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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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j-train.gifz-train.gifm-train.gif You pretty much know what you’re getting with the JZM Condom. It’s mostly in Brooklyn, but there’s a quick in and out through Manhattan.

4-train.gif5-train.gif The 4/5 Condom is smooth and efficient. It’ll get you there fast and it hardly ever breaks.

airtrain.gif  The AirTrain Condom is just like all the other condoms, but more expensive, modern and confusing. Give yourself at least two hours per use.

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The NYC Condoms are Brooklyn Skeptic’s new favorite things. However, we figure that if you’re going to make them MTA themed, you might as well go all the way (so to speak). Here are the first two in BS’s line of NYC Condoms.

g-train.gifThe G Condom can be found in the F packaging from 12:00AM to 5:00AM Monday – Friday. It is unreliable, at best.

l-train.gif The L Condom is characterized by its asymmetrical cut. It works well on the weekdays, but you should have a Plan B for the weekend.

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I’ve recently adopted a Tuesday evening tradition. Well, it’s only been two times now, so maybe it’s more of a Tuesday evening coincidence. It’s something in the spirit of Mardi Gras – revolting hedonism on a Tuesday. This event, which I like to call “Shotdogs,” has everything but the girls gone wild.

The evening starts out at Welcome to the Johnsons, a perfectly divey bar in the Lower East Side in Manhattan (yuck, I know). I’ve been going to this bar for several years now and was something of a regular when I lived in that hood. I was there for the summer when fruit flies had infested the limes and so there was always a fine film of bugs and bug-parts on every drink you ordered. That was when I developed an irrational fear of bar fruit. I’ve witnessed the replacement of the toilet that was once so covered in band stickers, you could hardly tell what you were supposed to do with it. The new one is collecting its own piss stained collection. I’ve been there for brawls between guys who look like they fell out of a Ramones show thirty years ago – replete with blood trickling from their self-pierced safety pin earring holes. Anyway, as pleasant as all that sounds, there is one reason above all that I have been a Welcome to the Johnsons fan for so long: $2 drinks during happy hour (from when you wake up till 9 PM). You must not tell anyone about this. It’s a secret.

At Welcome to the Johnsons, the drinking begins. First, $2 whiskey and gingers. Then the shots. Last night we did a Red Headed Slut, followed by the bartender’s own concoction, Dr. Nut. Then we continue on with the regular drinks. All the while, the conversation gracefully flits from one topic to the other, weaving in nearby patrons and their opinions of The Flaming Lips, March Madness, olive juice, etc.

cupcackeeIn order for the Shotdog participants to remain reasonable, we all have to eat dinner. Dinner is hotdogs from Dash. In my case, vegetarian chili dogs. In other cases, processed meat monstrosities, choked with bacon, Fritos and other wonderful things. But that’s not all. Then come the chips and salsa from Festival Mexican Restaurant (outside of which, some guy drunkenly peed behind a Pathfinder while everyone in the bar watched with horror and glee) and then cupcakes (including one for the bartender) from Sugar Sweet Sunshine. Please keep in mind, I skipped the gym to partake in this madness.

By 9:00, we are all sufficiently bloated and return home to watch American Idol while we mainline salad and try to rehydrate.

Now, I don’t know if this particular evening’s activities can be approximated in our borough. I have a feeling that it is possible, but only in Williamsburg, where girls in leggings and guys in hoodies are a dime a dozen. The real issue here is that while the people at Johnsons and the people in Williamsburg are all disgusting hipsters, the ones at Johnsons are much skeezier. In my mind, this goes a long way. So, until an absurdly underpriced dive bar and an absurdly overpriced hot dog vendor move into my current hood, I think I’ll just keep hitting up the L.E.S for my shotdog fix.

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