what a curious notion

Good things all around. Life stands more to reason by the day. And so...

Maggie, astute as ever, noticed that Wikipedia's pierogi page redirects to Pittsburgh.

Courtesy of Matt, here's footage of the new Steelers punter. He's #37.

Comrade Rob over at Murder by Baltimore makes his big screen debut in the much-anticipated Werewolf on PCP.

Must sleep. Mahalo.

caution tape

Just finished a pretty thorough overhaul of the link list. It is now eleven miles long. Poke around for things you haven't read. Send me things I've missed.

Lori Earley

Last night found me at the Opera Gallery for the opening of Anima Sola, the latest series of oil on board/linen by Lori Earley. The piece above, Cocktail Hour, is evincive of Earley's assembled work -- thin, elongated women with huge, almond-shaped eyes staring through and past you in search of an answer to whatever question is plaguing their mind.

Poking through the prints hosted at Earley's official site and those featured in this Juxtapoz piece should be enough to get you down to the gallery. And for good reason, as there is no substitute for feeling these eyes follow you around a room.

Further discoveries include 5 shots and loud punk for $10 and, because you should have an Ethiopian joint in every neighborhood, the East Village's Awash.

just released

Sean Thomas Dougherty, good friend and Assistant Director of the Creative Writing Program at Penn State Erie, has just released his ninth book of poetry, Broken Hallelujahs. If you've got a craving for poetry, and I know you all do, it would be hard to do better than Sean's work. Doesn't hurt that he's one of the most solid people I've ever met.

Buy it here.

in the deep shade

For those of you who missed The Frames at Town Hall this week, you can download last night's DC show for free over at NPR's music site.
Enjoy.

five dollars? five dollars!

I think this cat wound up pulling 25 or 30 bucks from his friends to run through the fountain at Madison Square Park during lunchtime yesterday.

one is one and two is two.

Pittsburgh, Steeltown, Yinzerville, Da' Burgh; home to pro football's greatest franchise, Bill Gates' latest tax shelter, and 720 bridges; father to Andy Warhol, August Wilson, Oscar Levant, and George Romero, has been named America's most livable city in the 2007 Places Rated Almanac. This surprises no one who lives there.

WitSL would like to take this opportunity to congratulate San Francisco on its hard-fought, second-place finish... bitches.

you mean love isn't 6,000 years old?

Been meaning to post this since it appeared a few days back. Unfortunately, my laziness genes are often the most intrepid:

IHT -- Meanwhile, while Darwinism isn't depressing

Scientists have discovered that love is truth.

Granted, no scientist has put it quite like that. In fact, when scientists talk about love - the neurochemistry, the evolutionary origins - they make it sound unlovely.

More broadly, our growing grasp of the biology behind our thoughts and feelings has some people downhearted. One commentator recently acknowledged the ascendancy of the Darwinian paradigm with a sigh: "Evolution doesn't really lead to anything outside itself."

Cheer up! Despair is a plausible response to news that our loftiest feelings boil down to genetic self-interest, but genetic self-interest actually turns out to be our salvation. The selfishness of our genes gave us the illuminating power of love and put us on the path to a kind of transcendence.

even better in the rain

Word of mouth and good company had me spending the evening at Angel's Share, a charming little hideout on Stuyvesant. The place is not easy to find, tucked away behind the second floor of a small, chaotic Japanese restaurant built atop a bookstore. Just look for a heavy, unmarked, stained wooden door at the top of the narrow stairs and plunge through into a dim chamber where the Jazz is barely audible over the hum of a half-dozen languages being whispered between lovers.

The place refuses to sit parties larger than four. I recommend two. They do not allow a standing room crowd; capacity is defined by available seats and if you're in one, you will appreciate the policy. Pick a table (there are no hosts), preferably something along the wall, next to the floor-to-ceiling windows so you can watch the taillights roll along 3rd. The drink menu is the size of a high school Biology notebook and contains roughly the same amount of text. It's whiskey section is three pages long. A bit pricey but worth it, and Mamoun's is only two blocks away.

Note: Come May, their entire barstaff is moving to the owner's newest venture, Tribeca's B-Flat.

more on David Halberstam

Courtesy of Andrew from A Purpose More Obscure comes the late David Halberstam's 2005 Columbia Journalism Award acceptance speech:

One of the things I learned, the easiest of lessons, was that the better you do your job, often going against conventional mores, the less popular you are likely to be. (So, if you seek popularity, this is probably not the profession for you.)

Full text here.

I'll see you down in history

Fifth time I've seen The Frames, fifth time I've been floored. While it makes no sense that they were playing in a seated venue -- you could tell that Glen didn't quite get the raucous crowd joy to which he's grown accustomed -- the band proved again that they simply know how to kick you in the stomach and leave you grateful. Despite age, marriage, kids, and the wear of constant touring, they still play as though they're happier to see you than you are them.

The crowd was subdued for the first three songs, all tracks off of The Cost. The room loosened during Stars are Underground, after which Glen noticed some empty seats and suggested that it was too late for anyone to complain if we just filled them in. My companion and I, bellies full of zeal that can only be conjured by Belgian beer, jumped from respectable balcony seats all the way down to the eighth row. The set went on and they stuck to crowd-pleasers (Fake, Rent Day Blues, Happy, God Bless Mom, Your Face) and, of course, didn't get through without playing What Happens When the Heart Just Stops, before which the Deefer story made an abridged appearance. At some point, the between-song chatter devolved into Glen attempting to convince us that Richard Dreyfus was making devil mountains out of mashed potatoes.

Then came the encores, two. Colm played a staggering violin solo with a boomerang loop that turned himself his own accompaniment. Then Glen came out for another rendition of Leave before the rest of the band joined and played five more songs, including Revelate, Star Star, and Fitzcarraldo, all of which I had been waiting for all night. They finished with Heyday by the late Mic Christopher, everyone standing and singing, having forgotten that there were seats at all.

Thanks, Frames.

More pictures, as always, at Hobo John and Friends.

just so we're clear

Reflexes of a jungle cat

good people

My friend, Colin, is having surgery today. He's a solid guy, good drinking buddy, and has an at times disturbingly encyclopedic knowledge of sports. Just plain good people. I don't pray but if any of you WitSL minions do, well, say a quick one. Couldn't hurt. Thanks.

"We called him Deefer -- y'know, D fer Dog..."

How's this for a glorious email on an otherwise rough morning:

Your THE FRAMES tickets are attached (Order number 3-46369 /NY4)

No girlfriend for Glen to seduce this time, either. Fucking brilliant. Go see The Frames at Town Hall tonight. For some reason I can't grasp, a few tickets are still available.

"Memory is often less about the truth than about what we want it to be."

Casualties are mounting:

David Halberstam dies in car crash.

Nice write-up in The Times.

Now would be the appropriate time to pick up a copy of The Best and the Brightest.

Carnival is dead. Long live Carnival.

The first day back at work after Carnival is always a horrendous exerise. The phone starts ringing as soon as you sit down, there are six meetings before lunch, your inbox has roughly 4,782 unread emails, and all you can think about was how perfect life was two days earlier when your primary preoccupation was remembering to eat before you got too fucked up.

Inevitably, Real Life must continue, if for no other reason than Real Life is what we endure so that times like Carnival resonate. And this one, more than any other I've attended since graduating, resonated. Sunday afternoon, somewhere around Breezewood, fresh off of lunch with my parents and grandmothers, hung-fucking-over, Set List exploding out the windows, I realized how goddamn lucky I am to know all of these people. More over, how lucky we all are to have a place to get together once each year and check in on each other. And each year, people get a little heavier, maybe have some kids (grats to Shaggy and Jordan), a little more wrinkled, a little smarter, and, I sense, a little more appreciative of a massive circle of friends populated by such solid people. As drunk and foolish as Carnival gets it is, in the end, life-affirming, mandatory joy. Conveniently, it's also enough to make a callow little girl from Mt. Lebanon seem much less important.

First round of pics are up at Hobo John and Friends. I'll post more once they're all downloaded and sorted. Always remember: Cars are real, even when they're not.

rebuffering

Due to the egregious number of photos I've been taking lately, I have resurrected Hobo John and Friends as the photo companion to WitSL. This way, my page won't take half an hour to load and I don't have to work up the motivation to open a Picasa account. I assume that I will start linking directly on a post-by-post basis but for now just head over and rubberneck.

2:10

Smell that? It's reminiscent of beer, sunshine, and sexual indiscretion. Must be time for carnival.

I'm out. Details forthcoming.

there is no justice in this world

Honestly, who would do such a thing?

David Byrne's foldable Montague mountain bike has been stolen. The avid city biker rode in the 5 Boro Bike Tour last year, commenting: "The organizers close the FDR drive, the BQE, the Belt Parkway and the Verrazano-Narrows bridge on one side — so we get the thrill of riding in the middle of the street, not having to stop at red lights and no worries of the ubiquitous jaywalking peds on suicide missions."

killed cartoons

Edited by David Wallis, Killed Cartoons: Casualties from the War on Free Expression (Norton, 224p, $15.95 paperback) is an anthology of editorial cartoons deemed too inflammatory, inappropriate, or "soon" to be printed in corporate media outlets. In other words, all the good stuff. Give him your monies.

ugh

I guess it's never too soon.

Green Supreme this Sunday

Oi. I'll be out of town all weekend, so go support WitSL friends Green Supreme as they celebrate immigrant week at the Queens Museum of Art. Only 5 bucks.

a little moment of serenity in a giant fucking mess

Photo by Win McNamee/Getty Images. Reproduced without permission.

Looking at this picture is keeping me sane right now.

The public and media backlash against the university will be quick and vicious. Some of the higher ups in the administration or campus police might end up in jail when all is said and done. Negligence, dereliction of duty, willful endangerment, whatever. We are a vengeful people and the only person who can explain any of this doesn't have a head anymore.

1-1

In honor of the Penguins sticking around long enough to win a game they should have lost, I give you an offering from WisSL comrade The Mangler. He unearthed a stockpile of Jim and Randy bits from the WDVE morning show. Be sure to listen to all of Evgeni's audio diaries.

someone actually got paid to write this

Found on the side of one of those Gatorade sport bottles while walking back from the gym yesterday:

Why this unique grip? The innovative bottle design maximizes function and flow for enhanced rehydration.

Brawndo got what plants crave! It's got electrolytes!

Jimmy's No. 43

I forgot to plug Jimmy's No. 43 when I found it last week. When next tooling around the East village, you will go to this underground rathskeller, with either friends or a date. You will drink the Belgian beer and eat the delicious locally grown organic food. You should be brave and try a goblet of the St. Bernardus quadruppel ale. Enjoy the candlelight, the mildly claustrophobic ceilings, and the wooden beer barrels set in the walls. Just be careful negotiating the stairs back up to street level when you're done.

have faith, gentlemen of new york

While Forbes has declared New York only the fifth best city in America for singles, National Geographic recently published a study confirming that the largest discrepancy between single males and single females is in, yes, New York City. Apparently there are 185,000 more single women than men in this town, by far the largest plurality in the states.

Granted, the study does not take into account homosexuals or co-habitating couples, which in certain neighborhoods would shave off about 70% of that total. Still, good news overall.

lollapalooza 2007

The Lollapalooza 2007 lineup has been announced and it looks mean.

...Silverchair?

Thou shalt always think for yourselves

and god wiped his ass with my brain

This is an evil morning. I blame the open bar from last night's Babble launch party at the 60 hotel. Who in the hell makes mojitos with vodka? At least the food was fantastic and the people as beautiful as they come. Honestly, rooms don't get much hotter.

Beforehand, I stopped at Gallery 1199 to see Bread and Roses' Images of Labor Series. The exhibit consists of about thirty prints from a dozen artists all working to update the antiquated art traditionally associated with labor. The show runs through April 30, Mon-Fri, 9am - 5pm, and is 100% free, so be sure to stop by. I'll post pictures soon.

Now if you don't mind, I'm going to go see about that ringing.

this weather is shite

And it's been so busy that I just now got to sit down for lunch. Might as well get some worktime bloggery done in the process. To recap:

As most of you now know, Kurt Vonnegut is gone. All he did was fall down. And now the world is less. Nicholas Lezard at the Guardian posted a nice piece in Vonnegut's memory.

I, for one, am on Nova Scotia's side.

2007 Steelers schedule has been posted. And for the first time since the merger, the Steelers will have their bye after week three.

Happy crocodile = unhappy zookeeper.

For all of your Victorian shopping needs.

Read up on the REAL ID Act. If you are an American citizen, this concerns you.

I've finally caved and started a myspace page. Fact of the matter is, I love music too much not to have an account. Friend me, you bastards, before I get lonely.

Back to work. Mahalo.

"We are put on earth to fart around, don't let anyone tell you any different."

11/11/22 - 4/11/07

on pain

I'm sixteen years-old, fighting in this regional tournament at the Sheraton in Greensburg. I had just made 1st Gup (the class of red belt one step below black in Tang Soo Do) a few weeks earlier and I was ready to kill the room. I'd already won the breaking competition and I had every intention of taking point-sparring as well. Point-sparring involves no padding, aside from head and fist gear, with controlled contact to the head, face, or chest counting as one point. First to three points wins.

At that age, I was made for point-sparring. I had dropped the kid weight (fought at about 155 then) and was almost as tall as I am now (5'-11"). More over, I was and still am built like a monkey -- long limbs, small torso, all fast-twitch muscle. Ideal for controlled, ranged, unarmed fighting. Now, let's not kid ourselves. This was southwestern PA. There wasn't exactly a plethora of martial arts talent running around. We weren't Chicago or San Francisco or New York, where all the real fighters trained and lived. But this was a big deal and I had to bust my ass just to qualify. We fought by rank, as opposed to age or weight. There were four groups: under 10, 11-15 (puberty does weird things to kids raised on that many potatoes and the sport accommodated), 16-34, and 35+. Thus, while still very much a kid, I was fighting men. Men with little else going on in their lives, which made them all the more dangerous.

The bracket at my level yielded five rounds, singe elimination. I went through the first two without even using kicks, except as decoys. The third guy was much quicker and had a brain on him. I beat him 3-1 but in the process took a round kick to the side that, it later turned out, cracked one of my ribs. After that kick, I put my foot on the side of the guy's head so hard that he went down and came back up on noodle legs. Remember, this is point-sparring. Minimal contact. The ref called in one of the three Masters presiding over the tournament to see whether or not I should be disqualified. While they talked, I bit my lower lip, real hard, and presented the ensuing blood as evidence that we had simply traded incidental blows. The Master told us to continue, carefully, and I beat the guy like a dusty rug.

Round 4: Some mean, tattooed tree trunk in his mid twenties. He went up 2-1 and I just played defense, waiting for an opening. He proceeded to pound on me as though I had just stabbed his grandmother. Seriously, just pummeled my ass. During that round I took what, to this day, is the worst injury I've ever experienced: a solid heel on the end of a kick that he really meant, right above the junk, square on my pubic bone. I didn't piss right for a month. But I did win that fight, as well as the next one, the final, which must have been easy because I don't remember it at all.

So I limp into my house, trophies in-hand, and my father is standing there, ready to yell because I'm already late for my first shift at Mr. Bulky, this candy store in the mall. I toss the trophies on my bed, shower, drive to work and proceed to limp around filling bins of jelly beans while trying not to vomit. Final tally for the tourny: cracked rib, missing molar, broken nose, and a pelvic bone bruise.

I was in pain. Terrible, terrible pain. For the next two weeks, just emerging from a prone position caused me to curse at god. Not to sound redundant, but I was in pain.

Now, I told that story so that I can explain the following realization. Back then, I was used to being sore. I woke up sore every morning from the previous day's training. Sore was nothing. Sore was normal. Sore meant I was doing what I was supposed to and my body would take care of itself so long as I ate and got rest. Sore is different from being In Pain. Pain means something is wrong and you might want to consult a physician. Pain means blood in your urine or difficulty breathing or tremors. Sore you can work with. Sore is reassuring. Pain needs to heal. This isn't any different than the, "Are you hurt, or are you injured?" cliche so often heard in professional sports.

The point is, I'm sore again. I've been running every day and each time I stretch and queue up some Rocky IV and start dodging people on the sidewalk at high speeds, I'm sore. I only clock a couple of miles, maybe three, but keep in mind that I have smoked, on average, a pack of cigarettes per day for the last six years. When I get up out of this chair and crawl into bed, I'm going to ache. In the morning, I'll have a little trouble descending the subway steps. But each day I'm a little less sore. And each day, I run a little better.

I'm sore. And it is fucking awesome.

as promised

Metal trees in Madison Square Park. They've been at this for three days now.

Here's a scale model of how the sculpture will look when finished:

busy for a tuesday, pt. 2, or, how I exchanged Point Break quotes with Nick Frost

Bishop enjoys the spoils of my victory

After the Blue Bridge reading, I went and talked my way into a press screening of Hot Fuzz at Lincoln Center and interviewed Simon Pegg and Nick Frost. I had received the screening announcement from an ethically flexible comrade around noon today, not long after I had posted WitSL's initial love fest over the Hot Fuzz opening in a week and change.

I replied to the invite but received nothing in return. But I'm in the business of mind-occupying endeavors these days so I headed over to the Walter Reade Theater, printed release in-hand, and told them I was a stringer for -----.com. After passing the thirty minutes late these things always run while looking as though I knew exactly what I was doing (animated fake cell phone calls, repetitive watch-checking, scribbling in notebook), I was given a packet of production notes and ushered into a lounge with the rest of the press. We were invited to avail ourselves of all of the complimentary beer and food we could handle and, being press, greedily obliged. I spent another twenty minutes knocking back free Stellas and trading stories with this guy Phil, who had picked up the gig from the AP Daybook. Good people.

Phil and I were polishing off our second when everyone finally arrived. Simon Pegg, Nick Frost ("I'm sorry, Shaun."), Edgar Wright (director and writer), Andrew Karpen (head of Rogue Pictures), and James Schamus (head of Focus Features), were all in attendance. They posed in front of a couple of large promo spreads and were properly paparazzed before being set loose to work the room.

Having skipped dinner, I was slightly buzzed and stood by the buffet, content to eavesdrop. I had tried to approach Nick Frost as soon as he was done with the photos, but got shot down with a, "Can I get you later, mate?" Suddenly, a PR soldier named Omar tapped me on the shoulder and asked me if I had interviewed Simon yet. I had not.

A minute later, I was standing in front of Simon Pegg, who looked a bit tired but was the picture of congeniality and wit as I struggled to make up questions on the spot. He's a sharp, articulate guy who seems to truly enjoy what he gets to do for a living. I asked him about the collaborative process with Edgar, if they conjured ideas separately and then came together to pitch. Pegg replied, "I wouldn't know what 'coming together' feels like, because it doesn't seem we've ever been apart." He continued -- and I am hesitant to do anything but paraphrase here -- that the creative process hasn't changed much since they first worked together on Spaced. However, he has learned not to talk about a project too far in advance, as he did with Hot Fuzz, which got him mobbed for details before the script had even been finished.

Pegg went on to talk of the reception Hot Fuzz has received in the States. "It's been great. We keep walking into these standing ovations everywhere, in Atlanta and Texas and the East Coast. They're enthusiastic all over." He explained how humbling it is because, "We're fanboys and geeks, just like plenty of the people who enjoy our movies. And it makes you work all the harder because disappointing them would be just like disappointing yourself."

He must have appreciated that I intended to let him go after only a couple of questions because he told me to ask one more. I asked him to describe getting to work with Nick, his real-life best friend (and best man). Pegg paused and said, "Nothing better than to work that hard and enjoy it that much." He flashed a grin and said, "There's your soundbyte," before carrying on.

I floated about for another ten minutes in the choppy soup of genuine affection and abject ass-kissing. The house lights flashed a few times and people began trickling into the theater. Frost, who was in the corner putting away beers, eyed me suspiciously as I approached and said, "It's later, isn't it?" What follows is life-affirming:

Me: Two quick ones, I promise.
Nick: Shoot.
Me: Back off, War Child...
Nick: Seriously!
(We both laugh.)
Nick: But he doesn't back off, does he?
Me: No, and he gets put down.
Nick: Put down, yeah. With a surfboard, roight?
Me: Swung by Swayze, I think.
Nick: Roight, roight. So what's the second?
Me: Robocop or Total Recall?
Nick: Huh?
Me: You have to pick one.
Nick: Oh, have I then?
(He scratches his chin for a few seconds.)
Nick: Total Recall.
(I begin to circle the title in my notebook.)
Nick: No, fuck. Wait. Yeah. No. Yeah. Yeah, I guess Total Recall is violent enough.
Me: Thanks, Nick.
Nick: Cheers.

And that was it. Everyone made their way into the theater. Jessica, the lovely PR shepherd, informed me that for some strange reason, she didn't have me on the seating list. But she had been sick for a few days and "must have botched my reservation." She gave me a bag of Hot Fuzz schwag and promised to send two passes to next week's screening. Stay tuned to see if she had me pegged and was just trying to get me out of there without causing a scene.

On my way out I ran into Kevin Smith, who was moderating the post-screening conversation with cast and crew. I told him to hurry, that they were about to start, and he said "Thanks, man."

Good times.

busy for a tuesday, pt. 1

First stop was the reading/release party for William St Clair's THE DOOR OF NO RETURN. Published by the incomparable Jan-Erik Guerth at Blue Bridge (imprint of United Tribes Media), the book tells the grim story of Cape Coast Castle, a massive British fort/slave export site on the coast of Ghana.

St Clair aims only to fill a gap in our collective knowledge but manages to Drawing on a previously unstudied archive of public records and ledgers, as well as officer correspondence, St Clair paints a vivid and unsettling portrait of the West Indian slave trade from within its export hub. During his talk, St Clair was careful to address the impetus behind his writing the book: while accounts of the voyage across the Atlantic and life at the destinations of over 12 million West African slaves are legion, not nearly enough has been written about their various points of origin, specifically along the Gold Coast. While St Clair aims only to fill in a gap, he manages to cast a new light on the entire sordid enterprise.

Both Publisher's Weekly and Booklist have given THE DOOR OF NO RETURN a starred review. The Guardian called it, "A work of superb scholarly detection," while The Economist cheered, "St. Clair shines a light at the heart of the shame." Please support St Clair's scholarship and Blue Bridge's continued commitment to publishing important historical work by, obviously, buying the book. Or, if you're poor and I like you, ask to borrow my copy.

metal city, metal trees

Over in Madison Square Park, where I've taken to eating lunch if it isn't raining, a team of sculptors are erecting two large metallic trees amongst the oaks. Looks cool as hell. I'll have pictures up tomorrow.

Bertelsmann buys out Bookspan

This is pretty huge. Bertelsmann has bought out Time, Inc.'s 50% share in Bookspan (this includes Book-of-the-Month Club) for a reported $150 million. This will make Bertelsmann the only remaining major owner of direct-to-customer book, music, and DVD clubs in America. Previous B-Mann acquisitions include the famed $400 million purchase of Columbia House in 2005 and the mother of all publishing moves, the 1998 pickup of Random House, the world's largest book publisher. Methinks they're going after Amazon.

This puts Time Warner, the world's largest media conglomerate, all but out of the book business and comes on the heels of their unloading 18 magazines in January to Swedish company Bonnier.

Reuters--Bertelsmann buys rest of Bookspan from Time Inc.

this isn't happening

Courtesy of NME: You can go HERE to watch studio footage of Radiohead set to what some presume is music off of their upcoming release. It's like a fresh glass of absinthe in the morning.

The short video film is made by The Vapour Brothers, the team behind the video for 2001's 'I Might Be Wrong' and some promotional clips for 2000's 'Kid A' album.

As Thom explains over at Dead Air, "This is what happens when you spend too long listening to the same thing over and over again until you just cant tell anymore and you have to do something else instead"

notice given

It's still several months off, but the 2nd annual Brooklyn Book Festival is creeping up. A very partial list of last year's participants includes Colson Whitehead, Leonard Lopate, Chris Claremont, Rick Moody, Phil Levine, Yusef Komunyakaa, Jennifer Egan, and Jhumpa Lahiri. Throw it on the calendar now before things, as they often do, become hectic.

you've got red on you.

Edgar Wright and Simon Pegg, the geniuses behind Shaun of the Dead, are about to drop their Hot Fuzz all over America. Release date is 4/20. Bill Nighy is definitely back for more. Glorious.

Trailer is a-here.

Official site is a-here.

stupid job

Forces me to miss things like this:
BIG DAMN PRINTS
An outdoor group steamroller printmaking event. Several artist, students and professors from Pratt Institute will be printing large, 4 foot by 8 foot woodblock prints with a steamroller. That’s right: a giant street flattening heavy steamroller. This will be the third year of the event that was conceived by artist and professor Dennis McNett. This year will include over 40 different blocks by 40 different artists, live music, on site T-shirt printing, print sales and more. The event takes place outdoors on campus.
Pratt Institute
200 Willoughby Avenue, Brooklyn
Wednesday, April 11
10a–5p; $free
201 892 6850

Servicemation!

Further evidence of what happens when you ban weapons from a 3,000 year-old warrior culture:



Rob over at Murder by Baltimore, who spent some time teaching in Japan, sent along this page that translates but doesn't quite explain.

even the mighty

Looks like the behemoth Barnes & Noble at Astor Place is closing at the end of the year because they can't afford the rent. Once B&N moves out, there's going to be a ton of empty space at Astor & Lafayette given Astor Wines' departure last year.

Say it with me, New Yorkers: Please no condos.

On the bright side, there is no shortage of Independents in the area. Perhaps this will funnel more customers to The Strand, Housing Works, and St. Mark's Book Shop, amongst others.

life is still sweet

It's not a bad deal, spending my mornings running around that little pond down there.

fall seven times, stand up eight

So that's that. A monumental decision concerning your general well-being has been made without your input or consent. There are now two things required of you, to be done in the following order, with the second modified as you see fit in the event that the first proves successful.

One. Try as hard and honestly as possible to set things right, to fix what's broken, to reclaim what you've lost.

Two. Drink. Hard. With friends. For one night. There is no better guarantor of relentless, blubbering, cathartic release than large quantities of alcohol. Stop drinking. At least for a bit and especially alone. Especially alone. Set about rebuilding. Reaffirm friendships you've let slide. Strengthen those you consider solid. Meet new people. Find new places. Call your mom -- she's always on your side. You have to start running again, both as a healthy release and to help you quit smoking. You have to lift weights and let your hands go on the heavy bag. Just picture the face of the next guy she sleeps with. You have to put all remnants of her in a box. Burn them later, much later, if you like. For now, a box will do. You read voraciously, absorbing more and judging less. You split your listening between the sad songs you know and the new songs you want to meet. You explore your city more. You could live another hundred years and and never really scratch the surface. You jerk off a couple of times per day. You smoke some pot. You start eating again, raisins being the best way to reintroduce solid food to your body. You find a new band to follow. You travel. Where doesn't much matter. You cry. You work. Hard. You find a couple more of her things hidden among yours and put them in that dusty box. You finally move that box into the closet. You resist the justifiable yet petty urge to post those naked pictures of her to the internet. You think about her, but less each day until her memory becomes a fond, albeit sad, afterthought. You slug on. Somehow. You lower your head and drag your feet and keep your hands firmly in your pockets and watch miles upon miles of sidewalk stream by until one day you look up and wonder what it was you were thinking about just then, when the new person on your arm asks where your mind wandered.