Champ sings

• Last Tuesday night I was walking home and I received a text from the manager who fired me from my lame restaurant job. The text was about some trivial part of work, to which I responded with, "Do you even remember firing me?"

He did not answer my question so I shot him another text asking why I could not get a response from him. The next morning I had an e-mail in my inbox from him.

The e-mail was addressed to me and my general manager (a shitty manager as well, but a good person), the subject of the e-mail read, "I obviously need to address a serious problem, so sorry." The body of the e-mail was left blank.

I immediately gold-starred the e-mail and then thought for a minute as to what the appropriate return e-mail should be. Is his serious problem his drinking, which caused him to start firing employees in the middle of the restaurant and ultimately lost him his job? Or was the serious problem his inability to compose an e-mail with text in the body of the e-mail.

• Dealing with the worst realtors in New York City has been rather interesting. I think it has something to do with the fact that my friends and I have been looking for housing that falls just above the public housing price range.

The first time my friends and I saw our new apartment, the exchange with the realtor went as follows:

Schedule to meet Steve the Realtor at 2:00 on a Thursday.

Steve shows up at 2:20, walks us to the door of the apartment. He then knocks 20 times to see if anyone is home before declaring, "Don't worry these guys are cool, I buy weed off them all the time."

Steve finally finds the keys to the place and begins showing off the dirtiest stoner pad I have ever seen. There was at least a 5-1 ratio of bongs to tenants and because of this 3 of the 5 bedrooms were still occupied by passed out tenants. Again this was 2:30 in the afternoon on a Thursday.

We would eventually come back to the place at a later time when the present tenants mustered the energy to wake up to move from their beds to smoke on the couch. When we returned we realized the place and price were right and after a good 48 hours of cleaning it would be inhabitable by humans who don't consider watching the audio commentary of the "40 Year Old Virgin" a full day.

• I tagged along with my friend Eric as he began his apartment hunting excursion. We walked up to the first place his realtor planned on showing us. He unlocked the door and was greeted with a "Hey! What the hell man?!" Apparently the apartment has been already been rented out a week ago. Strike 1. Then we rolled to the next option as the realtor's friend (who was with us for no reason) bragged about the various sexual acts he claimed to have achieved the night before. We arrived at the next apartment and the realtor fumbled around with his set of keys for 3 minutes before realizing he did not have the keys for the apartment. Strike 2.

The third place was available and viewable, in the family room sat a massive black leather and cheetah print L-shaped couch with a spinning, mirror covered nook in the middle meant to hold a bottle of Courvoisier or a mound of blow. The couch's glory days were at least 30 years past and I would guess it contained STDs that most doctors would not be able to diagnose. I refused to sit on or get within 3 feet of a piece of furniture Leon Phelps would call disgusting. However, the realtor plopped down on the couch and exclaimed, "Man, you gotta make me one promise. If you get this place and you don't want this couch, you have to call me so I can have this." Strike 3.

Then he displayed a shithole apartment with a backyard. "The place is kinda small, but you guys could easily grow weed back here," the realtor said even though we never brought up marijuana once. Strike 4.

• My friend Andy gave me this gem and it's really the greatest video ever (if you're into obscure former Oregon basketball players). Champ Oguchi singing Happy Birthday. There is really too much hilarity in that video to describe. After watching it 15 times I realized I could click 'next video' and watch Champ get beat in Around the World by a girl.

• Last weekend the Domino's on my block had an MC narrating every move on the block as he promoted Domino's pizza. They also had the loudest Spanish music I have ever heard, which literally could be heard three blocks away. But you can't be mad at 5-buck large pizzas.

• A picture from my roof with some pleasant graffiti.

• This JR Smith article raises two questions, "Is JR a better golfer than basketball player?" and "Is JR Smith God?"

So many different things make JR trill...

1. Winning the McDonalds All-American game co-MVP while rocking shorts three sizes too big.

2. Deciding to skip UNC based solely on a breakout H.S. All-American circuit.

3. Beating a vehicular manslaughter charge.

4. Jacking up 3s out of sync of any offense.

5. Every time the Nuggets get a fresh 24-second clock and JR Smith jacks up another 3 with 23 seconds on the clock.

6. When he finally hits a 3 and proceeds to mock the mentally challenged. Phil Jackson's reaction says it all.

Now I'm homesick

Rollerskating with DMX is definitely what I miss most about Arizona. Sorry family and friends, you are all a distant second. 

Z-Bo, Ichiro and the world between

The bad news: I got fired from my job. This is actually good news because it was a terrible restaurant job and I needed to leave the place. It was also a hilarious firing because I was fired by my boss who was completely inebriated at the time. By completely inebriated I mean he had been downing tequila shots all day and was literally tripping over himself and falling over by 6:00. He also gave a fellow employee and I a nonsensical speech on the benefits of socialism.

Then at 6:45 he called me over and in the middle of the restaurant told me I was fired. I asked why and he told me it was not working out. I asked what was not working out and he said to just go home. Of course I wanted to tell him to fuck off, but I resisted because I need a check they owe me and because I was pretty happy to be able to go home and watch the LeBron game, which ended up being rather entertaining.

The boss who fired me was fired later that night and I doubt he even remembers firing me, but I have no interest in returning to the restaurant since it was a complete mess in the first place.

The good news: I have been working on my vertical and I can now touch the rim. I also don't have a job, which I suppose will give me more time to blog.

Other items of interest:

• Brandon Jennings' Twitter: Outside of the Los Angeles area, few have hyped Brandon Jennings for as long as I have. I was even spreading the word of Young Money to my friends in Bahia Blanca. And this is why I will continue to be a fan, via his Twitter:

"Most Important thing about the Draft/NBA, Get on a TEAM that fits your game and kill those 3yrs and GET THAT Big 2nd contract! O yea and WIN"

Also after living in Italy for a year, I imagine that Brandon's draft-day suit will be beyond the comprehension level of most humans.

• Speaking of the draft if anybody else wants to join me in attending the June 25 draft let me know. I think it requires sleeping outside the Garden on the night before, a sacrifice I am prepared to make.

• Kenyon Martin calling Mark Cuban a "faggot motherfucker" is now kinda old, but still worth posting and one of the many reasons I am rooting for the Nuggets.

• Also the "Kobe Doin' Work" documentary turned from a Kobe lover to hater. That documentary was so bad that I felt compelled to leave a note to Spike as I stumbled upon his 40 Acres and a Mule Filmworks headquarters when I was roaming around Fort Greene. My note read, "Kobe Doin' Work was the worst documentary I have ever seen. Come on Spike you're better than that."

• Also this incredible advertisement was spotted in Fort Greene. Chauncey sure does love the juice!

• Manu Ginobili's Facebook statuses are also a constant source of amusement: Over the past week his updates have reflected an ongoing mini-put battle with Fabricio Oberto (or just Fabri if you're down).

Hoy me desquité de Fabri, lo mío fue arrollador, así que los playoffs están 1a1. Que se agarre Tiger! Buenísima la foto! //// Great comeback at minigolf today, I tied the series, now 1-1. Great picture with Mr. Oberto.

Para los que no lo ven, Fabri esta tocando la guitarra con el putter y yo ... bueno, creo que se entiende.

Even better his in-bed photography with his boo of the day. I really wish every NBA player would post the 6 AM groupie-bang shot.

Qué hago despierto a las 6am no sé! Pero les mando una fotito mía con la bella durmiente... La despertó el flash, pero ya se durmió de nuevo. //// What the heck am I doing awake at 6am I don't know. Here's a picture of my sleeping beauty. (she didn't enjoy the little flash from the phone!).

It should also be noted that 154 people have used the Facebook feature to 'like' this.

• Something deep I realized this week: Badger, the shitty meth dealer in Breaking Bad, is the same obnoxious guy from those shitty Chris Paul Right Guard commercials .

• Again if you don't watch Breaking Bad you're a fucking idiot.

• I was waiting to check out at Target the other day when I saw that the cashier had a tattoo of a cross on her bicep that read "R.I.P. Andre" with some corresponding dates beneath it. I was third in line and I thought for a 90 seconds of how I could say, "I'm so sorry about Andre" in the most genuine, sincere way possible. I was really curious what her reaction would be. But I decided against offering my belated condolences to her at the last second. Maybe next time.

• I was awaken from a nightmare yesterday morning by a car blaring Hov's "Jigga my n*gga." I can't think of a better start to any morning then hearing "BROOKLYNNNNN be the place where I serve them thangs."

• Speaking of "Jigga my n*gga," since that song came out in 1999 I have said "Lights out n*ggas" under my breath every time the teacher asked me to turn the lights off in class.

• I saw a guy rocking a Zack Randolph jersey, which is awesome for several reasons: Z-Bo's fat contract, his destruction of any team chemistry, the fact that he displayed Larry Hoover poster when he was on MTV Cribs or my favorite the fact that Z-Bo was accused of forcing anal sex with a passed out stripper.

This was the coolest jersey I saw on the streets until I saw a flaming homosexual man wearing an authentic Ichiro jersey.

• One day I am going to write an article on people who make mixtape covers, because so many are so inspirational.

• Just in case you were curious where I lived and if I could show you on a picture from 1939. I live in by the red dot now and come June 1 I am moving to the blue dot. And now you know.

• The two years Chris Andersen was not in the league were the worst two years of my life.

• Finally read all of Shiffy's blogs Bogus and Mustacheme. They are entertaining and some times they have stupid hot chicks.

R.I.P. F.R.R.

As you all know the black WPM half-mast flag (which I was too lazy to edit) is only for the saddest of blog occasions. Unfortunately I must bring the flag out again today as the blog/Twit-osphere lost a close e-friend in Fake Rick Reilly.

Five days a week Fake Rick Reilly enlightened the lives of anybody who enjoyed brilliant puns or anybody who just hated Rick Reilly. I will forever wonder what Real Rick Reilly's reaction was to seeing a Twitter that ruthlessly mocked him with his own game.

It was impossible to chose, but here are a few of my personal favorites from FRR's short life:

Apparently, Jayson Williams is suicidal. Let's hope he makes the most important rebound of his life.

On the other hand,Kobe doesn't Shakira who he plays - he's ready Whenever, Wherever! And those 3 champions-hips Don't Lie! Lakers win title.

RIP Nick Adenhart. Now he is really IS with the Angels.

Let's hope the Diamondbacks give Nick's family free season tickets.

At the tender age of 11, Timmy Poe had already lived a life of misery few can imagine. Until one Yankee hero decided to make a difference.

Abandoned by hippie parents at age 5, Timmy bounced from orphanage to orphanage, but no one wanted him. The two lazy eyes didn't help.

Timmy also contracted a rare strain of "polio measles", which would have baffled his doctors, if he could afford treatment.

School was no better. Though he tried to fit in, kids were predictably cruel to the weirdo who made his own clothes from stolen recyclables.

Just when it seemed things couldn't get worse, a box arrived for him at the orphanage. He'd never had a Christmas before, let alone in July.

Inside was a baseball, signed simply 'A.J. Burnett'. And beside it a note, reading 'Certificate of Authenticity'. Timmy stared transfixed.

"It's a really nice gesture, I guess, even though I don't really watch baseball," said Timmy. "I was kind of hoping it was my medicine."

So athletes aren't heroes? Tell that to Timmy as he checks through the box again. Sport - it brings out the sick little kid...in all of us.

I would like to personally thank Big Daddy Drew and Gourmet Spud for all that they have given us.

I will allow my friend/FRR follower Gould to offer some closing words:

I'm a mess. Yes, I am aware that is precisely how I started off the e-mail to Seplow regarding Friday Night Lights. At this point either I appear to others as though I'm in a constant tailspin into the depths of nothingness or more accurately way too much of my life is dependent on fictional football and fake Twitter. Here's the thing, as I wrote that e-mail to Seplow, a month or so back, my FNL world had been shattered. Nothing seemed right, nothing felt real. But as I sat there and penned (typed) my heart and soul one thing got me through it, FNL would be back. As upside down as everything felt, I knew I could count on another season (or two) of Coach Eric Taylor righting my ship.

So things got better for a while, I decided not to dwell on my FNL issues and I even moved on, found a new friend. Its name was Twitter. But not the egotistical fucking lame actual Twitter. My friend was FakeRickReilly and it was everything I was not. I tried to be more like it. They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, and I tried to flatter. I even used your forum, WPM, as my platform once in relation to a certain commenter and once in relation to a post itself. I mean this with complete honesty, FRR was my life force. FRR was Professor Quarrel to my barely alive soul/living on the back of someone's head Voldemort. Anytime I became weak I'd slip into the Forbidden Forest and drink the Unicorn blood that was FRR. And now FRR is dead, like truly dead. Any loyal follower knows it suffered a severe blow before, shutting down for a few days. But when it came back, it came back bigger, better, faster, stronger. I have no idea why it left. All I know is the fashion in which it did was great, just like it always was. I wish so badly I could think of an incredible pun to end this e-mail with but nothing seems appropriate.

Where do we go from here?

Quotes and such

Yesterday I was sitting on the steps of the local high school enjoying my sandwich, the weather and Sunday when this conversation occurred:

"That sandwich looks damn good," a neighbor from the Williamsburg Houses said to me.

"It is damn good," I responded.

"I wish I could relax and eat a sandwich, but I gotta cook for my wife and kids."

"It ain't bad being single."

"Man, don't get me started. I just wanna hang wit the fellas, but I gotta do all this shit for my wife. I gotta do a lot of cooking today."

"Tell her happy Mother's Day for me."

"Man I can't even see my own mother, 'cause I gotta cook for my wife. Do not get wifed up. Don't rush it. Do. Not. Rush. It. Man, enjoy your time. You do you."

"You don't gotta worry about that. I'm a do me."

------

Doing me involved:

- Eating the rest of my sandwich in my favorite park. while looking at some bridges.

- Going to the BRKLN Designs exhibition.

- Eating a pinwheel and watching the Aaron Brooks show at Front Street Pizza.

- Then returning to the park to read a book and take a nap in the grass.

When all was said and done I hopped back on the subway and headed home. I somehow lucked into riding on the party train, where I watched as a bum mumbled at strangers while he drank his tallboy of Budweiser and smoked his cigarette (both of which are normally prohibited on the subway). While the bum did him, the two African-American gentlemen next to me talked about the Rockets game.

"Did you see the n*gga Aaron Brooks?! He was smashin on every n*gga out there! Just pulling up on n*ggas! My n*gga was killin' every n*gga out there!" he said as he re-enacted Brooks' moves on the subway (picture Kramer imitating Michael Jordan, except confined within the L train aisle). Their conversation then changed to a discussion on escalators, but somehow they were able to keep their one n*gga per four words quota. I was impressed.

The entire ride had the background music of the girl next to me who was listening to Whitney Houston so loud on her iPod that I could hear every line to "I wanna dance with somebody."

------

Gould: "Is there anything better than watching Tracy McGrady pseudo-excitement on the bench?"

Me: "Yes, the guy in the Toyota Center who turned his #1 T-Mac jersey into a #13 Von Wafer jersey."

Gould: "Jesus. I hope T-Mac saw that."

(I really hope most people can appreciate how brilliant that fan's jersey conversion is.)

....

Me: "How great is the Mark Cuban/Kenyon Martin's mom beef? I haven't even seen K-Mart's mom, but I am sure she is amazing."

Gould: "Without having any knowledge about Kenyon's mom, I'd be willing to say she is one of the 10 greatest humans of all time."

------

Finally the quote of the weekend comes from my very weird Saturday night.

Me: (fairly inebriated, trying to hit on this female) "That's a cool purse."

Her: "Thanks, my 10-year-old son made it for me."

Me: (long pause) "Oh. (longer pause) He must be very artistic."

Trying to go hard

As you have probably noticed every blog post since I have moved to New York has not been very good. I am still trying to figure a lot of things out in the most general way you can possibly interpret that statement.

I hate to write another silly analogy but the best way I can describe how I feel as a writer in New York City is like this:

I have always been fascinated with simple things that repeat infinitely, such as two mirrors facing one another. Or the concept of seeing a psychologist and being told you have a disorder, only you feel uncomfortable being grouped in a disorder and you know there is a disorder for people who feel uncomfortable being grouped in a disorder.

I feel like living in Brooklyn everyone has a blog which tries to be more ironic, satirical, dark, dry humor, etc. than the other and as a result each blog is just a smaller, shittier version of another one.

Tonight I plan on going to the Brooklyn Blogfest, mainly because I have nothing else to do, but also because I want to see if it makes my head explode.

I have forgotten to blog about some bloggish material, but if I am going to continue to lie to myself and and believe this blog's sole purpose is so I can look back and remember half this shit in the future.

Throughout all of April I lived in this tiny (I believe this classified as tiny even for Manhattan standards) apartment in the Upper East Side. It was 1-bedroom, converted into a two bedroom and my room was just bigger than the size of a full-size bed, which was stilted up over my desk. The room allowed no natural light and was a great depressing cave to spend the month of April unsuccessfully searching for employment.

My roommate had converted the living area into her bedroom sectioning it off with a plastic, grey, barely translucent curtain. I never stepped into her room, but I peeked in a couple of times when she was not home. Although she (40 years old) had somehow lived there for 18 years, it looked as if she just moved in, as there were clothes and trash everywhere spilling out of cardboard boxes. Picture a cluttered New Orleans bedroom just after the water finally drained from the levees breaking and that is pretty much what her bedroom looked like.

The living situation was still OK, until 10 days into my two-month sublet, when she presented me with a verbal list of things I was doing that upset here. The following is a rough outline of her list:

1. Making pasta with red sauce in the kitchen at night

2. Using 15% of the fridge

3. Keeping my bedroom door closed, which she claimed blocked the wi-fi signal from entering her room

4. Being gone for more than 20 hours at at time

5. Not saying hello or goodbye as I came and left.

6. Not talking to her more (note she would try to talk to me through her curtain, which was weird because I don't like talking to people in a Mystery Date Gameshow manner)

She then abruptly asked me to move out. So I moved out at the end of a long April month. I should also note that at 40 my roommate still drank cans of Natti Ice. A beer that most kids realize is worth spending the extra 20 cents to avoid by the age of 20.

Practically every day in April consisted of reading Deadspin, checking Fake Rick Reilly, working out in the park, searching for jobs, reading Deadspin, checking Fake Rick Reilly, exploring the city, going to a museum, reading Deadspin, checking Fake Rick Reilly and going to bed. Life was not that great, but after seeing a homeless man on the subway who had no lower body, I realized shit could be much worse.

Now I live in a space literally 5 times the size in Brooklyn. I have 3 big windows open to a street that gets light (when it is not raining for 96 hours straight) and allows me to watch the students from the neighboring gully high school fight on the street. I am much happier.

My roommate situation is just as bizarre, but in a positive, they're-cool-as-fuck kinda way. I will explain that story after I move out of here in June.

Also although it was not listed as a luxury in the Craigslist posting, my current place is just a 12-minute walk to the Marcy Houses. The other day I walked over paid my respects to Hov's former home and grinned like an excited idiot when I saw the numbers on the side of the building pointing to 534. It's wasn't every day that I got to see the inspiration for a mediocre Memphis Bleek album, but now thanks to my close proximity, it can be every day.

Additionally last week my friend Cambridge Steve guided me around The Danger Zone, where we saw the Big L mural and Cam'ron's former home on West 140th Street.

Although my job situation is still cloudy at least I have seen every location described in Cam's "Welcome to New York City."

"I'm from 101 West 140th, the shit is live, fifth floor, 56, you know the zip, district 5" -- Check

"I'm from Flushing, Marcy, Nostrand, Myrtle and Park, where n*ggas will drive by in the day, murder you in the dark" -- Check, except I didn't hang out for the dark part

Also while in Harlem, Steve and I heard this crazy guy yell this at a Wendy's Manager, "These kids got no respect! I'm old enough to be their father! I'm 29 years old! I'm old enough to be these 16-year-old kids father! They don't got no respect!"

We both thought that was weird even by Harlem standards, but we were confirmed of the absurdity when the lady behind us said, "What the fuck is he talking about, who has kids when they 13?!"

Aside from peeping projects, I went to a dope comedy show on Sunday that had Joe Mende, Marc Maron, Aziz Ansari and a funny black host whose name I have forgotten. All for only 7 bucks. One of the comics brought up how people in Brooklyn will say weird mean things to you for no reason. Within seven days I have happened upon this phenomena. While I was walking to Marcy on a rainy day, this lady walked by me and said, "This mothafucka has a green umbrella."

I was using my roommate's (a female) olive green umbrella, which I assumed was OK, but after the comment I was left wondering if I was less manly for using a colored umbrella. Unsure if my sexuality or swagger was in question, I walked by Marcy in the rain, holding my umbrella closed by my side.

The entire comedy show was highly enjoyable, but it was interesting that Aziz was recycling material from his blog. He told the entire story about his cousin's conversation with Kanye West, which is a funny story, but I had read it before.

Ultimately I could not be mad at Aziz though because I have been on countless dates, where I will basically recite WPM posts word-for-word, while thinking "I really hope you have not looked at my blog, because this would be really awkward." (Note: Any date or situation where I feel I have to try to impress someone I prefer using material that I have had the time to think about and test out before.)

Marc Maron was fucking hysterical if you are into former drug-addict, self-hating, Jewish comedians, which you could argue is every comedian or half the population of Brooklyn. Point is he was good. YouTube his shit. (Final note: If someone tells me about a comedian or book I will assume he/it sucks and never watch/read the material, but if I recommend a comedian or book I will take offense until everyone watches/reads it.)

Ron Artest

Real talk.

At first I was going for Kobe, but the Rockets have an Argentine, former Duck and Tru Warier. I have no choice but to root for Houston.

Concert Review

Watching Cam'ron swagger on to the stage and give a performance that was even more bizarre and epic than I could imagine will forever be a defining moment in my life.

The show began with Funkmaster Flex warming up the crowd with D-Block heavy playlist. I was proud to know every lyrics to about 75 percent of the tracks that were played, but being surrounded by others who fell in the 95th percentile made me think that maybe I should not have been rocking a Phish-themed Pandora radio station all week.

The concert was scheduled to start at 9:00, but it wasn't until close to 10:30 that Cam's entourage began to trickle out, including an older, grey-haired woman who I assumed to be his mother. Finally the intro to Killa Season (the album not the movie) blared over the speakers, Cam strutted out on the stage and then broke any building momentum when he calmly asked the crowd, "What's goin' on?"

I'm still not ready to discuss Cam's outfit of a red jacket over a red tee, 3 massive chains, with the crazy Gucci visor and the red shades. Cam has effortlessly transitioned from his pink period to his purple period and is now on the red phase.

He then sped through a medley of his hits beginning with "I really mean it" and then rocking his verse on:

Dipset Anthem

Welcome to New York City

Get 'em Girls

Leave me Alone

The Roc (Just fire)

Down and out

Wet Wipes

Oh Boy

Hey Ma

Every song was solid, but I was just as excited for Cam's interludes between the songs just because every Cam quote is in its own realm of genius. Three weeks ago when asked about the possibility of a Dipset reunion on Hot 97, Cam responded, "It's like when the space shuttle took off, it ain't land on Plymouth rock, so therefore it can't have carpet."

To which the radio host, paused for a moment and then asked, "What the hell are you talking about?"

I was also hoping Cam'ron would discuss his upcoming Harlem version of "Curb your Enthusiasm."

Fortunately Cam stopped the music and broke into a story about a girl he knows who hates her job, which inspired Cam to compose the track "I hate my job."

After the song Cam returned to his story and said, "You know I was fuckin' her right," and got into a detailed description of the aforementioned sexual intercourse, before he transitioned into his new song "Bottom of the pussy."

For most people this is not a subject or song they would perform in front of their mother, but this is reason 324,523 why Cameron Giles is not most like most people.

Then Cam asked "Where my ladies at?" before informing them that he had just one question for them, of course leading up to his hit "Suck it or note" (Please note every lyric is quotable in this song). When some guy got too into the song, Cam was quick to yell "No homo, no homo" to affirm his sexuality in case there was any confusion.

Then Cam decided it would be best if he brought out his neighborhood, which entailed bringing out 25 of his friends to act as his hype men as they held bottles of Hennessey.

Cam let one of his boys Vado spit, while he took a smoke break. Vado, whose name I assumed as a West Harlem pronunciation of an East Harlem nickname, until Cam declared, "Vado, that stands for violence and drugs only." Other than an awesome acronym for a name, Vado was pretty forgettable.

Unfortunately 40 Cal (at least I assume it was 40 Cal since I can't imagine anyone else owning a chain that says 40 Cal with the diamond-made gun representing the L) never got the chance to rock the mic.

Finally Cam cycled through material from "Crime Pays," playing "Cookin' Up," "Got it for cheap," "Get it in Ohio," and ending with "Cookies and Apple Juice."

Then Cam left the building after just 45 minutes of performing. Quality over quantity I suppose. The DJ awkwardly played "Let's talk about it," building me up that Cam might come back out and by some miracle of God bring Jadakiss out, but tragically that did not happen.

Still I left the show with Crime Pays video saga promo DVD and a Crime Pays promo poster, which can now thug out my bedroom walls with my Greg Oden photo.

Check here to watch clips from the concert.

Check here to watch the single most amazing movie ever made.

Pictures: NYC Vol. 3

The photo above was taken from a Wendy's in Brooklyn. Easily the best art I have seen in any Wendy's ever.

The photo below is from the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens, which were nice even though it was absent of any glass art.

It did have a Tony Danza leaf.


I saw this guy waiting for a bus on 125th and Lexington. After I snapped a picture of his tattoo, I started talking to him and learned he was from a town in the province of Buenos Aires. He came here a few years ago from Argentina and was now heading down to Florida to try to find work. I thought he was carrying a yoga mat on his back, but it was actually his bed as he told me he was catching the bus back to his shelter.

This photo was also taken on the corner of 125th and Lexington.


This is my friend Smelly G aka Altruistic G aka Sexual G aka Culinary G aka Directorial G aka Silent Movie G and in this photo he is Swedish Meatball G. This photo is also a memento to one great city-exploration day we ate Wendy's then Popeye's then $1.50 Coors Lights, then hit Ikea for Swedish meatballs, mashed potatoes, pasta, garlic bread, then found the desert bar on the floor level of Ikea where we consumed Cinnamon rolls and icecream (That sentence is a memento to poor writing). Then we learned they had hot dogs for 50 cents, a deal we could not pass up. It was a great city exploration day.

Pictures: Arco Santi Vol. 2

This is Arcosanti a quasi failed urban laboratory/ experimental town. It was created in 1970 as a way to revolutionize society and its creator Paolo Soleri hoped it would house 5,000 people.

Almost 40 years later, 90 people live here and they have only built about 10 percent of their intended community.

The part outlined in red has been built and the rest is set to be built one day. Arcosanti has no hard dates for anything mainly because they have very little money/organization/motivation. Their chief export is wind chimes.

The wind chimes are made at a slow clip here.
They have some pretty arches.

They have cutting-edge technology.

And they have these cool cement structures.

There is a lot more silliness about Arcosanti that I have since forgotten. I probably should blogged this stuff after I went there two months ago. Our tour leader was a young, skinny kid from New Jersey who got so lost in life that he had been living in Arcosanti for the past two years. He wore a purple bandanna around his head and had facial here similar to Hulk Hogan, except that he was not a professional wrestler, he was a citizen of Arcosanti.

The tour guide explained that Arcosanti's goal is to become a sustainable, car-free community where people can get anything they want within the community. The ultimate plan is for the community to be built of pods, some having stores, some being living spaces. Basically he described what any dense metropolitan city is, except Arcosanti is in the middle of the Arizona desert.

I still really do not understand Arcosanti and I am not sure anyone does. But it was interesting and if you ever end up lost in the greater Phoenix area it's worth checking out.

Pictures Vol. 1

I'm gonna throw down a bunch of pictures I have been meaning to blog for the past month or so. It's basically a 3-part tribute to Cumbio/ way to e-back up these pics/ forum for Gould and others to openly hate on posts with minimal writing.

These are photographs from the Chihuly display at the Desert Botanical Gardens in Phoenix.



The following picture is for Spencer Rogers, who has dedicated the last two years of his life toward generating a computer algorithm that correlates to this beautiful desert bush. Actually I still don't understand what he did with the Creosote Bush, but it's something close to what I described above.

The rest of the pictures don't have much to do with Spencer Rogers and for that I apologize.










So yeah, those were a bunch of pictures of glass sculptures mixed with desert landscape.