Tag Archives: brooklyn

right now

After work yesterday I was walking my dog Jack and I stumbled upon something odd, even by Brooklyn standards.

I turned onto a street that I typically walk down, and noticed that up ahead a woman was standing with her back to me, near a tree. As I got closer I saw a stroller next to her with a baby inside, and in front of her, a small child with his pants around his ankles, pissing on the tree.

At first I thought this couldn’t be what I thought it was, but sure enough, there was a tiny stream of pee hitting the tree. Of course the woman was just standing there like this was part of her family’s normal Wednesday.

It’s not like the peeing kid was really young either, he was about four years-old. But there he was, hanging out with his wang out, peeing all over a tree like he was a college kid who just did an a keg stand.

As I passed by, I gave the lady a look of “Well, you shocked me. And I’ve had a crackhead try to sell a tent to me.” But she didn’t seem to mind, she was calmly standing there like this type of thing is Okay.

Which makes me wonder if it really is. Maybe her husband just pisses wherever he wants? Maybe when she has to go number two, she pops a squat right then there. You know, live in the moment and all that.

I’d love to go to one of their family reunions.


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viva la revolution or something!

A couple of months ago, Ari and I, being the proud parents that we are, submitted a picture of our dog Jack for a calendar of local dogs.

Of course Jack was selected because he’s fucking cute and if you don’t know him, you wouldn’t realize that he’s completely insane. We were very excited about him getting picked, until we saw the picture.

Here is the month, which is dominated by a huge picture of some idiot named Otis, while Jack’s picture is tiny in comparison.



First of all, Jack is not Otis’ friend.  I’m sure Otis wishes he was Jack’s friend, but Jack is very popular among the dogs of Clinton Hill, Brooklyn who don’t mind being humped.  He must be selective.

And seriously, how is Jack’s picture not the center piece here?

Crazy since 2008.

Sears Glamour Shot.

Right?  Much better than Otis’ picture.

So Ari and I were all “What the hell?” and “Guess we’re gonna have to cut some bitches” about the situation.  Then as we scanned through the calender we noticed something: the dogs that were featured with big photos belonged to a neighborhood dog association!

Talk about dirty politics.

Since Jack isn’t a member, he got shunned!  Is this not America??? Do we not have equal opportunity for all dogs???

Sure Jack has lunged at more little kids than Micheal Jackson at a playground, but does he not deserve his chance in the spotlight like the rest of these Elitist Pups?

Well Ari, Jack and I have decided we won’t stand for this injustice.  I know right now you’re saying, “Uh dude, I’m not buying it, mainly because it’s March and you’re just now bitching about this.  Honestly, it sounds like you’ve been drinking.” And maybe you’d be right – but that doesn’t change the fact that we are going to stand up for what we perceive as a wrong!

Right after I finish this beer.


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sorted out

I’d like to have a word with the guy who made this poster for the upcoming (sure to be a hit) movie The Haunting in Connecticut.

When I take pictures of posters in the subway, people don't think I'm crazy, they just think I'm a loser.

The only scary things in Connecticut are the vast amounts of white people who think wearing sweaters over their shoulders is okay.

If you can’t read my fine subway photography, the tagline for the film is “Some things cannot be explained.”  But here’s the thing: I think I can explain what’s happening here pretty well.

It’s called vomiting.

a.k.a. ralphing, spewing, losing your lunch, blowing chunks, puking and my personal favorite: buying the buick.

The kid is fucking puking.  And… I’m done!  I explained it. Little Sammy probably didn’t listen to his dad when he told him that he better eat his broccoli and when Sammy copped an attitude dad had to shove the veggie down poor Sammy’s throat causing him to ralph which never would have happened if he had just listened to dad in the first place.

Or maybe the kid just found out that Flo Rida has the number one song in America right now.

Either way, it’s pretty easy to explain what’s happening here.

I don’t know much about designing movie posters, but hopefully we can try a little harder next time. You know, put some thought into it dammit.  Like this blog post, I thought about this for like 17 minutes straight.

It’s called Leading By Example.


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it is not how many times you fall, but how many times you get back up

Look, I understand being dedicated to fitness.

I mean, I go to the gym almost everyday and despite the granny who works out in her sports bra, I still love a good workout like nothing else.

And I’m sure you were in a rush.  These are busy times.  Everyone is in a hurry all the time.

You probably even thought that no one would notice you, and that your decision was based purely on convenience and not wanting to show off to everybody that you are a Healthy Man and A Cyclist.

But here’s the thing – you made a mistake.  When you decided to do this, you were wrong.  Whatever your thought process was before the moment when I snatched your picture, it was Incorrect.

I know, I know – I’ve made mistakes too.  I’ve been on the wrong side of decisions more often than the right, but what’s important is that I learned from those errors in judgment.  When I wrestle with my dog so viciously that he bites my ass so hard it rips a hole in my sweats, I learn not to wrestle with him so much.  Or at least to run away when I’m done.

So I’m hoping that this is a one time deal, and from now on, there will be no more of this.

Because no matter what you say, no matter how you say it, you will never convince me that you couldn’t have changed before you came to the grocery store.

Yes, those are tighty-whitie lines.

Yes, those are tighty-whitie lines.


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mass appeal

My block is like any other block in Brooklyn, in that one street can be beautiful with children playing games on the sidewalk, and the next street can be full of intimidating men Selling Things.  Things that are bad.  Bad like drugs.  Drugs are bad.

Just like the norm, my street is pretty nice, but in the early morning when I go to the gym before work, at the end of my block there are always hookers hanging around.

Normally I pass by them and they pay me no mind, which is usually okay with me, but this morning was different.  Today I happened to find myself walking just behind another man, and when he passed by, one of the hookers slithered up to him and sexily (well as sexily as a mid-50’s woman with a crack habit can sound) murmured, “Hey baby…”

I didn’t stick around to see if they were going to start playing Chinese Checkers or whatever it is men do with hookers, but I did notice that there was another prostitute standing right by them, and she said nothing to me.


No “Hey baby.”

No “What chu up to today suga?”

No “You look like you have low self-esteem.  Well so do I, so you should pay me for sex that will probably leave you with red bumps on your soldier.”


Of course I was deeply upset about this.  What could be the reason that I didn’t get solicited?

Am I not good looking enough for a hooker hanging around at 6:10 in the morning?  Granted my shoes could use a shine, but couldn’t she look past that?

Or maybe the hooker gave me a once over and thought that I would not be able to provide the Good Time that she wanted.  Well does she even know that I work out?  I mean, if she wants three minutes you better believe I can give three minutes.  Followed by a snack and a nap of course.

It doesn’t really matter what the reason was, the fact remains that I was given the cold shoulder by a hooker today and that means I need to make some changes.

Starting tomorrow morning I’m going to unbutton my shirt to show my twelve chest hairs when I pass by them.  If that doesn’t change their minds, I don’t know what will.


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two face

Yesterday afternoon as I was coming back inside my apartment building after walking my dog, a man on the sidewalk yelled out to me.

I stopped, looked back and asked him what he had said, while carefully examining him to determine if 1) he was a crackhead 2) he was fucking crazy or 3) he was going to ask me for money.  I live in Brooklyn, and these are the first things that pop into my head when a random dude yells at me.

“Jeff!” he said, “You’re Jeff, right?”

“No, not me man, sorry.”

He looked down for minute, and I thought this was my chance to escape, but he persisted.

“You’re not Jeff?  You drive a silver car.”

“No, no.  I don’t even own a car. That’s not me.”

“Oh wow, you look just like Jeff,” he continued, and at that, I made my way into my building.

This moment would not be that odd, of course, had this been the first time this guy said this to me.

But it wasn’t.

That was the second time that same guy said I looked like a man named Jeff in the last two months, and I only realized that after the moment had passed.

So somewhere, in Clinton Hill, Brooklyn or the surrounding neighborhoods, a man named Jeff is walking around being me, and apparently, I am walking around being him.

I like to think that this Jeff guy is a suave, sophisticated man, but if this guy thinks I’m him, Jeff sadly must be a guy who wears sweatpants with dog slobber on them all too often, and occasionally wears his fiancee’s coat when it rains if he’s feeling lazy (which happens to be two sizes too small).

But this is the best I get.

No one ever says I look like anyone famous or anything like that.  Not once has anyone claimed that I look exactly like Bruce Willis even though I have adamantly proclaimed this to Ari more times than I’d like to admit.

No Brad Pitt.

No George Clooney.


Just Jeff.

I wonder if Jeff feels this same way?  I wonder if he’s being called “Chris” and despises me too?  If he is I really don’t feel all that bad for him.

At least he has a car, and a silver one at that.


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good lord

Yesterday Ari and I were taking our dog for a walk when we stumbled upon something that shocked both of us.

It wasn’t a crack head trying to sell us a tent.

It wasn’t a guy pissing on a street light pole in broad daylight.

And it wasn’t even a middle-aged woman telling her friend that she “was gonna go all crazy and shit” if she didn’t get paid later that night.

Even though all of those people can be found all too frequently around our neighborhood, it wasn’t any of them.  Instead, it was a giant, overwhelming, sun-blocking church.

god damn!

god damn!

This church was not there about a month ago.  But suddenly, there it was.  Huge.  Massive.  With lettering basically yelling “Jesus Christ is The Lord!” at us.

How is it that apartment complexes take at least a year or so to be put up, yet churches seem to spring up at any moment and, quite frankly, scare the hell out of you?

I think that’s exactly the effect that they’re going for.  They sit around a table, discuss how to make Jesus even more intimidating than he already is, and then it’s settled: They will build a gigantic church, way bigger than necessary, that will scare all the Non Believers shitless.

And that’s exactly what happened to Ari and I.

When we saw this church, we stopped cold in our tracks and stared at it.

In fact, my exact words were “Jesus fucking christ!”

Somehow, I can’t help but think that’s not what they were going for, but then again, I don’t think I’m really their target audience.


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nothing but time

In New York you spend a lot of time waiting for the train.  Even though they come every couple minutes you will inevitably lose a sizable chunk of your life just sitting and waiting.

There are several things that you can do to pass the time while you wait, if you’re by yourself that is.  If you’re not, I suppose you should talk to the people you’re with, though depending on your company, that’s debatable.

Your first option, and my personal favorite, is to people watch and make fun of them in your head.  For example, this morning I saw a woman walk past me with really short pants, so in my head I said “Hahaha – look at short pants!”  I’m witty and mature.

Another option is to play games on your cell phone. This is always good if you want to fool people into thinking that you’re checking emails and doing things like Someone Of Importance.

A solid third time waster is to check out all the ads that line the walls.  I do this because I work in advertising and I like to act like I care about my job, but also because I sometimes come across quality items like this:

I know it’s crappy, but I didn’t exactly want everyone around me thinking that I needed to remember this number so badly that I had to take a picture.

If you can’t make it out, the ad is for a podiatrist who has some kind of revolutionary bunion removal technique.  It says “As Seen On TV” but I haven’t seen it.  Though I will be staying up all night tonight in hopes of catching the infomercial.

My favorite part of this ad though is clearly the copy reading “Free Consultation.”

I love how they think that’s an enticing move on their part.  Listen, no one goes to the podiatrist and ends up leaving thinking, “Huh, must’ve just been some lint!”  

You simply do not go if nothing is already wrong.  I don’t know about you, but I never look down at my foot and think, “Everything looks great! I better get to the doctor.”  If you’re going to a foot specialist, there is something wrong with your foot.  Giving people a free first look is not exactly spicing up the deal.  

But at least it’s entertaining, right?  

There’s only so many things you can do while waiting for the train before you get bored out of your skull.

I guess you could be productive and start a to do list and so forth, but I think insulting people, playing PapiJump and looking at stupid ads is much more fun.  I like to think it adds character.  Or something like that.


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i don’t like sushi anyway

On Saturday night, Ari and I went out to dinner at a Japanese tapas place for our friend’s birthday, and things went slightly different than planned.

From the beginning, the people working at the restaurant seemed a little confused.

Drinks were wrong, food came out differently than it was supposed to and one guy even had to wait almost forty minutes for his beer.  Which he never got.  He ended up having to get a different one because after all the waiting, our server finally told him that the beer he wanted was out.  The guy is nicer person than me, because if I had to be sober for that long in public I would’ve punched someone’s baby.

As the night went on and I tried to pretend that the girl sitting across from me didn’t make me want to stab my hand with my fork, everyone got their final course, except me.

So I sat there.

And sat there.

I was being Adult Chris, mainly so that Ari didn’t give me A Talking To, so I just asked the server a couple times where my food was.

Forty-five minutes later, the owner comes out, and this is when the fun began.

He came to the table because he heard that we were complaining to the server about my food.  At first, he was calm, hearing about all the things that had gone wrong, and then, I think maybe he lost his mind.

He gripped the end of the table with both of his hands and yelled, “This is our best!”  Then he stormed off.

I thought about this, and how awesome it would be to always give this response, no matter the situation, but decided that yelling, “This is my best!” at people would just be another thing I do that does not make Ari very happy.

After the owner yelled at us, we decided, “Whatever, let’s pay and bounce.”

Meanwhile I was about as drunk as William Shatner because I’d been drinking Goose and sodas and still hadn’t eaten.

Then, like a bolt of lightning, the owner was back at our table.  He looked repentant, so I was thinking he was going to apologize for flipping out and making me grip my knife in defense mode, but he instead proceeded to accuse of us saying that we hate Japanese people.

I think that was the point we decided to leave without paying.

Not only was the dinner terrible from start to finish, we were now outed as the secret Japanese haters that we all knew, deep down, we really were.

Having gone and experienced this place and its loony owner, I think I’m now qualified to write a review:

Bozu offers a quaint atmosphere.  If you and your racist friends have always wanted to not get your food and get yelled at by an owner, then make a reservation.  For the full treatment, just be sure to make it under “Stupidjaps.”


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speed kills

Living in New York, I get to experience all the terribleness that is Walking With Others.

Every day, every single moment of my life, is dominated by walking to or from somewhere.  And unfortunately, there happen to be lots of other people doing the same thing.

The worst, obviously, is tourists.  You can spot them by the way they stop in the middle of the sidewalk and the general pace of their walking, which I’ve clocked at just above the speed of a toddler.  Who has one leg. And no eyes.

Let me make a Public Service Announcement:  The sidewalk here is like the road where you live.  You do not just come to screeching halt on the highway and you do not putz along at 25 mph either.  Unless you want to get shot.  I suppose that’s your choice.

While the actions of tourists can be maddening, it’s the Close Walker who really angers me.

You know what I’m talking about.

You’re walking along, maybe listening to Tennessee and thinking about how it’s a song about how god told this guy to move there, which is really kind of weird, when you notice a person walking closely behind you.

The Close Walker never seems to know what to do, so you must become, as the brilliant George W. put it, “The Decider.”

You have two ways of dealing with the Close Walker:  You can slow down, let them pass and maybe give them a glare saying, “Yeah I heard you, just leave me alone!”  Or you can speed up and leave them in the dust, which of course is the more immature thing to do.

Which is why I do it.

Close Walkers present a certain challenge to me, a challenge that I like to meet head on and smash, smash, smash!

When I hear them approach, I tense up and prepare myself for their attack.  I like to let them gain a false sense of confidence by letting them pull up next to me too.  Then, in a flash of blazing speed, I pull away.  Often I even make a “vrrrooooommm!” sound in my head as I do it.  This, I find, makes the situation much more intense.

As the Close Walker fades behind me, I do not look back.  They know they’ve lost.  I don’t need to rub it in.

If you’re faced with a Close Walker, I beg you to not accept defeat and let them pass by.  Speed up and know that you are better than them, simply because you can walk to the bodega for a Slim Jim faster than they can.

Oh, and feel free to use the “vrrrooooommm!” sound, trust me, it’s worth it.


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