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...

Local Boy Makes Good

So, as skeptical and deeply bitter I am whenever a new Russo-American author is spit out of the literary hype-machine, I must say, The Russian Debutante's Handbook delivers. Taut, funny, and confidently vivid, it achieves the highly sought-after blurb status of being "eminently readable." Is it the great Russian-American novel? No, but it is a huge step in the right direction. Of course, I am biased.

Captain, Wherefore Art Thou?

With the recent assassination of Captain America, we are left to wonder? Who will reconciliate the stars and the stripes, the reds and the blues? Time to spring Hitler from his tomb and resuscitate that comic!

Cinematic Subsidies

I get the feeling that without state-financed films (read: British film industry) and, more importantly, any ole' historical film or show (most recently, Rome) requiring a faux-foreign accent, British actors would be out of work or defecting to the States in droves. This is in no way an original observation, but what up wit da all-purpose English accent, yo? And if American twang is considered ever so crude for mass consumption, be we playing Romans, Egyptians, or Armenians, will there ever come a time that levee's gonna break? Kudos to Mel Gibson for his earnest stabs at lingustic authenticity--whatever their enabler's subtext!

What's That Name Again?

Hat tip to Duke Nobbins on this misnomered YouTube video title. It's Bernie Mac meets Fat Joe.

Bigger Man

What's up with assholes at the gym cutting the cardio machine line from the opposite flank and then pretending to have been waiting? OK, the dumbshit kids will give me a retarded stare and then yield the stairmaster. It's really sad when a middle-aged, Russian (inevitably) FOB pretends to have been waiting for the machine and not seen me (ah, the scheming fucking Russians)--always the same, lame excuse. "Vat is your point?" he asks, and I really wanted to knock my point in his wily little mug. But the heavily accented chick next to us kindly informed us the machine wasn't working. Fighting over broken equipment. Aye, there's the rub.

The Sudden Jerk

We read our books and Polish newspapers, stare at our PDAs, fix our eyeliner, lips, and blush, enjoy frivolous phone calls on the mobile, snap voyeur photos of camel toes, expose ourselves, talk into our lapels, run scams for money, perform mariachi music and minstrel acrobatics, lament our workaday anomie, marinade in our apathy, grunt passive-aggressively when lightly brushed by others...and then...the B train takea a sharp turn for the Manhattan Bridge, sending us all flying into each other, if only for a measly second; molecules spontaneously colliding in a container sealed by resignation and routine. And then, like a momentary power interruption, we return to our previously staked positions, acting as cool as humanly possible.

mandom.

friends, would you like to smell like charles bronson?

Worse Than a JetBlue Delay

Airline service just keeps floundering.

How Far Will a Monkey Go?

Ah, the infamous bathroom monkey. At this time, there is no word as to the illness of the monkey's tongue.

East Meets West

With my copious bags of fruits and veggies covering the express check-out counter, two jolly dudes behind me shared the following exchange:

"...M&Ms man, you know?
"Yeah, what about them?"
"Rememeber that promotion a few years back? Find the--"
"--Find the gray M&M and you win a million dollars. Yeah, yeah, nice scam."
"You know what?"
"What?"
"I found the gray M&M, man."
"Sure you did."
"I swear man, I found it. Gray--no mistake, I remember it. All the others were red and yellow...Not that one, man, gray."
"So what'd you do?"
"I ate it."
"No shit."
"Can you believe it? I ate the damn thing, the million-dollar M&M. I only read about the prize later."

I looked over my shoulder as the demure, acned Turkish girl bagged the last of my groceries. I couldn't tell which of the two was the M&M gobbler. They both looked pretty damn well content.

Le Bureau

Both of us are fans of THE office.
here's the french version. their pam/dawn is pretty hot, and their michael/brent is more alcoholic father looking.

http://www.fanpop.com/spots/the-office-%2528us%2529/links/18598

Pachydermal Porn

This is ever so cute.

PBF

In honor of my re-acquaintance with Perry Bible, fellowship, I will illegally reprint this classic strip:

The Lookout

“Ma, he’s from the company, I’m sure he’s straight.”

“I don’t care. Your father is God knows where; there is a stranger in the house, in our bedroom, right now.”

“It’s the middle of the day. He wouldn’t.”

“Get up there now.”

“It’s embarrassing—you always say—”

“You want to leave our house exposed to the whole neighborhood? Leave your mother defenseless here?”

Basketball would have to wait. A good guilt-trip is more potent than a well-aimed threat from a well-aimed gun.

The gentle morning sunlight peeked through the shutters, seeping hints of mild April splendor through our second-floor windows. Finches chirped in the backyard, luring my second parakeet, Ricky, to mutiny and join them in unfettered freedom. Poor African Ricky was deaf to their American-tweeting inveiglements.

And there was I, a 6-year resident of the United States of America, an enlightened teenage soul steeped in liberal democratic thought and egalitarian ethos. There was I, directed by my progressive, open-minded mother to mind her bedroom while the black cable guy uninstalled the wires and hardware (unbeknownst to him soon to be replaced by an unauthorized cable box reprogrammed by a former dental hygienist from Azerbaijan to give us coveted access to HBO and pornography).

The awkwardness set in immediately. “Would you like something to drink?”

His back turned, he wiped the sweat off his forehead with an elbow. “No thanks.”

I needed a pretext to stay. Pretending to look for something (I quickly caught myself—must stay away from Mom’s jewelry box—too obvious), I foolishly picked up the first thing I saw—a feather duster. Only one thing to do with a feather duster unless you’re a French maid. He turned, reaching for the pliers, and I quickly dropped the easy giveaway.

What else?—The TV! There’s a Yankees game on…Oh, right. It was then that he solved the problem for me.

“Know what? That drink offer still good?”

“Uh, sure. Juice, soda?”

“Cold water’s fine.”

Shit. I realized the fatal flaw of my innocently proffered beverage. Mom was in the basement doing laundry and the parakeet wasn’t trained for racist surveillance. A good half-decade away from the cellular revolution that swept our family, I was unable to hatch a devious text-messaging scheme. I had to chance it.

“You want ice?” Of course he did.

The sprint downstairs must have been record-setting—if Guinness ever recorded such dubious numbers. Races motivated by antediluvian attitudes and fear-mongering were almost certainly unofficiated. I almost tripped on the way up, but not a drop of water lost—a feat worthy of Eddie Murphy’s Golden Child obstacle course. It seemed I, too, had what it takes to be The One.

I looked around the room anxiously with my parents’ eyes. I always preferred not to know. Drawers intact. Correspondence in place. What am I forgetting?

“That it?”

“Oh, yeah, sorry. There you go, Sir.” Absently, I handed him the cup with my eyes fixed on Mom’s hand-painted lacquer jewelry box, on which a frisky troika was pulling a rose-cheeked maiden through a frozen riverbed. He took the cup from my hand without turning, the stepladder wilting under his bulky frame and steady legs. We were both in our own worlds.

“You should be all set. There a bathroom here?”

Perfect—he’d be gone for 2, 3 minutes at least!

Elated, I gave him directions to the downstairs bathroom. Like a drowning man barely beating suffocation for that sweet, nourishing gasp of oxygen, I snatched the lid off the box. Looks good. Relieved, I started for the stairs, to graciously welcome our guest from the bathroom with the candy bin and a $5 note. But before I could fete my operation’s success, or grasp there was no way for me to verify the contents of the box came a loud thud and the jarring crack of skull meeting thick wood drowned out by an agonizing “Jesus Christ, my fucking head!”

It was too late to look away. The man was sprawled out on the stairway, taking the first hard-earned break of the day. With heavy hand and breath I went back inside the room and took the cordless. Somewhere in the distance, my grandma’s voice carried from her upstairs cloister.

“Did he put in the TV yet? All day without the TV!”

Clericus for the Restofus

Since when is soccer about fruitful sharing, friendship, and promoting pastoral values? I thought sport was a modern replacement for casual warfare, to keep men's bellicose instincts from incurring true carnage.

Dancing the Night Away

I wonder what Tim Hardaway had to say about this. Thanks to the Velvet Mafia, we may never know.

Confabulations

It's been a big week for two of this blog's most avid readers. Congratulations are in order for:

DukeNobbins (of Why Duck Media) for his prestigious operations research fellowship nomination.

Schwam, Ph.D. for successfully defending his microbiology candidacy.

And a belated congrats to M.J. from the Hawkeye state for her acceptance to historic Columbia U. graduate school, and her impending move to the East Coast with a Jewish leptosome.

New Socialism

I suggest our government hand out free mass-market copies of The Fountainhead to the good citizens of Venezuela. Interesting how demagogues lack in any originality--they just keep repackaging tired old gospels. This definitely IS your daddy's socialism.

Found Art.

I find it, amuuuuuuuuusing.
Here's one from the 23rd street F train station. It's from a new Fox morning news show. Starring one of their famous blonde hoes.

Another Blaze Bites the Dust

I'm not sure which angle Bohemigrant feels more affinity with: the man's proclivity for skiing, onanastic exhibitionism, or concealed toking implements. One thing's for sure: in tandem with a Maine town's recent car smoking ban, Vermont and the rest of the Notheast cluster (sans MA) is quickly losing its standing and reputation for independence and individual liberty. Watch out you New Hampshire snuff-filmmakers and game hunters!

Global Warming

Why have you ruined my life?
I used to swim in oceans, ski on snow.
You took it all away.

Thousands of French dames dead.
And all for what, Exxon?
The sod bleeds green.

Polar bears drowning, oceans rising
I have a nose bleed, global warming.
You ruined my fucking life.

woohoo!

friends, pastor Ted is Cured! .......
or is he?