An open letter: Eleanor Rigby


Dear People with Pets,

Just admit that this is how you see your dog.


The Guy With the Telepathic Camera App


This is not a thing


There’s an awful lot of electricity being used inside of this alleged Amish Market; maybe the entire store is being run by kids on rumspringa. That does seem unusually enterprising for a bunch of 16-year-olds on vacation in Never Never Land, however.

A non-story: Why I Hate the Internet


I saw this girl on the train. Hey, girl.


At 8:30 in the morning, she was reading this book. Hey, giiiiiiirl!


Now that I’ve looked up Mandingo Pt. II, Amazon keeps trying to sell me this book. I hope Facebook doesn’t hear about this.

Better dead than (Marlboro) red?


It isn’t really that I even feel attached to the nicotine anymore. I started smoking early on in college, standing around at parties after the beer ran out and needing something to do with my hands. I wanted to look cool for this girl I liked and something about a menthol Camel seemed to do the trick. While it wasn’t much longer before I gave up on the idea of girls, the cigarettes have managed to stick with me years later.

Frat party or not, I still have a need to look detached and derelict if not outright dangerous. Days may go by without cravings, but as soon as I need some stage business while I wait for someone outside of a bar, I reach for my cigarette case (another affectation to try to appear interesting) and light up a five-minute cure for social anxiety.

When you get up in the morning, putting certain things in your pockets—keys, wallet, phone, Xanax—eventually gets burned into your muscle memory. Because I’m not a consistent smoker, a lighter hasn’t quite made its way onto the list of things that will end up in my jeans after I’ve sleepwalked through my morning routine. Inevitably, this means I’ll have to ask a stranger for a light while I’m  filling empty time loitering on the street.

As conversations with strangers go, this one should be fairly simple. Smokers aren’t uncommon, but they still conduct themselves as members of a kind of implied social club—kind of like Jews or Wes Anderson fans. They don’t usually consider the request to be an imposition since they’ve surely been in a similar position before and will be again. Nevertheless, despite a smoker’s willingness to accommodate his tovarishch, the exchange typically reveals the fundamental lack of trust that exists between New Yorkers.

After the brief “where did I put my lighter” dance, your new friend will reach out, cup his hand and attempt to light your cigarette for you. The frustration on his face is evident as he futilely tries to start a fire in a wind tunnel—it’s difficult to light your cigarette on a breezy fall afternoon in the city and virtually impossible to light someone else’s. Still, he isn’t trying to be neighborly, rather that he’s so concerned that you’ll abscond with his precious blue Bic that he’d rather turn a five second transaction into a Sisyphean trial.

Dude, really… what the fuck do you think I’m going to do?

gypsies1Is that my game in your mind? I walk around with a pack of Marlboro Ultra Lights preying on naïve simpletons who didn’t get to the “Protecting Your Valuables” chapter in The New Yorker’s Handbook before they hit a bump and fell off the turnip trick? Did Nancy Grace expose a community of grifters canvassing the city collecting half-beat Texaco lighters before convening in a caravan parked on the outskirts of town? Even if she did, that woman is insane and so are you for listening to her.

There’s no such thing as The Zippo Gang so just let me hold the lighter, asshole. This is an insult to us both.

Don’t buy your hats in Times Square

hatI mostly took a picture of This Guy to prove he wasn’t a figment of my imagination. I’m not sure why he had to travel over 100 blocks to buy a mess of paper towels since I happen to know for a fact that you don’t need any special brand of towel to clean up bong water. Any college Freshman in Marin County knows that, and seeing as this 40 year old man has chosen to dress like one, you’d expect him to be more familiar with their culture.

You can’t tell due to the low-resolution of my Apple SpacePhone’s camera, but his “gold” chain has this logo emblazoned on the dog tag (in full Technicolor). Combined with the hat (which looks like something that black Bart Simpson would wear on one of those bootleg shirts from the 90s), This Guy must really want us to know that he likes reggae but is fine being single for the rest of his life. A little on-the-nose, man… a little on-the-nose. If nothing else, the small “they only give these out at head shops” black plastic bag is enough of a signal alone.

This is nowhere near the meanest thing I’ve said about a stranger today.

An Open Letter…

RainforestDear anyone on the street with a thing in your hands,



I’ll just throw it away

A non-story: Gimme Your Fingernails!

moonvestA crazy old homeless guy challenged me to fisticuffs on the train last night. There wasn’t any reason—he was just crazy and full of energy after eating a small bag of chips.

I had Captain America and Kimbo Slice ready for him but I just kinda looked at him like “dude, really?” and he got off the train without incident. This other guy looked at me and shrugged. I did the same.

The end.