Home made frappucino action!
What's up with my bald spot? Haha.
The frapuccino artist herself is unsure of her creation.
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Went to a kind of a major party last night at The Delancey thrown by a couple of Kzar's friends.
We pre-gamed with a bit of improvised margarita action in Kzar's apartment.
Made by mixologist Cyrus, it wasn't quite a margarita, but it was pretty dang tasty--contrary to my expression.
I'm explaining that I'm just not the biggest fan of tequila after too many heavy bouts with it during my freshman year (The tequila won, I lost).
Cy loves his fruity margaritas.
Two cheers for Kzar
In the cab ride, Cyrus delivered an unprompted polemic about women and mustaches.
Group photo. Aww.
Cyrus offered to by Cristina a drink and instead, she vaguely replied with a list of liquors that she likes. Cyrus returned with this triple shot. Haha.
The roommates of E. 50th Street apartment reunited!
Lauren, one of the party organizers, shows off her bag of "dares" handed out to people as a way to encourage people to talk to strangers. I stayed in the corner with my dare and talked to Cy and Kzar.
Kzar's sister Mariya and her friend. Right after this photo was taken, big brother Kzar doing his brotherly duties, warned Mariya about the dangers of smoking. Truth.
Munira and her dare.
Mmmm. Overpriced drinks in plastic cups. Classy!
And after a few drinks, a dancing Cy!
Patrick talking shit about people with Cristina. These two people totally heart Brooklyn.
Chillin' with one of Cristina's friends whom I met a long time ago.
Me and Cy.
At Delancey, if you buy sophisticated drinks (Vodka tonic doesn't count) and wear a skinny tie, they give you a real glass.
Mariya gets a bit belligerent when she's had a few. Look at her expression!
There's a lot of teeth going on in this photo.
Hot and sweaty (and in Cy's case, sneering).
Drinking since 7 combined with the heat overwhelmes Cy and he eventually decides to take a little "nap." A bouncer later walked by and gave him a poke to see if he was still alive. A brother can't sleep in peace anywhere.
A violent jump.
Leaving the bar to get some grub.
See I told you--belligerent Mariya.
Cy likes his fries.
Cy also really, really, really likes his ketchup.
The End.
This is too cool. Using people and stop-motion filming in a movie theater, some creative people made this recreation of the classic arcade game, Space Invader. [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=reQ_Laq2O2o]
A question that I share with Annie Lennox.
Beautiful blue sky over Central Park.
Chllin' in Central Park. Good stuff.
Lauren taking care of business.
Another weekend over. Have a good week, kids.
Warning: Lotsa photos, so give 'em time to load up. Peace.
While waiting for Cyrus at his apartment, I took me some artsy photos.
It's artsy, because it's in black and white.
See. Not so artsy.
Heaven to me is sitting on a stoop on a nice sunny day in NYC, listening to Tribe and watching the people go by.
Once in Cy's apartment, we enjoyed ourselves one...and...two...and...three cups of rum and Coke.
You can't tell by his expression here, but he is STOKED to party.
Cy is also very stoked by the Pussy Cat Dolls--so much so that he actually purchased their music video from iTunes. He's just keepin' it real.
Door mat outside of the apartment. It's funny, because if you add an extra "T" to "mat," you'd get my name. Fucking hilarious, isn't it? Isn't IT?
We had mojitos and amazing Cuban food at Cafecito on 12th and C for dinna. Highly recommend.
Lauren, representing the white contingent, shows up to join our crew.
The bathroom wall at the bar we were at. This is how you know how truly worthless a penny is.
The salsa experts doing there thang.
Kristin (about to give someone a high-five I think) and her friend (I forgot your name--Sorry!) show up at the hookah bar.
Cy intently focusing on the pipe. Look at his level of concentration.
Apparently Kristin's friend (far left) didn't get the memo that she should smile in this photo. Anyway, check out my hot recessive attached earlobe action! WOOHOO!
Now we're all on the same page in this photo, except that my gigantic hair is covering half of the photo. [Memo to self: Haircut ASAP]
These are some of Lauren's friends who showed up briefly for a drink and a few songs before peace-ing out.
Kristin and friend getting their groove on.
After the hookah bar, we went back to the Latin scene. This wannabe Casanova attempted to dance with every girl that walked by. He finally succeeded with this girl in the photo and took full advantage of the situation. "I've got five on itttt."
This girl showed up with the girl in the previous photo. DAYAMMMM. Rubenesque girls need their lovin' too from anonymous guys in bars.
Hot and sweaty and tired.
But not so tired to jump! Haha. Lauren was at first puzzled at my request that she jump, but once she understood, she got so into it. Haha.
Lauren trying to force a levitating Cy back to the ground.
A badly timed jump. The generally reliable SD400 camera had a difficult time focusing in the dark.
Success! Dang-I just noticed that Lauren is jumping in heels. Girlfriend is gangsta.
I'm all like "I'm too fucking cool to jump."
Oh, who am I kidding? Let's jump!
Cyrus demonstrating some serious vertical hops. Black men can jump, it appears.
All this excitement is just too much for Lauren.
The owner of this car is really stoked to see a drunk hysterically laughing girl sitting on his car.
Finally done with jumping, we decide to head home.
Strike a pose.
Some late night poetics: Phantasmal apparition in the night.
Demonstrating what I've learned from "So You Think You Can Dance."
"Bicycle bicycle bicycle"
"I want to ride my bicycle bicycle bicycle"
"I want to ride my bicycle"
Waiting for our food at the diner.
Um, so my BLT was awesome.
Haha. A drunk Cy.
The End.
I went out on a Tuesday night to hang out with my friend Mike before he leaves for India tomorrow, Thursday, for a job. He'll be there for the next two years, which is crazy, but exciting. I wish him the best.
At the Starbucks on Spring Street in Soho, Mike's alter ego reveals itself.
Me and Mike in Union Square after drinking at Coffee Shop.
Who is cat eating out on the town
And make the whole dining room turn they head around
Mr Dugga Dugga Dugga.
Mike and his Georgetown buddy, Mook at Botanica. As evident by the collar shirt, Mook just got out of a law firm related social event. We are chilling at Botanica, which is one of my all time favorite bars.
Me and Lauren--another soon to be lawyer.
The lonely and quiet Metro North train ride back.
I take photos of flowers. Thank you macro feature!
I don't know what kind of flower this is, but it reminds me of a mango smoothie.
I just finished watching "The Gladiator" on TNT for the umpteenth time. Am I the only guy that gets choked up in the final scene when the senator looks down at the fallen body of Maximus and asks "Who will help me carry him?"
I have thoroughly enjoyed this year's World Cup, but I found it bizarre that there is a consolation match between the two losing teams of the semi-finals to battle it out for the seemingly meaningless title of third place. No one remembers who came in second place, let alone third. I think the World Cup should follow the NCAA Final Four basketball tourney format where there is only one winner: the winner of the final match. My biggest complaint, shared by many others, is the laughable--if it wasn't so god damn irritating--tendency of the players on the pitch to resort so frequently to theatrics. When slightly nudged or grabbed or bumped, the "victim" (or more accurately, diver) tumbles to the grass with an act that rivals the best Olympic gymnastics floor routine--all to grab the attention of the referee and hopefully earn a free kick or a card against the opposing player. For all the talk about soccer being a "beautiful game" and a skilled one, lets call these player's exaggeration actions for what it is: unsportsmanlike and cheating.
Admittedly, I don't know what solution there might be to address this issue. The field is too big and the action too quick and minute for a referee to truly discern the genuine from the disingenuous. In the same way some sports are defined by the hardiness of the players abilities to take coma-inducing hits (hockey most notably), I think the issue of diving is ingrained in the culture of futbol. Therefore, this diving problem cannot be fixed at just the elite international level of play. It must occur at its roots in the playground, gymnasiums, youth leagues and so on. The culture of soccer must change to the extent that diving is considered a dishonor to the utmost extreme.
Along with the culture modification, the finger for a player and team's tendency for diving must also be pointed at the general, the head coach. The coach sets the play, attitude, and personality of a team. In this light, a player that dives has the tacit approval of the coach. I think if a referee draws a yellow card for diving, the coach should receive one too. If another player on the same team receives another yellow card for diving, the coach will receive his or her second card as well, resulting in the coach's expulsion from the game. Diving is a controllable act and therefore, the penalties should be extreme in order to root out this disease from an otherwise beautiful game.
With only a few hours left before the start of the final match between France and Italy, I'd just like to say "Go France!" It's extremely difficult for me to not root for the "old men" or more specifically, the French captain Zidane. He is everything a world class soccer star should be and I'd like to see him go out with the proverbial final-at-bat home run.
It appears I totally jinxed the Shamu essay in the New York Times (see my bellwhether entry). For the first time, Shamu has been bumped from the number one spot atop the most-emailed list. But I have a feeling that Shamu ain't giving up without a fight.
Stay tuned for updates.
One would think that a hoity-toity community like Scarsdale would be tranquil. I lived briefly in a first floor apartment on 30th and 1st that was across the street from a major hospital and even that situation (imagine ambulence sirens all. the. time.) was more peaceful than Scarsdale. It's ridiculous. I think someone is simultaneously running a lawn mower and a chainsaw right outside my window.
Stuyvesant students are so spoiled. Not only do they attend a fantastic high school (from what I've heard), but then they get always hilarious Conan O'Brian to speak at their graduation. I don't even know who spoke at mine. It was probably the Lieutenant Secretary of State or someone equally obscure. Although Conan's words were directed at 18-year-old kids about to make the momentous step from one chapter of their life to another (college), his message resonated with me as well. I think no matter how removed one is from their high school or college past, it's always good to hear a commencent speech as a form of reassurance and needed inspiration to those of us who are still attempting to find an onramp onto the highway of our dream career.
Anyhoo. Here is Conan's speech (broken up into two parts):
Part 1 of 2
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wi4-1d9DB9Q]
Part 2 of 2
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0bLeVKGSJWE]
I need to bookmark this: Gnarls Barkley at Central Park Summerstage on August 17.
Eating two slices of pizza and two pieces of chocolate cake and washing that down with a Coke at midnight is nirvana. Pure unadulterated nirvana.
So while some of my friends will be enjoying this year's fireworks extravaganza from the comforts of a Manhattan high rise, I will be celebrating Will Smith and Jeff Goldblum's triumph over the invading aliens and their superior technology by hiding away in the tony Westchester suburb of Scarsdale. Surrounded by the flora that at one time commanded the same area that would eventually be demarcated as first "New Amsterdamn" and then later "New York City," the closest I will be to this year's Independence Day celebration is the interruption of nearby exploding fireworks and the howling of distressed dogs. My current hermitic status is largely self-imposed as a sort of an act of self-flagellation. Rather than enforcing religious discipline and commitment, I'm using my social isolation in Scarsdale to establish self-discipline in my job hunt. In addition, by placing myself in the very environment and condition I loath, I'm further forcing myself to push just that much more to find employment. Like The Good Book said, "in a job, I shall find salvation."
In sum, I leave you with these words by President Thomas Whitmore:
"Good morning. In less than an hour, aircraft from here will join others from around the world. And you will be launching the largest aerial battle in the history of mankind. "Mankind." That word should have new meaning for all of us today. We can't be consumed by our petty differences anymore. We will be united in our common interests. Perhaps it's fate that today is the Fourth of July, and you will once again be fighting for our freedom... Not from tyranny, oppression, or persecution... but from annihilation. We are fighting for our right to live. To exist. And should we win the day, the Fourth of July will no longer be known as an American holiday, but as the day the world declared in one voice: "We will not go quietly into the night! We will not vanish without a fight!" We're going to live on! We're going to survive! Today we celebrate our Independence Day!"
Enjoy your hotdogs, kids.
Here's Sisqo making a recent appearance at some PR event (looks like LG). Has it really been that long since the summer of thong, thong, thong? That summer, it seemed as though this man was on every channel (well, if the channels were limited to MTV and BET).
Looks like he's been keeping up his membership at Equinox, but if I was him, I'd spend less time doing ab crunches with my solarshockflex machine and instead, put in more quality time at the studio. I know the "Thong Song" was popular, but it wasn't that popular. Hell if MC Hammer and Michael Jackson can go bankrupt, so can damn Sisqo.
Unrelatedly, am I the only one that thinks Sisqo is also downlow? (Hey that rhymed!)
(Via) The dog wants some of what the cat is eating and the cat is all like, "Aw hell no bitch. I ain't going down like that. Talk to ma' paw. Talk to ma' mothafuckin' paw! You wanna eat some of this? Eat my mothafuckin' paw like the little bitch that you are!"
(Click on image if it doesn't appear to be moving)
This is an addendum to my recap below. In the restroom at the Japanese restaurant on St. Marks, someone wrote on the wall "I had sex with your mom."
Below it, someone else rejoined, "Haha. The joke's on you. She has AIDS."
I saw Superman in DIGITALLL PROJECTION-TION-TION on Thursday night. Digital Projection isn't IMAX, but the clarity is pretty sweet. So, while the dialogue occasionally dipped into the cheesy territory (although I suspect this is unavoidable when making a movie based on a comic book character, particularly one that wears red and blue tights), it was a pretty super movie. If you haven't seen it, I highly recommend you go check it out (and go early to get good seats).
I just can't believe they actually killed him in the end. That's quite an ending. I'm curious as to how they will revive him in the (sure to be) sequel.
And he's also totally gay. I mean, look for god's sake!--Rainbows from his fingertips:
On Monday night, I made a bit of a last minute visit to West 27th Street and met up with Lauren and Mike. Lauren's friend was working the door at BED.
Mike says "Wha?? Going out on a Monday night??"
Mike and Lauren getting their groove on.
Word association? Unfortunate.
Dude rocking the cane.
The ladies apparently love the cane and leg brace.
Cane man told us (Said he was a promoter--Who isn't a promoter in this City?) that the hot party that night was at Cain down the street. Once we got there, there was definitely a crowd trying to get in. Cane man acted like he was all hooked up, but his crippled ass had to wait in line just like everyone else. He was only let in after he bought a table (6 Benjis).
At some point, Mike, Lauren and I had waited so long to get in at Cain that we couldn't leave. So we waited patiently. Twice they announced that the doors were "closed." Liars! Haha.
One girl started yelling at the bouncers and door people that they were racist and only letting in white people. As if on cue, this skinny white dude comes marching up, unhooks the rope himself and lets himself in. The crazy bitch starts going off right then and there about this white dude. Apparently he had been in there already and had a "stamp," but that didn't matter to crazy woman. The door people tried stopping the white dude to make him show his stamp. He waved them off and walked in to the club while muttering about how "ridiculous this was." White privilege right there. Haha.
This same chick reappeared 20 minutes later and tried to walk in because she now had a 'stamp.' The bouncers and the doorwoman told her they remembered her and she wasn't getting in at all tonight.
In her defense, they were letting in some really wack people but hey, if I was running a place where people were willing to pay 600 minimum for a table, I'd let in Pol Pot if he was willing to throw down his credit card.
Another guy erupted at one of the door guys because he couldn't get in either. This dude went off. He started yelling about how he's got 50 g's around his wrist and how if he ever ran into the door dude, he'd "wreck" him. This guy then came back into the line to show off his watch (It WAS shiny and heavy looking) worth 50 g's (according to him). And while I couldn't quite see what it was, he pulled out some sketchbook to show his stuff. Lauren and Mike saw it. We were thinking why the hell he was carrying a sketchbook. When he eventually left, his final parting shot to the door dude was "And you ain't even pretty." Hahaha. OUCH!
Eventually, they would only let in two of us, which is wack. Defeated we finally left. I've never really waited in line to get in anywhere so this was a first for me. Chalk it up for a NYC memory.
And you ain't even pretty!