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Archive for the ‘Subway’ Category

Each morning I travel from Brooklyn to Manhattan to go to my job and make money. I get on a crowded subway and will do one of three things, depending on my morning state of mind. Below is a breakdown of how my morning activities correspond with my levels of alertness (and their frequency):

  • Awake and Peppy: Very rare. In this case, I will read, listen to music or do a crossword puzzle. Sometimes all at the same time. Huzzah.
  • Tired: Frequent. I usually manage to do the same activities as above, just with less concentration.
  • Hungover: Frequent. I listen to music and vacantly stare at those around me, judging them.
  • Hungover from a 4am karaoke night: Very rare. Stare at my shoes in an attempt to not vomit and get the song Rocket Man out of my head.

As you’ll notice, the first two levels of alertness result in me doing a crossword puzzle. What crossword puzzle do I do? When I first moved to New York, I had the choice between two free papers each morning (as we all do). It was either the Metro or the AM New York. I began picking up the AM New York in the morning, and when I had finished reading it, I would get to the crossword puzzle. This usually happened pretty quickly considering that AM New York is a shitty newspaper which will often place rehab photos of Hollywood stars on the front page in lieu of world events of actual importance. Eventually, I stopped even glancing at the paper, and would just pull the crossword puzzle out each morning.

And oh, did I have a grand old time with the crossword puzzles. Like the New York Times, the puzzle gets progressively harder as the week goes on. I used to be able to finish Friday’s in an hour or two (while at work of course – like I am now), do Wednesday’s on the subway ride to work, and come up with the answers to Monday’s puzzle while in the shower before even looking at the paper. But times, they have changed.

Either I’m getting dumber, or the puzzle is getting much harder. I would really rather believe the latter. I like to think that I treat my brain with a certain amount of respect. I read a lot. I don’t watch a ton of bad television. I have a group of intelligent friends and we occasionally have thought-provoking and engaging conversations between dick jokes. I finally quit doing whip-its. What’s the deal?

So let me say to you, AM New York. You are the paper for the tired and the hungover. You write about trashy celebrities, and make people feel better about their lives while waiting on a dank subway platform. You print two page ads about shitty miracle drugs that will help people lose weight. Hell, sometimes your ads are actually the front cover of the paper, and you have to turn the page to find the real headline. So why make your crossword puzzle harder? I don’t want a fucking challenge at 8:00am! I want to feel good about myself. I want to know that 24 down is “aloe” and that 36 across is “Bogosian.” I want to solve puzzles quickly and impress the random person reading over my shoulder. I want you to make my AM easier.

It’s either that, or I start doing whip-its in the morning.

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Just wanted to call attention to my new favorite word (thank you so much for all you give us, Gawker): emosogynistic.

Re: Dude’s behavior who sees cute girl on subway then goes home and blogs about it on hotsubwaychicks.blogspot.com. Do not be disappointed when you click on this link and there are no busty gals with 12″ subs. I know Jared was.

From the site (editor’s notes in italics):

So this platform (ha! like a subway platform) will (be) for me to call out girls I saw on the train that I think are hot, if they come across their posting I made of them then they can totally hit me up and we’ll go out for coffee, talk, laugh, and hopefully make out and other things….I may draw pictures still not too sure on that one will get back to you there but it will come together somehow. No I’m not really as creepy and masagenistic as I made this out (phew), it just makes for good blogging. Watch out for the first hot chick for me to come across, it may be you 😉 (almost as gross as a real life wink)

I’m a little worried at the idea that just because all of the 20-something boys grew up listening to emo, that they have to internalize the craze and really live the lyrics to a New Found Glory song.

The needle on my record player has been wearing thin
This record has been playing since the day you’ve been with him
No more long rides home
No more of your station
I didn’t like it anyways
Remember the time we wrote our names upon the wall
Remember the time we realized “Thriller” was our favorite song

God forbid he overhears HIStory playing on some girl’s ipod.

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Dear New York,

Please stop peeing in every nook and cranny of the New York City transit system. The scurrying rats, regular gusts of hot, moist air, piles of poo, expectorating teenagers and Bugaboos are quite enough. I don’t need the acrid stench of piss to greet me every morning like an over-eager puppy.

Love,

Recklesley

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On the subway on the way home tonight I read over someone’s shoulder “Cheney in Rage at Reid“. My first thought was what did that crazy girl do now?

I was imagining Cheney sitting slumped on the floor inside the oval office, despondently waiting for Tara to call after their drunken groping at McFadden’s after-hours club the night before.

creepy cheney McFadden’s Party Time

Unfortunately, it turned out to be some boring story about ‘defeatism’. Yawn.

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In order to avoid misunderstandings among friends, I recently went back to Royale to perform some scientific inquiry on its ass. In a previous post, I had professed its awesomeness – with due qualifications – and was brutally shut down. Admittedly, I had visited the bar on the worst possible time to go out in New York, Saturday night. This time, I went to Happy Hour – the best light in which to see a drinking establishment – with the express purpose of collecting numerical data, which I would like to share with you.

The basic assertion that I am challenging is that Welcome to the Johnson’s has the best Happy Hour in the five boroughs of New York City. On a ten point scale, I hearby prove that Royale is a strong contender, if not the unquestionable winner. Please find definitions and measurements below the chart.

bar-graph.jpg

DP: Drink Price
As a percentage of hourly pay

DFW: Distance from Work
As a percentage of an hour

C: Crowdedness
As a percentage of the total seats filled in the bar

S: Smell
As a percentage of stink molecules in the air

MV: Music volume
100% = the volume of regular human conversation

AoB: Adorableness of Bartender
As a percentage of ooogie-smoogie-boogums

PoB: Personableness of Bartender
As a percentage of time filled with witty banter

K: Kitchiness
As a percentage of ridiculous things in the bar, like Jenga or family photographs

BS: Bathroom Scariness
As a percentage of bathroom-related nightmares following the drinking session during regular sleeping hours (normally about 13%)

F: Formalness
As a percentage of men present wearing non-ironic ties

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If there’s a lovlier bar than Flatbush Farm, I don’t want to know about it. It’s so classy, it makes Union Hall look like Welcome to the Johnsons. It’s so charming, it makes George Clooney blush. It’s so pretty, it makes sunsets turn to ash and fall out of the sky. It’s so expensive, it makes me perspire.

Flatbush Farm is decorated with perfectly shabby barnyard equipment, has hippie hand soap in the bathrooms and sells organic beer. I think the concept of organic beer is both horrifying and life-affirming. It’s horrifying in that it’s a pussified version of an essentially tough beverage. But it’s kind of life-affirming in that I am an alcoholic vegetarian with a thing for farmers’ markets. It’s like they don’t even pretend that place is not exactly for people like me – except older and with more money.

Last night, they had a fund raiser for some sort of animal shelter and were auctioning kitty-pleasuring gift baskets to insane people who actually try to stuff pets into their tiny New York apartments. Attendees were literally yelping with delight as they bought hundreds of dollars worth of scratching posts and tiny plush mice. “Mr. Muffins is going to be so spoiled,” squealed one woman. Really, that money would be better spent on anti-depressants and a good lint roller.

Aside from how insane rich people in Brooklyn are, this bar is really lovely. You should go check it out. But don’t stay too long because the organic beer will probably melt your brains.

Flatbush Farm
76 St. Marks Ave. at 6th Ave. and Flatbush Ave.
Brooklyn, NY 11217

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a-train.gifc-train.gife-train.gifin the hole.

s-train.gif Short, limited service. Perfect for so many men I’ve dated.

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