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.)