of life, or the hero who eats them up.

Blair is Blair

Three cheers to Tony Blair, a true adherent of the great Anglo-American alliance, and one of the great leaders in modern history. Bohemigrant hopes his formidable legacy will stand the test of time--and tarnishing by Iraq.

And What Do You Want to Be When You Grow Up, Little Boy?

I've mostly retired from asking rhetorical questions about media bias. But last night's debate among republican presidential candidates temporarily forced me out of my bearhole. Sorry, but I don't remember Obama or Clinton being asked to delineate the differences between a Sunni and a Shiite last week. Or Kucinich presented with an effigy of Bush to tar, feather, and quarter. Between the retarded questions asked by some snot-faced Politico.com editor and Matthews' Tourette-like maniacal stage-pacing, I wasn't sure if I was watching a pre-primary debate or a 5th grade spelling bee. The normally tame Matthews stalked the stage like a rabid chimp, trying to "stump" the candidates and squelch carefully scripted answers by cutting them off and trying to elicit controversial "Republican" positions on abortion, global warming, and evolution. I guess the democrats couldn't be bothered with such insipid screener questions, they are the party of nuance, after all. Imagine Sean Hannity moderating between Edwards, Clinton, Biden, and co. In fact, why don't we, since political debate has been degraded to the level of shameful soundbites?

Have No Fears, We've Got Stories for Years...

Bohemigrant is embarrassed to have missed the third annual Immigrants Week. But hey, we're assimilated! You can't expect us to catch wind of every OTB shindig.

What does trouble Bohemigrant is the recent degradation of The Sopranos. Now in its last season, David Chase has abandoned fidelity to his characters and building the more subtle strory arc of seasons past to rush the ending of the series. Tony the gambling addict? Tony the ugly husband? Paulie's "flashbacks"? More and more, Sopranos is putting distance between itself and superior drama like The Wire and Deadwood.

Wine of the Week

This week we have a quaffer from Costa Brava, Spain--a fairly new viticultural region in northeast Spain, close to the Pyrenees. It's 60% granacha blanca and 40% macabeo, one of those obscure Spanish grapes you never hear about outside of Spain. You can find it for around $10-15 bucks at your local wine shop. It's a nice spring/summertime sipper, with a floral bouquet, citric fruit, and even slight acidity. It's light, but like an entertaining story, has a beginning, middle, and an end. 83 points. ( PS: I've decided to get off the tannins/antioxidant craze for a bit. Stay tuned for more white wine reviews, including the amazing '05 vintage of Rieslings.)

Guest Blogger

Many exciting things are in store for Bohemigrant. Guest blogger Duke Nobbins of the Society of Nobbins/Chinese Laudromat will soon make his blogging debut.

Also, the sex offender of the week is Efim Bronshteyn of Bath Beach, Brooklyn.

woot

who wouldn't want their kids wearing one fo these.

On the Attack

Props to Armenian Jewish chess machine Kasparov for trying to check Putin's scale-backs of democratic institutions. After all, I don't see Viswanathan Anand decrying train bombers from Bangladesh. Still, this guy is in serrious danger of having an accident in the next 2 years, or being taken out by a reprogrammed Deep Blue. Tread lightly, Garik.

Douchebag Brotherhood

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Wine Review

Rosso dei Monti comes from the Montefalco region of Umbria. It's a mix of Sangiovese and Sagrantino, a native Montefalco grape. It came highly recommended from the vendor and some douchebag at the checkout who didn't know what he was talking about. Grade-school nose followed by about 2 seconds of straightforward fruit. Light and smooth but bland in the mouth. Good for a picnic or a barbecue. 75 points.

funny link

http://sjl.funnyordie.com/v1/landing.php
this is pretty funny

Immigrants Against Violence

New York, NY (April 17, 2007)

In light of yesterday's horrific slaying at Virginia Tech, Bohemigrant would like to reaffirm its steadfast commitment to this nation and its laws and customs. We would also like to remind everyone that both of its co-founders are holders of American citizenship naturalization certificates.

perfect strangers the remake

Looks like the trend of remakes continues to flop. This latest remake of a classic tv show recieved only 1 star out of 4.

Revolution Now!

In a bid to displace the Eyeman from headlines, one crazy refugee makes his move. It seems the Berezovsky-Kasparov Jew Cabal's nefarious plot to bring Putin to his knees is in full swing.

TV-Shopping

In many ways, I'm still a kid. But that's what happens when you lead a sheltered existence--even a sheltered immigrant existence. So, when I needed to trade in my 14-year-old TV set for a new one, I brought my dad along to PC Richard, the torch-bearer of semi-sleazy chain electonics stores now that Nobody Beats the Wiz is no longer a factor. Knowing what I wanted, I approached a guy named Max, one of those Midwesterners with a perfect smile who look as foreign in Bensonhurst as an African on the North Pole. Max had a hypnotically reassuring demeanor that agreed with me before I uttered a word, and convinced me that I was right to buy whatever I chose, unless I didn't want it.

After he made the sale, Max skeptically, but gently, accepted my refusal of the extended warranty. He also informed me that I qualified for a PC Richard credit card with $5,000 of credit. He was positively shocked with this nice surprise. Again, I declined. Still, a beautiful bond was forged with the swipe of a debit Master Card. Life was great and full of happy, smiling salesmen named Max--even in Brooklyn.... Until, the box.

Max, eager to start a new friendship with the Italian couple with a flurry of alarm-system questions, hastily returned from the stockroom with my LCD (yeah baby!). We were ready to exit when Dad, ever watchful, noticed a huge tear in the cardboard. I sighed and interrupted Max from his friendly pitch, "Umm, Max, there's a tear on the side of the box."

"Oh yeah, they are all like that--want me to show you the other boxes? We don't work like that," he vouched, anticipating my thoughts, "we're not Harry's--we're PC Richard!" he demurred.

I was satisfied but Dad remained skeptical. Max was back at it with the Italians. "Let's see those other boxes," Dad said. This is the part where I usually get annoyed at Dad's officiousness, argue, create a scene, only to either do exactly what he asked in the first place, or leave and be lectured about my lack of audacity. But I, too, suddenly became disatisfied with Max's offhand dismissal of the huge fucking tear in the box, staring at me like the slit throat on a hog. Friends or not, he had to be held to account. "Uhh, Max?"

"Yes, more concerns?" Max was still cordial, but made his remarkable patience known.

"We're going to need to see that box now," I said, with a hot-off-the-presses receipt in lieu of a badge.

"Aww, geez, God...Lou?!" he called to the portly Italian man who was leaning against a camera display case. "We're going to need to see another box." Max then excused himself from the customers and swung around the box. The expression on his face changed from annoyed professionalism to annoyed apology. "Aaah, I see, I thought you were talking about the scratches on top. Sorry about that, I misunderstood."

Seconds later, a pristine sealed box appeared next to the damaged one, and I bid Max adieu, one friend poorer, but one almost certainly non-refurbished TV richer. I love my dad.

Wine of the Week

Bohemigrant's wine of the week is a 2004 Cousiño-Macul Antiguas Reservas Cabernet Sauvignon fom the Maipo Valley in Chile.




An earthy attack rich with native terroir releases a nose that hints of vanilla and herbs, followed by a fruity palate including blueberry, currant, and cherry. This is a medium-bodied wine meant to be popped open and glugged today. Score: 87 (from a non-Cabernet fan).

Chingui!

Where is Sacha "Baron" Cohen on this one? With no Borat movie to promote, who will provide a satire of the "Russian space nerd" blasting off into space from Kazakhstan? Is Kazakhstan a technologically advanced, oil-wealthy nation? Why have we been misinformed by Borat? I am waiting for the mock skit to hit the internet. In the meantime, let's all celebrate this historic space jaunt by pissing on our respective car tires, a long-observed consmonaut tradition.

Egress

This may be news to some of you. To others, it may rank somewhere between clipping your nails and the latest cricket standings. However, for one long-suffering Bohemigrant, today is the last day in the employ of Satan, and it that can't be named. However, it makes one wonder--is it possible to escape the death-grip of Murray Hill/Grammercy Park? 3 jobs and counting, we shall see.

To Wash, or Not to Wash

Countless "research studies" show that the number of people professing to wash their hands after using the loo far exceeds the numbers of people observed in the act. I can see random strangers in divey bars and bus stations readily dispensing with the time-consuming anachronism of washing your hands after handling your anus, member, and/or balls. What I don't understand is a coworker in a small office flagrantly doing this on a daily basis. Especially a coworker who finds enough time to brush teeth after every meal/snack. Seeing this individual later hand packages, shake hands, and high-five someone over a sports-spectating triumph, I can't help but see his urine-saturated hands performing these activities. I have never been an informant, but I am tempted to go Elia Kazan on him.

Watch Out, Yeltsin Dance

As scripted as this probably is, it is still track-stoppingly disturbing.

And I Quote

"I would give the greatest sunset in the world for one sight of New York's skyline."
- Ayn Rand The Fountainhead

You know, I'm starting to think Ayn Rand was on crack

Their Eyes Were Looking Elsewhere

He coughs, hacking up spittle, blood, and phlegm, followed by meager lunch of lettuce sandwich or granola bar. The contents pour, like truck drum’s wet cement, into a sky-blue duffle bag. The woman left of him abandons ship. The duffle filled, he goes to work on tote. Then, like a line of dominoes they fall—the student flees, shopper slithers—they scatter all about the train. Now chokes on stench of odorless indifference. Looks up, extends a limb, his arm defiant, hand in plea. He claps his hands, his bearings got. But the demon takes hold. He hacks again, and now a woman speaks, offering indistinct advice. “When I get home, I will be fine,” he smiles. The woman gone, he hacks again, and claps. He hacks and claps, claps and hacks. Three claps, one hack. And on and on. He mutters something to himself—who else—a mental notch unto his brain. He looks across, then to his right. What, no one wants a show? But there is no one left to see… Except for me… But all I do is look.

this is the 80's

mr miyagi never sounded so good.

Gripe

Why does Western, and in particular, European, media interpret Jewish dissent on Zionism and lack of Arab dissent as some tacit proof of Arab moral highground? Why should it not, instead, be seen as the noble offshoot of democracy, humanism, freedom?

a hard days' night of the living dead

and look for the bohemigrant's comic , coming soon!

Is Your Baby Gay?

Well, is it?

Rage-i-con

For reference on upcoming rages, the following bits are expected to be performed:

-Snake husband
-Creative one-line renditions of Simpsons satirizing Married with Children
-Duke Nobbins as the Fonz (in the works)
-Frank Rich parodies

more to come...