Friday, June 30, 2006

America's Next Top Graphic Artist

If any of my readers are graphic artists, professional or amateur, and care to take the time to submit a title graphic for this blog, I would really appreciate it.

I try to pretend that I know what I'm doing with my Serif Photo Plus application, but have been unable to create a graphic to which I can get married.

I'm shooting for something that resembles the professionality and sleekness of this title graphic:

Being that the title of my blog is rather tacky and low-brow, I would like a graphic that offsets this by being simple, sleek and classy... something that dignifies the tackiness of the title... if that makes any sense.

Bonus points may be awarded to graphics that subtly and tastefully include my name, [redacted].

You get the jist, right? I don't know, just send me your ideas.

Email an appropriately sized jpeg to: [redacted]

Feel free to disregard everything I've said and create whatever the hell you want.

Let the games begin,

UPDATE: Thanks to Tynan of and for the new theme and header graphic. Much appreciated sir, it looks great.

Tuesday, June 27, 2006

New York City Blackout

Yes, I realize this happened a long time ago.

When the big NYC Blackout occurred, I remember that the first thing I thought was, “If I don’t come out of this with a great story, I’m pathetic.”

Well, not only did I get a story, I got some pictures too.

I was working for a pair of Oscar-winning movie-making-mogul brothers at the time. My office in Tribeca shut down around the time of the blackout, maybe two or three in the afternoon, I don’t remember. The local bar was unloading all of its beer for half price so I stayed there drowning myself in half-price love until around six o’clock. Knowing that I would never see this good of a deal again, I drank as many bottles of Budweiser as I possibly could, as fast as I possibly could. I got totally seriously hammered and decided I should probably start walking back to my apartment in Queens.

Yep, I had to walk from Tribeca to Astoria(for the non-New Yorkers, that’s really fucking far). I think it was pretty hot that day, too. Again, my memory of this day isn’t so sharp. Good times.

I stopped by a deli which was selling its cooler goods for basically nothing. I grabbed a 6-pack of Coors tall-boys to throw in my bag for the walk home to Queens.

After a couple hours of walking and rubbernecking, I finally got to the Queensboro Bridge.

This is the sea of people at the foot of the bridge, Manhattan side going to Queens.

I stood there for a while looking around and taking in the scene when I saw a lot of black smoke and what looked to be an apartment fire.

I’m really awesome when I’m drunk so I made a bee-line straight for the fire.

I saw the huge red brick wall that is at least four or five stories tall. It supports an overpass that runs right by the apartment building(pictured below). So what should I do? Climb the wall of course.

Drunk people should climb walls to get very close to fire.

I scaled the wall with my bag over my shoulder. I still had two beers left. No way in hell I was leaving those behind. I got scared a couple times on the way up because the finger-holds between the bricks got really small, and it was a long way down by that point. People were cheering for me. People tend to do that a lot.

Public Service Announcement: Never begin to climb anything which you are not certain that you can summit. Getting stuck sucks.

After a pretty shaky climb I finally threw my leg over the top of the wall and sat on the overpass to catch my breath. I repeatedly flexed and relaxed my fingers, as my fingers were very angry with me.

That’s when I saw where the fire was.

(Click to enlarge)

Oh fucking sweet!

I challenge anyone to tell me the last time they were completely alone in a pitch black NYC with a burning car twenty feet away. You can't. I am the only person this has ever happened to.

This is a real life car on real life fire and I was the only one there to see it… for about two minutes.

Then the NYPD and the FDNY ruined my party.

They had the sense to stay a block away from the burning car while they repeatedly instructed me over the PA on the fire engine to “leave immediately”. I was a little too busy messing with the settings on my crappy camera to take them seriously.

I realized they were serious when I looked up and saw a fleet of New York's Finest sprinting towards me with black steel batons shouting things that I would rather not repeat on record.

I got the fuck out of dodge and started to climb back down the wall, but not before I got this picture of New York’s Bravest putting out the fire.

(Click to enlarge)

I guaran-fucking-tee you that there is no way I would have made it down that wall without the adrenaline that came from running from the cops. I slipped off the wall with about 10 feet to go and somehow landed solid on my feet. A lot of people below were watching me come down the wall, and it drew a lot of attention. They were cheering again, I'm used to it. There were several gasps when I slipped, and several relieved sighs when I landed.

I immediately blended into the crowd and made my way home.

Several people went to great lengths to follow me into the crowd crossing the bridge. I guess there's really nothing better to do during a blackout. A few people who were trailing behind me while I was trying to make myself lost in the crowd congratulated me or asked me questions about what I was doing on the wall.

I only responded with, "I got lost."

All Eyes on Me

This is me doing a wicked 540-back-flip three stories in the air with eight wheels attached to my feet... no net, just a plywood landing ramp(left).

I do shit like this all the time so I'm totally braver than you.

(Click picture to enlarge)

Monday, June 26, 2006

Whatever Floats Your Boat

As this blog gains popularity, it seems to be climbing the search engine ladder.

These are some interesting search terms with which people have found my smashing ass blog.


Google: Awesome Shit.
I can't argue with this one.

Google: Alligator Rings Doorbell.

MSN Search: Finest Niggas Phone Numbers.
Can't argue with this one either, though the cultural reference is highly inaccurate.

MSN Search: Malaysia Fucking.
Hmm... ok, I guess I could be into it. Wait... ok, yeah.

And my personal favorite-

MSN Search: Dicks Sticking Out of Shorts.
Uh, no thanks, but whatever floats your boat.

Friday, June 23, 2006

Hang Tight

I'm percolating some new shit.

Oh, and if you haven't caught on yet, I constantly revise my old posts. If I haven't written anything new in a while, it's probably because I've been doing re-writes. If there's a post you haven't read in a while, read it again because there may some new material tucked in somewhere.

Also, I often write when I'm very drunk. If anyone sees any typos or any other glaring errors, no matter how small, please send me an e-mail and let me know.

Happy Friday everyone.

Friday, June 16, 2006

Immigration problem? Gee, I haven't noticed.

My air mattress sprung a big ass leak last night.

I live in a primarily Dominican neighborhood in NYC and I am, on many levels, your average American white guy who speaks very little Spanish.

That being said:

I walked into a hardware store in my neighborhood today and was greeted by a pleasent and eager fellow.

Fellow: Que pasa, boss?

Me: I need an adhesive patch.

Fellow: Que?

Me: I'm looking for an adhesive patch. I have an air mattress and it has a hole in it. I need to fix it. Like, something you'd fix a bike tire with. Do you have something like that?

Fellow: Si, si, no problemo, amigo!

The gentleman disappeared into the back of the store, came out a few seconds later and met me at the cash register.

He handed me a plastic bag containing an electical powerstrip, smiled and asked,

"Es eso?" (Will that be all?)

I gave him a look that probably read something like...

--I mean you can't be serious, dude. What part of "adhesive patch" sounds like "three-prong/eight-outlet AC adapter"? I'm a fairly tolerant individual, but this is fucking ridiculous.--

After my eyes burned a hole through this poor sap's soul, he called for an English speaking manager.

The manager comes over, greets me and asks,

Manager: "What can I do for you?"

Me: "Hello, I need an adhesive patch to fix my air mattress."

The manager turns to the fellow I originally spoke with and says,

Manager to fellow: "Tenemos un patcho?" (Do we have a patch?)

Fellow: "Oh! UN PATCHO!"

Yes, you idiot. Try to get your brain to think outside of that tiny box. Take off the "o" and we're talking about the same thing, genius.

I mean, what the hell is going on here? Let's just suppose that for some reason I took a job in a hardware store in The Dominican Republic, okay? Let's also suppose that I speak relatively no Spanish.

If a native approached me in the store and asked for "un patcho", I would know that the customer wanted "a patch" of some sort. How would I know this? Because I'm not retarded.

I can almost understand being served the chicken soup instead of the chicken sandwich which I actually ordered, but c'mon.

Wednesday, June 14, 2006

Airport Secrets

*This is a granite-rough-draft of a post that I want to publish within the next week. I just jotted down some thoughts. I will revise this and bring it up to standard. Maybe it will be interesting to compare the draft with the final product.

I hate flying because I like to smoke and drink.

I always arrive early and check into my gate with plenty of time to spare. Now what?

Hit the bar, of course.

My problem? I’m a smoker.

Not only do I love to smoke cigarettes, I need to smoke cigarettes… especially when I’m drinking. Unfortunately, most airports that I frequent are not conducive to my needs. They have banned smoking on the entire premises.

I cannot drink without smoking, and I cannot deal with the airline’s arbitrary bullshit unless I drink. Consequently, they have put me in one hell of a bind. I will go out on a limb here and guess that I am not alone in this respect.

Fear no more, smokers, for I have a secret that I have chosen to disclose to you.

This is the secret of the “Family Restroom”. Every airport has several of them, and they are completely private. There is at least one in every major terminal, but you have to know where to find them. Look for the non-descript door located near the general restrooms. It is a one-holer-bathroom with a lockable door that is almost always available.

Whether you use this information to have your sex or smoke your pot:

Just make sure you’re prepared for the shame that comes with leaving a smoke and sex filled “Family” restroom, when there is a family waiting right outside as you leave.

Monday, June 12, 2006

I Am Not Smart

I have always prided myself on being a fairly intelligent person, both book-wise and street-wise. I can read big words and I can count pretty high. I know lots of random shit. I am able to assess and analyze a problem with which I’m completely unfamiliar, and realize a near optimal solution on a regular basis.

However, I am not smart. I have some incredibly smart friends, though.

Don't click this link yet, because I want to tell you some things about this guy first. Author of the new blog, Inti Tayta’s: Welcome Home, Inti Tayta, is verifiably one of the smartest people on Earth. Period. I have known this guy since I was twelve, and his intellect is bizzare and astounding.

As a twenty-five year-old professional mathematician and student, Inti Tayta has held instructional positions at the Tata Institute of Fundamental Research(India), École Normale Supérieure(France), and Tohoku University(Japan).

He is also very popular in the Tokyo stand-up comedy scene, where he does his routine entirely in Japanese. The gimmick is that he doesn’t speak Japanese at all. With the help of a colleague at Tohoku University, Inti learned an entire stand-up routine, phonetically. He does a whole routine in Japanese and has no idea what he’s saying. The routine reportedly references this fact several times. How brilliant is that?

Inti Tayta is one of four people in the world to completely understand Freyd-Mitchell embeddings of abelian categories. He is currently working on a complete description of bio-physical phenomenality via Grothendieck topoi. Whatever that shit means.

Oddly, at 5’7”, 110 pounds, Inti is one of the world’s leading experts on alligator wrestling technique. Appparently using his mathematical aptitude, Inti created a scientific formula that isolates all variables of an alligator's natural attack instincts and tendencies. He developed an easy to understand system and teaches profitable seminars in weird places all over the world.

As his most recent accomplishment, Inti turned down a job offer as a CIA Code and Encryption Analyst. He said the job "sounded too stuffy".

Anyway, his blog is brand new and doesn’t have a lot of live content yet, but this serves as a formal notice to keep an eye on Inti Tayta’s: Welcome Home.

Saturday, June 10, 2006

World Blogger Championship of Poker

Poker Tournament

I have registered to play in the PokerStars World Blogger Championship of Online Poker!

This Online Poker Tournament is a No Limit Texas Holdem event exclusive to Bloggers.

Registration code: 7712767

It should be really fun.

They're giving away nine seats to the main event at the World Series of Poker.

I want a seat. Wicked bad.

I'll let everyone know how I do.

The Tournmanent is on June 18th.


I finished in 162nd Place out of 2239 players. I played very well, but lost a critical race for all of my chips in the third hour of the tournament.

I had 77, he had AK. All the money went in before the flop.

Flop came: AAK

Game over.

No prize.

Thursday, June 08, 2006

Mace, an Axe and a Crowbar: A Love Story, Part II

Read -Part I- first, if you haven't already.

About a week later, I was waiting outside in the back of my school, standing on a curb waiting for my father to pick me up. I had stayed after school for an extra curricular activity of some sort so almost everyone on the school grounds was long gone.

This was a particularly exciting day for me as my long distance girlfriend of over a year was in town and I was going to get to see her. I only got to see her once every couple months. This was a gigantic fucking deal.

As my father was running late, I shifted my focus east for a while, then west, as I didn’t know from which direction he might be coming. I was standing there, zoned out in my own little westward facing world, counting down the seconds until I get to make out with my furiously hot long distance girlfriend in the photo booth at the mall.

Then, out of nowhere, I heard a loud bang and I immediately fell unconscious. Knocked out cold.

I woke up a few seconds later staring straight at the dirt on the ground. I had no fucking clue what had just happened. Very groggy, I slowly got to my feet. When my eyes finally came into focus, I looked down to see a single red clay brick lying at my feet. I also felt an overwhelming pain on the back of my head.

My eyes rose from the ground and I saw a kid sitting on a bike in the middle of the street smiling from ear to ear.

“Where’s your mace now, motherfucker?” he asked.

I didn’t have a good answer for him, as I was completely fucked up from his generous brick to the head. I just stood there, looking like a boxer who had just returned from a trip to the canvas.

The little shit rode off on his bike, laughing. Fighting every fiber of my being, I had to let him go.

Even in my diminished state of awareness, not to mention my young age, I knew to cut my losses right there. If this kid was crazy enough to chase me with an axe and blindside me in the head with a brick, who fucking knows what he's capable of? I was happy to still be alive.

My father drove up in the family Buick a couple minutes later and I got into the car.

“Well, hell of a day to be late, Dad.” I said, while secretly wiping the blood from my head into the inside of my right front jeans pocket.

“Watch your language. Why? What happened?” He replied.

I didn’t even know where to start with the story, so I just said,

“Nothing. It’s no big deal.”

I was a little worried that if I told my dad what happened, he might make me go to the hospital and I wouldn’t be able to see Sarah at the mall, as she is only in town for one afternoon. I also didn’t want him to know that I had a habit of borrowing his can of mace when I went skating, as that part would be hard to work around if I were to tell him the story.

My Dad dropped me off at the mall, I met up with Sarah and her mother in the food court. We all sat and shared a giant pretzel before Sarah and I would go our own way(photo booth) while Sarah's mom shopped. I was really spaced out and rubbing my head on occasion. Sarah’s mom asked if something was wrong with me and if I was okay. I mumbled something about axes, crowbars, rollerblades, mace and bricks.

Sarah’s mother immediately excused herself and Sarah, they never came back.

Sarah’s mother never allowed Sarah to speak to me or see me again.

End of a chapter in life.


Five years later I got a phone call from Sarah. No shit. We had both just graduated high school in our respective states and I was heading off to New York in the next month. Sarah told me that she was going to be in town overnight and she really wanted to see me, after five years. Holy shit. This was one of the happiest days of my life, especially because my parents had just left town on vacation and had left me home alone--something they had only done one other time in my life. Talk about some fantastic fucking timing.

As promised, Sarah showed up on my doorstep a few hours later. She looked incredible. I hadn't seen her or spoken to her in five years. Suffice to say that we were able to tie up a lot of loose ends, now that we were both consenting adults.

I saw Sarah off early the next morning. We haven't spoken since.

End of a chapter in life.

UPDATE: Holy Shit! Sarah found this post. See the comments. Possibly not the "end of a chapter in life" after all... again.

This insane development leads us to present day, and-Part III-. Click and enjoy.

Wednesday, June 07, 2006

Mace, an Axe and a Crowbar: A Love Story, Part I

When I was about thirteen years old, I was going rollerblading with a friend. We were heading across town to go to a cooler older kid’s house. He was Oklahoma City’s stunt rollerblading answer to Tony Hawk, at least in our eyes.

We got all of our gear together. Knee pads, Gatorade, a couple granola bars, and a can of mace.

Why mace, you ask? Easy. There must be something strange in the water in Oklahoma City because every stray dog in town seems hellbent on attacking anything that moves on wheels at any cost, specifically rollerbladers and skateboarders.

Mace is a very effective deterrent against dog attacks.

Dear PETA:

This letter is meant to serve as a preemptive shut-the-fuck-up. Seriously, no one wants to hear it.

Best Regards,

Moving on...

My friend and I set out on our trip. After a semi-uneventful trek of four or five miles we rounded the corner onto our friend's block. He lived at the end of the street.

We skated by a house where there were eight or ten kids playing in the front yard, ranging in age anywhere from two to maybe twelve. As we passed the house one of the oldest kids ran to the curb and yelled,

“Whutchu rollin’ through my hood fo', niggas?!”

I gave him a dismissive what-are-you-gonna-do-about-it glance and we kept skating. This was such a common type of occurrence that my friend and I both forgot it ever happened about thirty seconds later. I was attending an ultra inner city public school at the time, so I was used to dealing with stupid ghetto idiots. I had been punched in the face more times by age thirteen than most people have in their entire lives, if ever. Antics like his were old hat.

We got to our friend’s house and rang the doorbell. No answer. He wasn’t home. Oh well. We'll show him our new badass skate moves another day.

We decided to skate back across town to our neighborhood, so we headed back the way we came. About half way down the street I noticed that all the kids who were playing outside were gone. I didn’t think anything of it.

We had just passed the kids' house and were starting to skate up a big hill to leave the neighborhood when we heard from behind,

“I told you not to be rollin’ through my hood, niggas!”

We both turned around to see two kids running full speed straight at us, with the other eight kids cheering from the yard.

One kid was carrying a crowbar.

The other was carrying an axe. Not a hatchet, an axe.

He looked something like this, only with an axe in place of the gun.

Oh fuck. This is not old hat. This is some completely new shit.

We started hauling ass up this monster hill looking over our shoulders every couple seconds. The lords-of-the-flies were closing the gap on us at an incredible rate. This makes perfect sense because my friend and I were trying to rollerblade up a steep ass hill and the people who were chasing us were, well… black kids on foot. You tell me who wins that race.

We kept skating up the hill, but the kids were getting closer with every stride. It was useless. They were gaining on us and my friend and I were running out of gas with every push.

“I think I’m gonna have to do it, man.” I said to my friend.

“Fuck yeah man, do what you have to do!” He yelled, as if I’m retarded for having to say it in the first place.

Our attackers were close enough where I could hear their footsteps over the slow grinding of polyurethane wheels on asphalt. I took one more look over my shoulder. I stopped dead in my tracks, reached in my pocket and grabbed the mace.

I twisted the valve open and turned around. I held my arm straight out in front of me, squeezed, and let the little shit have it. He immediately stopped and covered his face with one hand and threw the axe in our direction with the other hand. Luckily, twleve-year-old kids can’t throw axes very well with one hand. His little brother was behind him and caught a lot of the spray too. He immediately turned and ran back home, smart kid. The older brother, the original aggressor, was still coming at us, or trying to. Leave it to say that I emptied the entire can of mace and stopped him in his tracks. The kid was just getting back to his feet when I looked back down from the top of the hill. He'd had enough. We made it out of the neighborhood and onto a main street.

I was in complete shock.

“Wow that was really fucked up.” I say to my friend in the understatement of the century.

My silent friend looks at me again as if I’m completely retarded for thinking its actually necessary to say that out loud.

As the adrenaline wore off, my mouth and eyes and face and skin and throat and hands started to burn. It really hurt, a lot. I guess emptying an entire can of mace upon a would-be axe murder on a windy day doesn’t come without its consequences. Who knew?

--To be continued in Part II.