Good riddance.
I think part of his sentence should be going 10 rounds with current mayor, Corey Booker.
I live in astoria.
I work in the city.
Comrades: Brian M. Kurtzman, David Cho, Mike Flavin, Joanna Flavin
Electronic Correspondence: andrewglennflavin@gmail.com
Good riddance.
I think part of his sentence should be going 10 rounds with current mayor, Corey Booker.
Two gentlemen, whose job it is to wash the windows of our office building, just levitated by our window and scared the crap out of roughly 50 people by banging on the glass as hard as they could. They laughed, pointed at all of us desk-jockeys, and gave a celebratory high-five as they steadily continued to rise past our window, undoubtably preparing to pull their stunt for the 35th time today.
If I had that job, I don’t think banging on windows would ever get old.
As I stood at a urinal while a fellow fan struck up a conversation with me about the Yankees pitching staff, I realized something about the citizens of this great city. We are constantly walking the fine line between being complete strangers and intimate friends with each other. We live, commute, do laundry, drink, eat, pee, walk, sit close to each other. This physical proximity/intimacy leads to a certain feeling of emotional closeness among us. Most often this subconscious affinity lies dormant under busyness and indifference but there are those few moments when you connect with a complete stranger and interact as if you have known each other for 20 years simply because you are constantly living close to 8 million other people.
(Or maybe the guy was just a creepy old man who likes to talk to people while he pees. Another, equally/more valid psychosocial explanation for his behavior and commentary on the population of New York.)
As I sat in the right field bleachers at the Yankee game last night talking to my uncle on the phone, I realized that Section 39 in its entirety had started chanting “Lose that tie.” I turned towards them and saw a portly, sleeveless shirt-wearing, Eastern European-looking guy leading the chant, rhythmically pointing his finger at me and my (J.Crew large-dot) tie. The chant then transitioned into “buy buy buy, sell sell sell,” insinuating that I looked like a “stockbroker or something.”
After recognizing that I was in fact wearing a Yankees hat and I was one of them, the barrage of fan-on-fan heckling abated and a deal was struck when I agreed to “at least loosen it, bro.” The crowd went wild.
God, I love Yankees games, New York, and the right field bleachers.
I got an invitation to see a free screening of this movie today but it starts in 15 minutes…damn.
It appears to be a cinematic menage a trois of The Transporter, Crank, and Mad Max. (They tried to cast Jason Statham in Mad Max but couldn’t because he was “seven years old.”)

“The Jersey tomato is a nondescript red, round tomato,” said longtime agricultural extension agent Jack Rabin. “And I use nondescript as a term of respect.”
Classic Jersey Ramapos are hybrid tomatoes, bred by seed companies or in laboratories like Mr. Rabin’s, to have certain qualities such as resistance to disease or high yields. The famous Rutgers hybrid tomato, released by the university in 1934, has a particular sweet tanginess that was prized by the Campbell Soup company, based in Camden, N.J.

Washington burglers found asleep on stolen goods.
This was certainly a premeditated crime (in addition to the fact that “alcohol was involved”).
The planning probably went like this:
Kyle: Hey dude I am tired.
Allen: Yeah bro we need some pillows.
Kyle: Duuuude yeah! And a hammock.
Allen: But we don’t have any pillows.
Kyle: No hammock either.
Allen: I bet Macy’s has some.
Kyle: Bro….