Evergreen?

Must be E. Williamsburg. My parents didn't like the standing trash water either.

Via New York Shitty.

Graffiti that educates

Greenpoint, Brooklyn


























Borrowed from New York Shitty.

My mother came to NY to feed me

My mom and stepdad came to visit for six days and I gained two pounds. Granted I also had a cold, so I double-justified their visit with my cough for reasons not to work out. Plus, it's so easy to find yourself walking 2-3 miles per day in New York--that counts, right?

In Sacramento, I lived in East Sac, which is about a mile and a half to most of midtown's madness, but heaven forbid I walk that far! OK, OK, I'll bike and sometimes skateboard, but walk?? You must be crazy. It was hard not having a car in Sacramento, but that's some of the reason I kept in touch with friends. Sometimes you have to hit up 5 or 6 people in your phone book before you find a ride.

New Yorkers don't even know how to drive except for taxi drivers who routinely honk at pedestrians as they run red lights. Buses are a little smaller, but they still zoom between massive, growling garbage trucks and brave parked cars. It's not rare to find Range Rovers and Jaguars parked in the Lower East Side, even though you know the fanciest car anyone owns in that neighborhood is a Mazda.

So yeah, I walk a mile to work and school everyday. It's not uncommon for me to wander during lunch time too, easily adding up the blocks to something resembling cardio. It's no wonder New Yorkers have zero upper body muscle, but asses as hard as peach pits--I'm envisioning a new gym machine called the Subway Stair Stepper.

My parents left yesterday and took their rich food with them. My favorite dinner involved truffle oil macaroni and cheese and pistachio-encrusted goat cheese souffle at 44 & X (the "X" is the Roman Numeral for 10) in Hell's Kitchen. My stepdad raved about the new Plaza Hotel Food Hall by Todd English (try the Tuna Two Way sushi roll, the TE sliders, and any kind of cheese with quince).

I made it to the gym this morning and was texting with my mom to compare weight gain. She gained a couple pounds too, but my stepdad "isn't talking." They can't blame me though. I provided the subway stairs Sacramento doesn't have.

The (Sacramento) Bee's Knees

In an effort to remain as close as possible to the loins of the town that birthed me, I've accepted the Sacramento Bee's invitation to contribute an incredibly narcicistic blog about a Sacramento native's perspective as a New New Yorker.

My goal is to present the news, controversies, gossip and oddities occurring in the Big Red Delicious through a lens Sacramentans will be able to relate to. As you may have already guessed, my point of view is quite sarcastic and, some would argue, crass. So if I offend you readers, well...I only accept complaints in person. Better book the flight! Nya nya nya nya nya.

I feel yesterday is the perfect place to begin, specifically because I saw the sunset from a quaint, cinnamon-tinted, pistachio-muffined bakery on the corner of E 93rd and 3rd Ave. in the Upper East Side. I asked the cashier her top three favorite pastries, at which she pointed to pecan sweet bread, a crumb muffin, and a coconut cupcake. Don't you hate it when you ask an employee for a suggestion and everything she likes happens to suck? So I ordered a red velvet cupcake, which by the way, is like crack for New Yorkers. They even have the equivalent of a hot dog stand for cupcakes in NoHo.

I was sugaring my nerves as I prepped to interview a very high profile magazine journalist. She's very particular about not appearing online, even if it's just her name. I try not to take it personally that she probably just doesn't want to be associated with some random, young twenties, scum on her boot NYU student who still can't decide whether to spell it "lede" or "lead."

After interviewing her for two hours in a high-rise apartment in one of the chicest neighborhoods in New York City, I needed a beer. My closest friend in New York, Kristin, and I met at Dorrian's a few blocks away. If you're ever in New York for an extended period of time and you get homesick for California, follow the girls with blonde highlights and the guys with muscly plaid shirts to the Upper East Side. I met a girl who had gone to school with Stefani Joanne Germanotta (aka Lady Gaga) and a guy who had toured with the U.S. ski team and was sponsored by Salomon. Kristin and I danced until the bar closed at 4 a.m. (another great perk of NYC late nights), then grabbed a bite down the street. Tip: don't ever order lox at five in the morning from a 24-hour diner.

We took a cab to her West Village apartment, emerging from the car to a lighter blue sky, so we did what all displaced Californians/New New Yorkers do: asked a coke dealer where the nearest open bar was.

We should have known that a drug dealer would mislead us because we walked down Bleecker Street a few blocks before giving up and heading back. I took photos of Kristin posing on a statue reaching her hands up to touch the sunrise. It's all very poetic until you remember that you're in New York at 6:30 a.m. and one of you has to be at work in 3 1/2 hours. I'm going to let you guess which one of us it was...Kristin from Orange County or Stephanie from Sacramento?

My eye-opening, yet saddening NYC 9/11 Memorial Experience

Day #20: Poetry Day

"Today everyone is to send in a line to create the world's longest poem. They will be collated as they are emailed to www.thiswebsitewillchangeyourlife.com, and the result will be published across the whole wide world as soon as a suitable final line is deemed to have been found and we think of a good title. The opening line is:

'Mercy, cried the popinjay to pope'"

I was in the bagel shop this morning crunching on an "onion bagel, lightly toasted with low fat scallion cream cheese, tomato, and cucumber" (sounds like how most people order Starbucks), when I came across an article in the New York Post. Scientists have compiled a 3D digital rendition of Shakespeare's face from the remains of his death mask, a chilling tradition that I imagine to be something like the papier mache masks of your youth, only I'm sure Shakespeare was too sophisticated for the nasally inserted bendy straw breathing apparatus. The photo that resulted, however, was wholly unflattering as the records show that his death was the result of cancer. Perhaps cannabis was prescribed in those days as well because his eyelids appear droopy and complacent. His facial hair resembles something between a redneck and a hipster: a monstrous and no doubt ironic mustache and a soul patch as long as the 18th fairway.

Don't get me wrong. I mean no disrespect. Shakespeare's fan base rivals that of Elvis; and no doubt there is some crossover between the groups. In fact, I am a bard myself, although no amount of prying, cajoling, or hacking will tempt me to produce my mid-adolescent ballads. They were written in response to "loves that would last a lifetime" and "mommy dearests" and every other cliched teenage woe imaginable. In all seriousness though, I eked out a decent couple of years of therapy through poetry. In retrospect, they're way more interesting than my high school journals: "OMG this boy from Jesuit asked me to homecoming using a gum wrapper and those little tropical drink umbrellas! Hearts!"

So in salute to my era of poetry and to the original balladeer himself, let me leave you with a line crafted in classic iambic pentameter:

"His chortle left an ink blot in the hay."

Put that in your death mask and smoke it..

Word Salads: Why America Needs a Good Cucumber

At the very least, a word salad is a diversion- a fluster and a cringe season the leaves of language jumble. Rachel loves her salads; she's very healthy. Sometimes I dream that she begins to talk so fast that in order to save her life, I have to talk her down- off the drug of information vomit. She rarely stutters, exudes confidence to her prey, verbally dots every "i." But when one talks as much as Rachel, one reaches her daily vegetable intake earlier than anticipated.

Maybe she initially stumbles over a fluke in the story, a soybean of mismatched facts. To rectify, she moistens the tale with acidity, which I call the tomato tactic. Finally, as reaction to audience gasps of incredulity, she slices the climactic meat to top her salad saga. Most days it's chicken.

Despite her cranium-curling velocity, Rachel has perfected the word salad. It might be marketed, were she of entrepreneurial spirit, packaged into bubbles of poise that burst into a satisfying meal when prodded-- kind of like that chicken that spurts butter upon provocation.

On the other hand, the word salads of the nation suggest a serious nutrient deficiency. It may be biological: one's tongue physically lacks the ability to toss. Often, it's mental: one may only be able to sluice the dressing alone in the dark. In any event, it's a true peach when one can witness a live word salad demo. Most are able to master the basic elements of prep: the rinsing of doubt, the chopping of pretext, the layering of context. It's when the storyteller approaches the cooking of climax when he seems to perspire. The listener edges closer to the sound of boiling eggs or the sting of crackling bacon. A last minute sprig of dill adds bold validity an otherwise average tale. Alas, a moment of distraction, an errant thought, a misangled thrust of plot detail, and --- squirt. Citrus. All over. A poorly-calculated, preemptive verbal assault. It's insulting, it's disappointing, it's why I'm a picky eater.

Fat-Buster Duster No. 3492

Taken from New Statesman ca. 2006:

Put on an old army haversack with eight house bricks in it. Then, with soapy water, clean water, sponge, squeegee and polishing paper, set about doing the upstairs windows. Each pane gets 1,000 rubs with soapy water, 1,800 rubs with clean water, then squeegeed and 1,200 rubs with kitchen tissue. Calculate the total number of square millimetres you'll cover times rubs; convert this to pounds and imagine you're a multimillionaire.

Research shows washing dishes in warm, soapy water releases highly beneficial endorphins and pheromones more efficiently than any other activity. The rhythmic rubbing of dishcloth on plates and especially greasy pans, combined with chemicals in the water, stimulates tiny microscopic membranes on human skin, which in turn release the above chemicals. Intriguingly, in men the effect is radically different: not only is there a total absence of chemical activity, but alarming reductions in sperm count have been noted.

Day 19: Pretend to be a secret agent

"No one can know. This Book was a pretext to get in touch with you. Your government needs you. Don't look up now, they are watching. Meet at 1300 today outside work. Wave at the gray car. It will pick you up and take you to the secret rendezvous. Good luck. P.S. Tear this page out and swallow it."

I performed the ultimate in reconnaissance today: Operation Suburbia. My cover? Housesitting for Grandma at Carefreee senior apartments. My mission? Spy on unsuspecting stucco communities.

Before the assignment, I finished up the paper and proceeded to play with Grandma's kitty. He has a fetish for newspapers and New Years hats (especially the ones with feathers and glitter). Apparently, chasing the cat all over the apartment doesn't cut it in a senior community. The woman downstairs must keep her hearing aids cranked up because she began pounding on the ceiling with what might have been a broom handle, but sounded more like an untapped keg. Which begs the question, "Did she have to hobble onto a chair to reach the ceiling?" Intriguing...

So, I was a good samaritan (at least that was my cover) and left the apartment to "power walk" around the 'hood. The first stretch was nearly intolerable. Imagine walking along I-5 between here and the Grapevine: straight as a ruler, not a car-less body in sight, horn honks, and surprisingly smelly. Aparently they've been lacking on the duck-poop maintenance in those man-made lakes.

I got down to business. There appeared to be at least one car in front of every beige, tan, or cream-colored house, yet not a soul in sight. Not so much as a kooky welcome mat is allowed in these communities. With names like Willow Park and Hidden Glen, you're pretty much obliged to shrink into obscurity. Although the families do keep up with the modern world: I saw one house with FOUR satellite dishes, like whiteheads on a desperate-to-wear-a-rock-on-my-finger-eager-to-procreate-and-begin-nesting face.

All right, all right. I lost myself for a moment there. Granted, most everyone was probably still at work, hence the vacancy. I did get a few encouraging smiles from women jogging behind baby strollers! Probably more like, "Don't you look like an adorable teenager, in your college sweatshirt and glasses. Would you like to come with me for a makeover and a lobotomy?"

On the way home, I deliberately threw myself down a ravine, lined with grass, paved with gravel, just so I wouldn't launch myself in front of a U-Haul on the way home. I guess the "agency" won't be contacting me again, unless it's to implant a Stepford wife chip in my brain. Beware for a boob job and devastatingly handsome arm candy--who in turn will develop a beer belly and begin an affair in 10 years.

Day 18: Kill Something Day

"So-called Western civilization suppresses our legitimate aggressive impulses. Cast off the chains of narrow morality and stamp out the sad life of a member of some inferior species today: an ant, or perhaps a gnat of some kind. Indulge your dark urges before they overwhelm you. After all, as top Russian anarchist Mikhail Bakunin declared: 'the passion for destruction is also a creative passion...'"

I'm a vegetarian. I don't kill things. When I rip apart a hunk of meat with my incisors and masticate its remains with my molars, I consider it a form of coldblooded murder. But sushi tastes delightful. So eh, what are you gonna do? My friend took me to Kru, one of many overpriced boutique sushi restaurants in Sacramento. I had only been once, normally shunning the $15 rolls on principle, but since I wasn't buying, I agreed wholeheartedly and began to prep my protein-deficient tummy for a feast.

What is America's solution to infuriatingly healthy sushi? Deep fry the shit out of if and then dunk it in sauce. We had the Krazi Cali (a crunchy, garlic cream take on the traditional California Roll), the Tesla (the freshest roll of the bunch, but again smothered in garlic creaminess), and my choice, the Cindy (tuna, snow crab, jalapenos, deep-fried of course). In order to make our Japanese-American meal complete, we doused our wasabi-coated tongues with Sapporos. Then we headed to a neighborhood tavern to extinguish our heartburn with margaritas.

As if this isn't enough carnivore action for one weekend, yesterday I broke out the fly swatter. Sitting at the kitchen table working on the Sunday crossword is my #2 solution to a hangover (#1 being bloody mary brunch), you can imagine my ire when a fly the size and decible of New Orleans during Mardi Gras decided to brunch on our garbage can. Thankfully, we have a fly swatter nearby for just that occasion. This one, however, is battery powered and after pressing a button, can zap prey with the wattage of a nuclear testing site. (It feels similar to a dog's shock collar if you've ever been privy to either---personally, the nerves in my left elbow have never returned after said incidents). And that's that. Fly-free, and left to only the buzz of my ringing hangover. Not a cent of guilt either.