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.