April 5th, 2007


Sab O Tage

Some people will try to tell you that 4 albums worth of Steppenwolf is simply too much Steppenwolf, but I'm here today to tell you definitively that 4 albums worth of Steppenwolf is the appropriate amount of Steppenwolf.

Do you know why I like me? Why I like the person that is I? Because I'm the kind of guy who owns a pair of dress shoes from Nordstrom that are worth somewhere in the realm of $120 to $150 - easily the nicest pieces of body-covering I own - and I clean the dirt off of them with a damp McDonalds napkin I saved from a visit back in September.

I also like me because I've got the slickest dick that ALLLLLL the ladies love to ...

OK, now I like me a little less.

So, I'm not watching American Idol this year. I feel I should qualify that statement with: I haven't watched American Idol since the first season. There is nothing in that last sentence I'm proud about. However, this show is, like, bigger than SuperJesus, so no matter how one tries to ignore it, one can't help but at least catch an essence of what's going on. Earlier this season, there was some slutty finebody on the show whose ex-boyfriend apparently leaked some provocative photos that may or may not have been real. Whatever, she's a talentless hack who ended up losing, so who cares?

Especially because there is apparently this OTHER talentless hack who's still in the damn thing. Sanjaya? I know that's the guy, but let me look up the spelling of the name ... yeah, I'm right. Apparently, this guy is just God-awful. I've been paying marginal attention, mostly because I read the Howard Stern show recaps online and he's running a crusade to get Sanjaya the American Idol crown even though he's admittedly awful. Well, it looks like Sanjaya has made it through another round. Anyone? Anyone who watches, any thoughts?

Just devoted two paragraphs to American Idol ... liking m'self even less now.

Stevele Maps

Splitting these posts into managable chunks today. We'll see how we do.

I'm gonna try to explain something to you here about New York City. The land that is Manhattan, think of it like your foot. Or just like a rectangle that's three times longer than it is wide. Now, we like to think that going Uptown is the same as going North, but Manhattan doesn't face North-and-South exactly. It's more like it faces Northeast-and-Southwest.

Therefore, even though my train - The L-Train - takes me about a third of the way up Manhattan, it doesn't mean where I live now - Bushwick (which is just the area of Brooklyn in the Northeast corner) - is actually level with 14th street, where the L-Train dumps us off. Where I live - if you drew a Latitude Line across the map - equates to the bottommost tip of Manhattan geographically. So, even though I'm pretty much living on the border of Brooklyn and Queens right now, it doesn't necessarily mean I'm all that high up latitudinally.

What I'm trying to say here is that I found a place to live.

It's easy to confuse where Manhattan actually lies on the map, you see, because all of the subway maps here are tilted to make Manhattan LOOK like it's running North-and-South as opposed to Northeast-and-Southwest. So, if you went to the topmost spot in Queens (just north of Brooklyn, mind you), there would still be more of Manhattan north of you (with the Bronx being connected to Manhattan being north of that; and Staton Island being the red-headed stepchild on the water south of Manhattan).

Astoria is the neighborhood in Queens where I'll be living. Even though Astoria is the northernmost neighborhood in Queens (I believe), I think I'm living on the southern portion. If you found my place on a map, and Queens was an ordinary donut, I'd be in the northwestern section of the donut-hole of Queens. That's confusing. Just think of it this way: I'm in that first bite of donut you eat after dunking it in coffee.

I'm On Mah Waaaayeeee ...

My Worried Level has been cut down to a managable 1.5 now. I've found a home.

If you're reading these posts from top to bottom as opposed to in order chronologically, then my big revelation in the center of the second post of today won't have quite the same impact.

I'll live on 35th Street in between 36th Avenue and 37th Avenue. If that sounds confusing, because the numbers of the Streets and Avenues are so close together both geographically and numerically, then tell it to the judge, because I don't know what to tell you.

It's a small room - smaller than the one I have now - but it's a room. It's got four walls, a ceiling and a floor, a window that looks out into God knows what, and a door that closes and opens solely at my own personal discretion.

Not that the whole DOOR thing was a big concern of mine. It's like I tell everyone - everyone who doesn't seem to believe me when I tell them - I don't MIND my living situation now. I don't MIND people walking through my room to come and go. I'm not just SAYING that, it's true. I've spent the bulk of my life in my bedroom behind a locked door, shutting the world out. Frankly, it's nice to have the company, even if it's for but a brief moment's walk-through.

My all-time favorite living situation was when I lived at Mercer those last two years. What made it so enjoyable was the people, obviously, but it was also because (aside from when I was sleeping or really needed to buckle down and work) I always had my door open and people were always coming in and out to say hi or whatever. Then, of course, there was the year after that when I spent about 2/3 of my days on couches (the bulk of which spent at Stevens Court), and again I wasn't bothered.

I don't need a whole lot of privacy. I don't need a whole lot of space. The way I figure it, if I start to feel cramped or cabin feverish, I've got the biggest fucking city in the world to walk around in

(Note: New York is not the largest city in population, nor is it the largest city in overall land area. I don't know where I got such a crazy notion; maybe it's that New Yorker Mentality seeping in)

Now, I suppose you'll want details about the new place. Well, I ain't gonna give 'em to ya! Well, I ain't gonna give 'em to ya because I don't know 'em to begin with. The rent will be $350 per month. The security deposit was $350. The subway station is a block away, with the R and V trains taking me directly into the heart of Manhattan (with the E and G trains also easily accessible). There's a supermarket three blocks away; there's a BAR right around the corner (an Irish bar, with a big fucking Jets football helmet in the window); there are luxury car dealerships all over the area; there are real sit-down restaurants all around; and hell, there's a Village Voice dispenser right at the end of my block.

The guy who rents the place is from Spain. He's 30, shorter and skinnier than me, and he's a musician of some kind. Non-smoker, drinks some. The roommate is moving out at the end of the month. The roommate has a framed New Kids on the Block poster on his wall; that's the only thing he has on his wall (OK, I only have time to pack one thing to hang on my wall ... what's it gonna be ... quickly now! ... New Kids on the Block or New Edition? New Kids or New Edition? Oh man, this is TOUGH!).

That's about all I know so far. I don't ask a whole lot of questions because I'm not bothered by the kinds of things most other people find unreasonable. Plus, it's hard out here for a pimp, and finding a place on your own in a city where everyone's moving around all the time, it's not easy. Here's how it all went down:

It was Day 3 of my All-Day Craigslist Refresh Party. I found this ad that said "$350 Small Room". It said to call any time (rather than e-mail), so I called and left a message. This was yesterday morning, probably around 9 or 10am. I then followed that up promptly with an e-mail saying how I just called, etc. He ended up calling me back like two minutes before I went to lunch yesterday and I set up the time to meet him: 6:30pm.

Right after work, I got on the V-train and rode it to the 36th St. stop in Astoria. I got off the train at 6:00pm, which was entirely too early to show up, so I took a walk around the area a little bit. That's how I found out about the bar and the grocery store and all that. It was starting to rain a little more heavily by 6:15, so I called him, but he wasn't at the apartment. I waited around for 10 minutes or so, then he arrived.

Freddy is his name. Freddy SomethingSpanish. I have it written down nowhere, but I'll figure it out. Anyway, I looked at it, said I'll take it, took three trains to get home, quickly changed, grabbed my checkbook, bought a large order of Pork Fried Rice on the corner, ate dinner on the three trains back up to Astoria, gave him a check for $350, got a receipt for $350, took four trains to get back home again, watched about a half hour of Eddie Izzard, and fell right to sleep because I was fucking EXHAUSTED.

And just like that, I've got a place. Now, all I have to worry about is how long it's gonna be before I lose my position here and about buying that ticket to fly home in July.