Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Sunday, February 25, 2007
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
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!”
Saturday, February 24, 2007
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.
Friday, February 23, 2007
Dancing the Night Away
I wonder what Tim Hardaway had to say about this. Thanks to the Velvet Mafia, we may never know.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
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.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
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!
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Tennis Fever
For those of us lacking an endless rolodex of friends or a sports social network, finding a tennis partner in New York can be a Herculean task. Especially when you live outside the designated tennis-friendly zone stretching from Baby Stroller Belt of Central Park to the Dog Walker District of Park Slope. There are a few websites using a minimalist interface to partner you with anonymous boys and girls in your area supposedly just as eager to whack a yellow ball. These, however, are about as reliable as a Power Cell battery from a subway car merchant. What of us longtime Brooklyn residents, immigrants whose parents failed to coerce them into competitive early-development activities out of the crib?
As with all matters twentysomething, college, and, more often than not, white, all roads lead to Craigslist. If you come from south Brooklyn (the “real” south Brooklyn, where I have lived since 1990, not the one that ends at Windsor Terrace), your best chance—or prayer—is to type in something like “25/m, 3.0, seeks partner for fun and improvement.” The ubiquity and comfort of Craig’s all-purpose web tonic has flattened modern compositions of hitherto complicated solicitations to first-grade shorthand, from indecent proposals for Halo LAN parties with intimations of romantic potential to upskirt voyeurs posing as refreshingly munificent property owners.
My first venture into the world of virtual tennis soul-mates ended strangely when my partner (24/f), initially psyched over the prospect of expanding our sessions into weekdays, suddenly disappeared off the face of the earth. Onward and upward, thought I. Of course, with Craiglist’s matrix of random magnetism, downward was the inevitable course. A year later and a year wiser, I accepted an offer from a 30/m, who insisted on a 7 AM rendezvous at the Dyker Heights courts (true to our Soviet roots, he was even more determined to avoid the permit inspection than yours truly, God bless him). He was an IT engineer with a decent serve compared to mine, but our ground games were fairly even. Mostly, I was heartened by his enthusiasm for the sport, evinced by the ungodly Saturday-morning wakeups…for about a week. Two Friday-night benders and three unanswered emails later, I had been dumped again. Was it time to cut and run?
Succor came in the form of an auxiliary potential I had been cultivating on the side. Flabby, and a bit on the creepy side, he was a nice guy and a spirited player who was serious about trying to get better; a stickler for the niceties of the game. Indulging him, I turned a blind eye to his for jailbait on the courts; we got on famously. For a few weeks we’d meet at the venue most convenient to me and play a set or two. Then, beset with guilt over making him ride his bike to my home court week in and week out, I assented to a match at the Caesar Bay courts on Bay Parkway.
There was something different about these courts. They were nice, for one thing, with a fresh layer of sea-blue paint, a noticeable lack of cracks in the asphalt, and mostly raked leaves. For another, there were no groups of adorable but incommodious children hogging up 30 percent of the playing space. Finally, there was no “Sergey the tennis expert” asking you to vacate his “tennis school” (commandeered corner court). With an official 180-degree twist of the baseball hat, I was ready to jam! Only one person stood between me and the elusive fruit of athletic ecstasy: a middle-aged black woman named Peggy. My partner had warned me about her. “Yo…check it out…she said it’s five dollaz without a permit—but it’s really seven.” Nice racket, I thought, but filed this caveat away under my partner’s whimsy, as he droned on and on about corruption.
Reluctantly, I committed to a game one damp Saturday evening. As usual, I showed up early, banking on the punctuality of my cohort. The challenge: getting past Peggy without a permit or money (my prideful parsimony would not permit me to part with the fiver). Implementing my go-to move, I sauntered in, with cocky self-assurance—or in a naïve stupor. Luckily, I was able to shadow a couple that had just walked in and consulted our formidable gatekeeper on a court suggestion. As soon as the threat had visibly passed and I was safely ensconced at the far end of the park, my exhalation was abruptly cut off by a booming, game-stopping “YO!” Peggy’s unmistakable shriek must have upset a few winners—a point or two for sure, between the 8 courts. I was in for it. Taking a slow walk of shame back to the tennis warden, I decided to plead with the lady, who stood, arms akimbo, looking like she’d been waiting for a fuckup like me all day.
“Ha-ha, baby! Shit, f-I did dat, I’d have to let ev’body play free.” The logic was irrefutable, the demeanor unflappable; still, I wasn’t everybody. I just wanted one free, friendly game of Brooklyn tennis with my sketchy freckled partner, that’s all! You must needs oblige me, Peggy! But it was not to be. I namedropped my partner before remembering that his expired ID wasn’t even on him—the dude bragged he’d only had to mention he was renewing it (well, you know how these things go with the City) and waiting on the card, when pressed. Figuring Peggy had nothing to lose by letting a guy tack to an almost-member with a possible permit on the way, I had to try.
I waited for him on a bench by the water, watching Chinese, Russian, and Puerto Rican fishermen impress their kids with fresh pulls of jetsam-fed bass and bluefish. 45 minutes later, my accomplice finally surfaced, offering the usual line of lame excuses. Meting out the requisite scolding, I bit my tongue and prepared to go through the motions of a lackluster tennis game, perhaps my last with this laggard. He hastened toward the tennis courts. Then it hit me—Peggy! No sooner had he led his bike through the gate, me still gathering my stuff, than I heard that hardened, coarsely glib voice—this time without its exuberant jollity: “Oh no, you don’t, Frank!” Her shrill scream jolted me—not in the least because my partner’s name wasn’t Frank at all.
The soothing feel of my car keys jangling in my pants pocket could not break me away from social obligation. Marching up to the club entrance, the scene unfolding between my eyes recalled my stepping into a cheap glue trap in my closet the day before. Meanwhile, the overcast Bensonhurst evening had conjured more characters on the scene. The standout was a tall, gangly, bearded Russian professional named Alex. He sported blue-tinted, out-of-fashion sunglasses. Computer or civil engineer during the day, Alex was now trying to engineer amity, or at least détente.
Peggy was in no mood for peace. It seemed “Frank” had tried to bulldoze his way in after Peggy curtly denied him proper entrance. She was disinclined to swallow any more horseshit about renewed permits that were in the mail. It wasn’t business—it was personal—as evidenced by 2 claret pools engulfing unblinking pupils. The clash of wills was exposing the dark side of tennis before my very eyes. It also created at least 3 different impressions of this melee. “Why you not just take bike outside?” Alex suggested. What was clear to all present was that Peggy was taking the stand of her life. She was full of wrath and ready to wrangle. Cross the line, motherfucker, and you’re mine.
“I’ve lived in this fucking community all my life! She can’t do this to us...she’s pocketing that money…how do we know she even works here?” It was equally, and more painfully, clear that Frank was taking a stand of his own. I stood by my partner—not tall—but I stood by. Like getting your ass kicked by the enemies of a friend you don’t particularly like, or going to an in-law’s birthday party, it was a moral duty. While admiring my own sense of the same, it had come to the attention of those that paid it that Peggy was about to clock Frank—and Frank was about to jab the handlebar into her fiery eyes. Even Alex’s assurance that Peggy certainly was in Parks Service’s employ went unheeded. I took the bridle on my partner while Alex handled Peggy. We exchanged looks, both shrugging to acknowledge our roles as seconds come duel time. Unscrewing his water bottle, Alex led a reluctant Peggy toward a paint-chipped bench. Shaken, she sunk in defeat. Alex rubbed her shoulders a moment or two, before resuming his game.
Before I had a chance to sprint toward my car and hurry away, Frank was leading me to that back court, open spoils to the victor. “Looks like it might be raining. We’d better get a set in at least,” he said, pumped. The man had a point.
As with all matters twentysomething, college, and, more often than not, white, all roads lead to Craigslist. If you come from south Brooklyn (the “real” south Brooklyn, where I have lived since 1990, not the one that ends at Windsor Terrace), your best chance—or prayer—is to type in something like “25/m, 3.0, seeks partner for fun and improvement.” The ubiquity and comfort of Craig’s all-purpose web tonic has flattened modern compositions of hitherto complicated solicitations to first-grade shorthand, from indecent proposals for Halo LAN parties with intimations of romantic potential to upskirt voyeurs posing as refreshingly munificent property owners.
My first venture into the world of virtual tennis soul-mates ended strangely when my partner (24/f), initially psyched over the prospect of expanding our sessions into weekdays, suddenly disappeared off the face of the earth. Onward and upward, thought I. Of course, with Craiglist’s matrix of random magnetism, downward was the inevitable course. A year later and a year wiser, I accepted an offer from a 30/m, who insisted on a 7 AM rendezvous at the Dyker Heights courts (true to our Soviet roots, he was even more determined to avoid the permit inspection than yours truly, God bless him). He was an IT engineer with a decent serve compared to mine, but our ground games were fairly even. Mostly, I was heartened by his enthusiasm for the sport, evinced by the ungodly Saturday-morning wakeups…for about a week. Two Friday-night benders and three unanswered emails later, I had been dumped again. Was it time to cut and run?
Succor came in the form of an auxiliary potential I had been cultivating on the side. Flabby, and a bit on the creepy side, he was a nice guy and a spirited player who was serious about trying to get better; a stickler for the niceties of the game. Indulging him, I turned a blind eye to his for jailbait on the courts; we got on famously. For a few weeks we’d meet at the venue most convenient to me and play a set or two. Then, beset with guilt over making him ride his bike to my home court week in and week out, I assented to a match at the Caesar Bay courts on Bay Parkway.
There was something different about these courts. They were nice, for one thing, with a fresh layer of sea-blue paint, a noticeable lack of cracks in the asphalt, and mostly raked leaves. For another, there were no groups of adorable but incommodious children hogging up 30 percent of the playing space. Finally, there was no “Sergey the tennis expert” asking you to vacate his “tennis school” (commandeered corner court). With an official 180-degree twist of the baseball hat, I was ready to jam! Only one person stood between me and the elusive fruit of athletic ecstasy: a middle-aged black woman named Peggy. My partner had warned me about her. “Yo…check it out…she said it’s five dollaz without a permit—but it’s really seven.” Nice racket, I thought, but filed this caveat away under my partner’s whimsy, as he droned on and on about corruption.
Reluctantly, I committed to a game one damp Saturday evening. As usual, I showed up early, banking on the punctuality of my cohort. The challenge: getting past Peggy without a permit or money (my prideful parsimony would not permit me to part with the fiver). Implementing my go-to move, I sauntered in, with cocky self-assurance—or in a naïve stupor. Luckily, I was able to shadow a couple that had just walked in and consulted our formidable gatekeeper on a court suggestion. As soon as the threat had visibly passed and I was safely ensconced at the far end of the park, my exhalation was abruptly cut off by a booming, game-stopping “YO!” Peggy’s unmistakable shriek must have upset a few winners—a point or two for sure, between the 8 courts. I was in for it. Taking a slow walk of shame back to the tennis warden, I decided to plead with the lady, who stood, arms akimbo, looking like she’d been waiting for a fuckup like me all day.
“Ha-ha, baby! Shit, f-I did dat, I’d have to let ev’body play free.” The logic was irrefutable, the demeanor unflappable; still, I wasn’t everybody. I just wanted one free, friendly game of Brooklyn tennis with my sketchy freckled partner, that’s all! You must needs oblige me, Peggy! But it was not to be. I namedropped my partner before remembering that his expired ID wasn’t even on him—the dude bragged he’d only had to mention he was renewing it (well, you know how these things go with the City) and waiting on the card, when pressed. Figuring Peggy had nothing to lose by letting a guy tack to an almost-member with a possible permit on the way, I had to try.
I waited for him on a bench by the water, watching Chinese, Russian, and Puerto Rican fishermen impress their kids with fresh pulls of jetsam-fed bass and bluefish. 45 minutes later, my accomplice finally surfaced, offering the usual line of lame excuses. Meting out the requisite scolding, I bit my tongue and prepared to go through the motions of a lackluster tennis game, perhaps my last with this laggard. He hastened toward the tennis courts. Then it hit me—Peggy! No sooner had he led his bike through the gate, me still gathering my stuff, than I heard that hardened, coarsely glib voice—this time without its exuberant jollity: “Oh no, you don’t, Frank!” Her shrill scream jolted me—not in the least because my partner’s name wasn’t Frank at all.
The soothing feel of my car keys jangling in my pants pocket could not break me away from social obligation. Marching up to the club entrance, the scene unfolding between my eyes recalled my stepping into a cheap glue trap in my closet the day before. Meanwhile, the overcast Bensonhurst evening had conjured more characters on the scene. The standout was a tall, gangly, bearded Russian professional named Alex. He sported blue-tinted, out-of-fashion sunglasses. Computer or civil engineer during the day, Alex was now trying to engineer amity, or at least détente.
Peggy was in no mood for peace. It seemed “Frank” had tried to bulldoze his way in after Peggy curtly denied him proper entrance. She was disinclined to swallow any more horseshit about renewed permits that were in the mail. It wasn’t business—it was personal—as evidenced by 2 claret pools engulfing unblinking pupils. The clash of wills was exposing the dark side of tennis before my very eyes. It also created at least 3 different impressions of this melee. “Why you not just take bike outside?” Alex suggested. What was clear to all present was that Peggy was taking the stand of her life. She was full of wrath and ready to wrangle. Cross the line, motherfucker, and you’re mine.
“I’ve lived in this fucking community all my life! She can’t do this to us...she’s pocketing that money…how do we know she even works here?” It was equally, and more painfully, clear that Frank was taking a stand of his own. I stood by my partner—not tall—but I stood by. Like getting your ass kicked by the enemies of a friend you don’t particularly like, or going to an in-law’s birthday party, it was a moral duty. While admiring my own sense of the same, it had come to the attention of those that paid it that Peggy was about to clock Frank—and Frank was about to jab the handlebar into her fiery eyes. Even Alex’s assurance that Peggy certainly was in Parks Service’s employ went unheeded. I took the bridle on my partner while Alex handled Peggy. We exchanged looks, both shrugging to acknowledge our roles as seconds come duel time. Unscrewing his water bottle, Alex led a reluctant Peggy toward a paint-chipped bench. Shaken, she sunk in defeat. Alex rubbed her shoulders a moment or two, before resuming his game.
Before I had a chance to sprint toward my car and hurry away, Frank was leading me to that back court, open spoils to the victor. “Looks like it might be raining. We’d better get a set in at least,” he said, pumped. The man had a point.
Saturday, January 27, 2007
Best of Clay Davis
If you haven't been watching The Wire on HBO, you better ask somebody. And now, the best of Senator Clay Davis, curated by YouTube:
http://youtube.com/watch?v=f81Tfw60tTs
and now, the juked Generation Z version:
http://youtube.com/watch?v=HrfCixsd2N8
http://youtube.com/watch?v=f81Tfw60tTs
and now, the juked Generation Z version:
http://youtube.com/watch?v=HrfCixsd2N8
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Monster Love
Back in high school, Bohemigrant I and II used to slack around the halls of E.R. Murrow High School sharing the dubiously rewarding pastime of razzing on the "visibly disfigured." Included were albinos, spazzes, and, yes, the handicapped. As a result of deep-seated sexual frustration and the green-eyed envy monster, we begrudged these fellas their pity play. We are not proud of this, but there you have it. The name we gave these then-nauseating hallway dry-hump and makeout sessions? Monster Love. Apparently the famously open-minded citizenry of the Netherlands is not ripe for Monster Love. One day, we may yet change a few minds and open a few hearts...
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
smokin aces
http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0138620/
so this guy, whoever he is just put out a movie called smokin aces. it's another one of those "LET THE ACTORS PRETEND TO BE HITMEN!" movies. It oozes of Tony Scott, Michael Bey oversaturated color. Featuring a cast of the most annoying human beings http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0475394/
this movie will make a ton of money no doubt. it kind of reminds me of that Dustin Hoffman , Ed Burns movie that came out a few years ago. I have a new rule, "NEVER watch anything with Jeremy Piven in it." His character in smokin aces is named Israel so all the ads have "let's get israel" "let's shoot up israel", annoying.
so this guy, whoever he is just put out a movie called smokin aces. it's another one of those "LET THE ACTORS PRETEND TO BE HITMEN!" movies. It oozes of Tony Scott, Michael Bey oversaturated color. Featuring a cast of the most annoying human beings http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0475394/
this movie will make a ton of money no doubt. it kind of reminds me of that Dustin Hoffman , Ed Burns movie that came out a few years ago. I have a new rule, "NEVER watch anything with Jeremy Piven in it." His character in smokin aces is named Israel so all the ads have "let's get israel" "let's shoot up israel", annoying.
Saturday, January 13, 2007
fantastic four
i present you guys with the fantastic four movie of 94. the last 10 minutes, this movie was never meant to be released.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Monday, January 08, 2007
The Gas
So New York stunk of gas (err, ethyl mercaptan) today and our monotoned mayor told us it was harmless. YOU TELL THE PEOPLE PUKING ON THE TRAINS IT WAS HARMLESS, BLOOMBERG! I was late to work.
Skinny Models
I'm tired of reading about these; why are skinny models being discriminated? Why are fat people so full of plus sized (did Luntz think of that phrase?) rage? Listen when I say skinny models I'm talking lean, naturally skinny, not "anorexic twins" skinny. The problem with the fationistas (oh I went there my friends, I went there) is that they don't see a difference, what they see is their own gluttony. Why does everything have to be fat-centric? I've worked on many fashion shoots and I can tell you the majority of the models are in good shape and healthy-looking. Runway models are usually freakishly proportioned and very young. That's just how their bodies are. To say you have to meet these requirements to work here is unfair to the models and the designers. Maybe with these new regulations, they can give fashion shows ratings like they do with movies, music, and video games.
fationista,
there I said it again, for the last time I promise.
Skinny Models
I'm tired of reading about these; why are skinny models being discriminated? Why are fat people so full of plus sized (did Luntz think of that phrase?) rage? Listen when I say skinny models I'm talking lean, naturally skinny, not "anorexic twins" skinny. The problem with the fationistas (oh I went there my friends, I went there) is that they don't see a difference, what they see is their own gluttony. Why does everything have to be fat-centric? I've worked on many fashion shoots and I can tell you the majority of the models are in good shape and healthy-looking. Runway models are usually freakishly proportioned and very young. That's just how their bodies are. To say you have to meet these requirements to work here is unfair to the models and the designers. Maybe with these new regulations, they can give fashion shows ratings like they do with movies, music, and video games.
fationista,
there I said it again, for the last time I promise.
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