Recently, it seems most of the people I meet who went to liberal arts schools now live, want to live, and aspire to do crack off of toilet seats while reading Kafka in Williamsburg. These hipster-in-denial schools include Wesleyan, Vassar, and (of course) Bard.
Many Williamsburg residents probably are not aware that the area is one of the most toxic places to live in the country. Whoops! So, not only do they get to be freaks, now they can be genetically mutated, too.
We now regale you with the Bard library, whose 4th floor is in contest with the Blum practice rooms for the best public place to passionately ravage your lover, goat, or genetic mutant from Williamsburg.
Overheard in the 8th Avenue L Station:
Male Chauvanist Pig (no, I swear, I’m not biased): Just because I love you doesn’t mean I can’t call you fat!
As the real world readily approaches us collegiate and post-collegiate individuals, the search for a great job seems to be as elusive as the lost-dryer-sock. Craigslist, though occasionally helpful, is fraught with fraudulent posting, false promises, and abundant opportunities to sell your body. However, if you aspire to become a personal escort, or do a job for “worthwhile contacts” who are just so worthwhile that they cannot pay you, this is your website.
I recently stumbled upon a reputable source of jobs for big names in publishing, PR, arts & design, and new media. Ironically, it’s part of a blog. It provides you with both your daily dose of snark and the potential for career advancement. Ladies, gents, hermaphrodites, and plant life: Gawker Jobs.
Also, for those interested in NYC real estate I have found a great deal of luck from NY Habitat. Please feel free to contact me for more information about the cheery agent who helped us find an apartment with AC and internet. Did I mention AC and internet? Without those, life would be creating a whole new ring of hell right now. AC and heat are crucial for NY summers and winters, unless you want your heated/cooled towel to be your bedmate for the entire season.
P.S. Yes, Towelie, I still love you. Please don’t cry… (you’re woefully less plushy and absorbent that way…)
Today while waiting for the 6 train, I noticed a sign on the other side of the tracks stating: “Danger: Rat Posion” with the obligatory picture of a dead rat. Upon finding myself in the situation to actually be in close proximity to this “rat poison,” I might be more readily concerned with the bug-on-a-windshield situation caused by a rampaging, high-speed 6 train. Apparently, the MTA workers have other ideas.
Overheard a few days ago in a Union Square shoe store:
Employee to Boss: So, it’s my money, right? Like I-can-shove-it-up-my-ass-if-I-want-to money?
Also, apparently you get your own words if you’re a British Jew.
Here records a coder’s greeting and the obligatory first post, proclaiming loudly that it is such.
I am the dog eared book you’ll pick up tomorrow.
I am my morning soy latte and two dollar subway ride.
I am the blurry photo you can’t help but squint at.
I am a tasty, emphatic semicolon.