Pretending

Aside from strap-hangers who rap about McDonald's for change*, teachers are my favorite subway riders. I have an immense respect for anybody who edits a stack of papers on the subway and for some reason the sight of a teacher working on his commute brings me great joy.

A few weeks ago my friends at Gelf asked me to edit another writer's article. I printed it out, grabbed a red pen and went to work on the subway. I made sure I held the red pen in my mouth so everyone would think I was a teacher and respect me. I also exaggerated all my edits and smiled a lot hoping people would draw the connection that I was grading the paper of an inner-city kid who I had helped to overcome his unfathomably terrible background and learning disabilities to finally understand our class's lesson.

When in reality I was editing an interview of Matt Timms, who was promoting his World's Biggest Jerk Off (SFW) event, by a writer who is a Yale graduate.

Still I feverishly scribbled down all my edits and shook my head a lot so other strap-hangers could see what a hard-working teacher I am. As I approached my final stop, I scribbled an A+ atop the first page, which made about as much sense as writing a blog post full of grammar errors about editing.

*I never give money or attention to singing bums unless I'm high and there is an group harmonizing Lion King songs a Capella or The McDonald's rapper is in my presence. I have only seen the McDonald's rapper once, but he killed it. He boarded the train, politely told everyone he was gonna rap and then began the most passionate and sincere rap about McDonald's.

The hook was something along the lines of "Yeah I love Mickey D's!" which was good enough for a single and a single dollar in my book. But once he dropped a line about McFlurries (a line I was waiting for the entire song) I realized I needed to give him a few more, mainly because you can't buy a McFlurry for $1. His flow was amazing, he managed to hit every item on the menu and he rapped with a passion for McDonald's that was truly inspirational. After he finished I handed him a few singles and he gave me the most heart-felt smile I have ever received from a human not named Seth Janiga.

Hooligans and sneakers

Again sorry for the lack of recent blogging. I have not had that many interesting stories and the ones I do are really not appropriate to publish on the internet. For better or worse, I am not in Argentina where I can run around writing recklessly about everyone I meet knowing that I will most likely never see them again in my life.

And unfortunately I have became numb to many of the interesting weirdos of NYC, that or I am just too lazy to blog about them. Most likely the latter.

There is a crazy-ass school outside my window that produces gangs of hooligans which loiter around the campus five days a week. The school is a high school, but it is not called a high school. It's called Grand Street Campus, or GSC, which I really enjoy because it reminds me of T.I.'s rap posse, P$C (Pimp $quad Click), and I enjoy anything in life I can remotely relate to hip-hop.

One day while standing on the subway platform on my way to work some of the GSC hooligans were doing hooligan-like activities on the other side of the platform. One knocked the others fitted hat into the tracks. Without hesitation the hatless hooligan jumped into the tracks. A feat I had never seen before. Everyone started freaking out. The hooligans on his side were wildin'. The hooligans on my side began screaming, "You gon' die! You gon' die!" the kid grabbed his hat, put it back on his head, then jumped out of the tracks and calmly brushed his shoulder off.

I hopped on my train and then went to work. I should also note that I am far too infatuated with GSC's logo and school colors and I am 22-year-old male hopelessly chasing after a jersey. It's kinda gay.

I thought that was a good story, but my roommate beat me in the game of "Best story of seeing someone jump in the subway tracks." His tale involved a guy wearing a Patriots jersey, who realized he was on the wrong side of the tracks (literally, not figuratively). He then hopped over both third rails made it to the other side and yelled "That's how much I fucking love the Patriots!"

Going back to GSC... Every day I walk by the school I fantasize about going in the school and volunteering to help their basketball team. I figure I might be able to help a hooligan or two, or at the very least set up an elaborate point-shaving scheme.

My roommate Sep had the same vision, sans sports betting operation, except he has actually done something and is now tutoring some under-privileged middle school kids or something of that sort. Me, I'm still in the fantasizing stage.

Going back to people in Argentina I once wrote recklessly about. My Swiss friend who I know from Buenos Aires Yakub was in NYC recently. After missing the chance to meet up with Yakub for the first few days he was in the city, we finally arranged to meet at NikeTown, per his request. Yakub is a 5'5'' Vin Diesel look-a-like, who always tells me stories about appreciating life. The kind of stories that if my friends told me, I would call them gay, but because they are coming from a Swiss Vin Diesel look-a-like, I value his stories.

He also only spoke to me in Spanish in Argentina and then while he was in the States revealed that he spoke fluent English, in addition to about 20 other languages.

I journeyed to the 5-story NikeTown, met Yakub and his friend Beth, who introduced herself like this: "Hey, I'm Beth. I work for Converse. I can get you 40% off any thing you want in here."

"Wow." I thought to myself. "That's the best introduction I have ever heard in my life."

Even though I live along or actually under the poverty line I knew I had to buy a pair of Lunaracers (see above picture). Plus in NYC it's completely acceptable to live in public housing, be on welfare and still own expensive Nikes. The fact that I was not going to buy the Nikes with government-assisted money probably does hurt my street cred a bit.

Later on in life (a whole three days later to be exact) Beth gave me a tour of Converse's design studios. It was nice. I shook the hand of the NY Times frugal traveler's wife, who works for Converse. It was memorable.

I'll have better, more coherent, possibly more cohesive stories to come...

8 million stories minus 7,999,995

I have not blogged in a while. My apologies.

Catching up...

Silly anecdotes from work:

Big Ra is still Big Ra, but recently the other half of the dish washing duo has been more entertaining. His name is Greg. After knowing Greg for a few weeks I asked him what his previous occupation was, since I am always curious why 53-year-old man is wash dishes.

His response: "I used to sell pussy in Philadelphia."

"That sounds about right," I thought to myself. Then Greg continued to talk about his days in the pussy-trading market in Philly. He attempted to justify his former job for a while, then he told me about his moment of clarity, which came while he was in the car while one of his employees was fellating a client.

Then he started talking about spirituality and I lost all interest.

Greg is a kind man though. Every Friday night he offers to take me out with the assurance that one of his lady friends will fellate me. I always politely decline because I like to spend my post-work Friday nights laying in bed watching "It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia." But I am sure that getting your dick sucked in Far Rockaway is just as fun.

Greg also provided my favorite quote in recent memory. While talking about taking his girlfriend, who "looks 50, but is really 60," he told me he wanted to take her to the zoo, although she wanted to go to Dave and Busters.

"You know Justin, with the right girl the zoo can be a very sexual place," Greg said with his I-used-to-be-a-pimp-so-I-still-try-to-talk-like-one voice. "I like to go to the zoo and put my mack game down."

***

Best e-mail I have received in a while:

From Facebook. Subject: Jordan Hill suggested you become a fan of Jordan Hill.

Since he insisted, I electronically confirmed my fandom.

***

Thoughts on Jeff Pearlman's blog:

On DJ Drama & Pharrell "In My Mind (The prequel) Mixtape" Pharrell says he was "hurt, stunned, astounded, amazed, dazed and confused" in reference to listening to Slick Rick as a child.

That is pretty much how I feel every time I read Pearlman's blog. I enjoy the material. It's updated frequently. And yet that all upsets me because Pearlman has a job, a wife, kids and a lot of other grown-up responsibilities and he still manages to churn out a post or two a day.

And that makes me feel like shit. Especially because Pearlman wrote the kindest words anyone has ever wrote about wherespmac. In short, every time I read Pearlman's blog I get mad at myself for not writing more and then usually I'll do something else instead of write and this cycle will repeat itself with every new post on his blog.

***

The coolest woman alive:

My friend Seppy sent me this article about the coolest woman alive. It's worth a read.

***

Your token Dipset post:

Last night in between parties my friends and I stopped at the corner bodega to purchase more beer. It was 12-something and for whatever reason the store had gone from open doors to make-you-purchase-through-bullet-proof-box mode. It was myself, my friends, and some other people.

This one guy was playing Juelz Santana on his phone. After 30 seconds he began to sing along, not one to pass up a cypher I joined in. Then he yelled, "He knows the words!" and sprinted away in amazement. He ran a full block away and then returned. We exchanged pleasantries and daps.

For some reason he had to have my phone number. At this point it made sense for me to get his. It just seemed like the courteous thing to do. So now we exchanged numbers, but now I barely remember his name... Jacqwon or something along those lines.

I asked my friend where I go from here and he quipped back, "I guess you buy weed from him."

I have no real reason to call this guy (by the way many "no homo"s were uttered during our conversation), but maybe next weekend I will and I'll party with Jacqwon. Who knows, maybe I'll end up in Far Rockaway running into Greg and his lady friends.

Classic, shoulda went triple

My little brother Cameron aka "Ninny" was in the city last week and while we were walking around Allah blessed us with the gift that keeps on giving, Willy Northpole promo posters. The above picture is Cameron in front of a building hyping Arizona's greatest rapper while mean-mugging the camera. Not that Willy needs much hyping as his first album almost went platinum in its first week, and by "almost" I mean it sold 2,496 copies.

Below is a picture of me mean-mugging and repping Phoenix in front of the shrine to a lesser known artist.


Then we took the posters to their target audience, the guests of the Waldorf Astoria. As you can see in the pic I had to cover Willy's face because 50th Street and Park Avenue is the type of place where people will seriously fuck you up for a Willy Northpole promo poster that you ripped off a wall in Harlem.

Ninny also took these dope pictures.

Me mid-Diddy-bop.


This guy painting.


A green car (I took this one).


A helicopter (This is a Ninny masterpiece).

Monday and Tuesday

For the life of an unemployed recent college grad who decided it would be smart to move to the world's eighth most expensive city during our nation's worst economic crisis to date, Monday was about as good as it gets.

Like any other day I woke up before nine, just to give myself a feeling that something might get done before 11. Even though I really had nothing to do besides apply for jobs, it makes me feel slightly better about myself to not sleep in past 10 a.m.

At around noon I decided I'd had enough or perusing Craigslist and waiting for Deadspin to update so I decided to hit the streets.

I explored the Brooklyn Superhero Supply Co. Shop, which was quite fascinating. Then made it Premium Goods, which is a just silly streetwear store, but I finally got an answer as to who designed the "Brooklyn" logo that's on 9 million tees and hats in the city. The answer, or so I was told: Vinnie's Styles.

Then I journeyed through Red Hook to Ikea carrying a 24-inch steel rod from Lowes in my backpack Zelda style in case anyone wanted war. The steel rod was for a ceiling fan that my roommates and I bought a month ago, which we may or may not ever get around to actually installing.

I also stumbled upon this store selling this nasty jersey:

After a long trek I finally made it to the promised land and bought two $0.50 hot dogs. While consuming the dogs I listened to an amazing Fresh Air show with Charles Siebert, where he discussed his book The Wauchula Woods Accord. The book is about a chimpanzee retirement center where famous chimps who are trained for movies and television hang out after their carreers end. Listening to Siebert and Terry Gross discuss "humanzees" while eating two hot dogs was probably the highlight of my week and arguably month.

After touring Ikea I bought two more hot dogs and an icecream cone, then caught the free Ikea water taxi out of my way to Manhattan. But the ride was rather enjoyable.

Yesterday I did absolutely nothing besides draft half this blog and play two hours of basketball in the park. But my team did win twice and I threw one of the sickest passes in my life, so I felt like I kinda accomplished something.

------------------------

Basketball things:

In case you actually have a job and/or life and have not been following NBA summer league way too closely here is what you need to know:

Brandon Jennings second game stats: 23 points, 8 assists, 5 steals.

Brandon Jennings third game stats: 13 points, 14 assists, 7 steals.

The Bucks are 3-0.

There is also this new Jennings highlight real of old footage.

Not that you should give a fuck but Chase Budinger dropped 25 in his second game. Fuck him.

Former Duck Maarty "Six a's short of Raaaaaaaandy" Leunen is on the Rockets roster even if his last name is spelt wrong on his jersey.

Even though T-Mac is now helping Darfur can we still hate him? Of course because T-Mac is still a bitch who never made the second round of the playoffs. /hate

What up dun?!

For the 520th time I apologize for the inconsistency in my updating of this blog. There has not been too much excitement since the draft day/sad day 2009. I now just hang out a lot more and some times I'll take long walks to Queensbridge to sit on a bench that Ron Artest or Nasir Jones may have sat on. Then I'll spend an hour or so wondering what number Ron Ron will wear for the Lakers.

That was yesterday.

Then today goofy pictures of Tru Warier rocking #37 came out. I can't find an official source, but Wikipedia claims Ron is wearing #37 in honor of Michael Jackson, whose album "Thriller" was No. 1 on the charts for 37 straight weeks.

That might confirm that it really is Ron Artest who sings this amazing Michael Jackson tribute song. The only reason I personally think Ron made this song is because no other human on earth would be capable of producing something like this.

And just to educate those who do not know:

Ron wore #15 at St. Johns and with the Chicago Bulls. After being traded to Indiana, Ron switched from #15 to #23 to honor Michael Jordan, then to #91 to honor Dennis Rodman. Before he left Indiana Ron's plan was to switch his number every year to honor a Bull from their championship run this included rocking #25 for Steve Kerr and #9 for Ron Harper. Ron's plan was to honor a rival team within the Pacers' conference.

Then he wore #93 in Sacramento only because it correlated with his then shoe-endorser K1X's campaign "93 to infinity." Ron was the only player signed to the German-based sportswear company and their campaign was based off the classic Souls of Mischief one-hit wonder.

Then Ron switched to #96 in Houston only because the #96 kinda looks like "qb."

Other important shit I've not written about:

- Not having much to do I have been checking the Milwaukee Bucks official site every to find out when I can think about spending money I don't have on a Brandon Jennings jersey I would never wear. It's still not for sale, but today they started showing ads confirming he will wear #3. And that was the highlight of today.

- No there is not a filthier backcourt than Brandon and Salim Stoudamire.

- I love that Brian Cook's agent is sending out his wedding photo to Jeff Pearlman.

- I meant to only keep that silly J.R. Smith WPM banner while Denver was in the playoffs, but I got lazy and I can't think of any other banner I like more than that one. Sadly WPM's current banner is in jail, probably working on his 45-foot three-pointer in the prison yard.

- Speaking of people going to jail... Here is a picture of Cambridge Steve's final days a free man in Harlem.

- Cambridge Steve is not actually in jail, nor has he even been in jail, despite the fact that he probably wants to go to jail just to hang out with his favorite rapper (hold you head up Prodigy). He actually moved back to Cambridge, something Jesse Jackson forgot to mention when he was giving his sad speech about Michael Jackson in front of the Apollo Theater.

Draft Day/Sad Day 2009

Here is the 2009 WPM NBA Draft review:

• After a ridiculously long middle-of-the-night commute, I arrived at the Garden just before 6 a.m. I was unsure how early I should arrive before the tickets went on sale at 11 a.m., so I figured showing up a good five hours early would be playing it safe. I had been looking forward to attending the draft ever since I thought about moving to NYC, so I was set on doing whatever it took to attend the draft.

• There were already a good 40 people in front of me, including one kid rocking an authentic DKV Joventut Ricky jersey.

• I have never once had a nightmare where I walked naked into a public setting, but showing up to the NBA draft without a jersey was like living that nightmare for five hours. I have never felt so naked and I will never forgive myself for not bringing my D. Miles Cleveland Jersey to NYC. It would have killed.

• It was rather serene to be on the streets at such an early hour. Except there was a homeless guy 10 feet away from the line who was either rehearsing his soliloquy of Billy Madison speaking gibberish or he was just stung the fuck out. He went on for a good 30 minutes incoherently yelling at a light pole. I respected his dedication to his craft.

• There was a white guy rocking an Iguodala Sixers jersey backwards, which I believe means he's a Sixers fan in distress. Where as if you are a black guy wearing a jersey backwards it means you are Nelly in the "Tip Drill" video.

• Other dope jerseys I saw in the line: A Warriors Spree jersey, An NYC Spree jersey (I can't tell you how much I hate Gallinari fake Spree jerseys), a NYC Jamal Crawford jersey, about 500 Patrick Ewing jerseys, a dirty Bobcats warm-up jersey, and a dirtier Spanish national team Ricky jersey.

• There is a banner that hangs inside the Garden's entrance that commemorate The Liberty's (NYC's WNBA team) first home game, in which they defeated the Mercury (Phoenix's WNBA team). That one still hurts.

• I still don't understand what color the Mercury wore in their inaugural season.

• The five-hour wait was saved by a nice camping chair, a good book and a bag of pretzels. I was also entertained by the kids in front of me who spent two hours passing a notepad back and forth writing their own mock draft. It was pretty solid as every pick ended with the phrase "via trade."

• I was also allowed ample time to contemplate the absurdity of the situation. Fans will pay thousands of dollars to watch a guy throw a ball into a metal rim, hit a ball with stick of wood or any other sport you want to break down to the simplest level. But I am calling in sick to work and waiting in line for over five hours to watch kids the age of my younger brother walk across a stage and shake an old Jewish dude's hand.

• Guys from the Knicks PR street team began passing out Knicks towels and postcards encouraging fans to buy season tickets. Since there currently is no real face of the Knicks, the card had a picture from inside the Garden of the Knicks playing the Nets with the scoreboard showing the Knicks down 65-52.

• Eventually after more than five hours of waiting, which involved a fair amount of anxiety that I would not even be able to buy tickets, I got the golden ticket (15 bucks and in 6 rows deep in he highest section of the theater) and I went home to take a victory nap.

• I was awoken once from my slumber by a call from work, which I promptly ignored. Ten minutes later work called again. This time I picked up thinking they would have some trivial question to ask me. I was wrong. They called to tell me I was fired. After ending the call I began to lose my mind quite a bit. How could they do this to me on my special day and less importantly how could they do this to me on Brandon Jennings' special day.

Actually Brandon Jennings was completely removed from my mind as I began pacing back and forth in the hallway trying to calm myself down and not dwell on the shittiness of unemployment of the past and present.

Granted it was a lame office job that I hated and the pay was comically low, but it was still an income none the less. And it was a blatant attempt to try to destroy a day I had been looking forward to for years.

• I carried on with my day and returned to the Garden an hour before the draft. I sold my extra ticket for $30, which paid for my ticket and netted me an extra 15 bones, almost making up for the lost job. I tried to get a lot more for the ticket, but the market just was not there and another scalper eloquently put it, "This draft is dead, n***** don't wanna see this shit."

• Then my friend told me Michael Jackson died. More sadness.

• Finally I got in the WaMu Theater and 30 minutes later Mr. Stern took the mic and the draft began.

• 1 - The only thing worth noting from the No. 1 pick was that I did not know Tricky Ricky was on the Clippers. The same Ricky Davis who once tried to cheat his way to a triple double.

• 2 - There was a guy wearing a black Griz Darko jersey which was trill enough as it is. But he went the extra mile and safety-pinned a paper reading "Thabeet" on the back over Milicic.

• 3 - I'm actually a big James Harden fan even though I refuse to accept the Thunder (who get nastier by the minute) as a real team. His was also killing it with his suit.

• 4 - I'd guess that we are only 30 days away from learning that Tyreke never even took his SATs to get into Memphis.

• 5 - The Wolves had no choice but to pick Rubio here, even if he refuses to play for Minny.

• 6 - I was really hoping the Wolves would pick Brandon just so they could have the two in same backcourt, but they did something just as silly and picked Jonny Flynn.

• 7- When the Warriors stole Stephen Curry off the board I would describe the atmosphere inside the theater as somewhere between 9/11 and Michael Jackson's death. Word to Ochocinco.

• 8 - I think Stern just finished enunciating the J in Jordan Hill's name when Knicks fans began to boo. I booed with them because why the fuck not? When asked what I thought about Hill by a Knicks fan, I told him that Hill was a dumber A'm'ar'e Stoudemire, if that is possible. Side note: I sat in the Suns war room for the 2006 NBA Draft. I still have the official media guide which lists the top 300 players eligible for the 2006 Draft. That media guide does not include Renaldo Balkman, who the Knicks chose with their 20th pick in the '06 Draft. Few can fuck up drafts like the Knicks.

• 9 - Including Demar Derozan, I have seen 6 of the first 13 picks play in person, in case you were curious.

• 10 - Brandon Jennings. Finally the moment I have been waiting my entire life for. And he is not in the fucking building. Can this day get any fucking worse. I waited five hours in line just to say I was there when Brandon was drafted and see some ridiculous Italian suit and the motherfucker does not even show up. I am seriously depressed at this point.

• 11 through 13 - Don't matter. I sit alone in the Theater and want to cry. I plan on waiting for the Suns to fuck up the 14th pick and then bounce.

• 14 - "With the 14th pick in the 2009 NBA Draft the Phoenix Suns select Earl Clark from the University of Louisville, Clark is not in attendance tonight. (Pause) But... The Milwaukee Bucks' pick Brandon Jennings is now here," Stern declares. And like a little kid on Christmas my eyes light up and a big smile returns to my face. Brandon awkwardly comes out from behind the stage and blows kisses to the crowd and then gives a belated handshake to the Commish.

• Then the No. 13 pick Tyler Hansbrough exits through aisle next to the lunatic fans I am sitting with. Most other players receive warm cheers and high fives as they exit, but not Hansbrough. Everyone boos Psycho T as he walks by. The kid next to me, who was no bigger than me (5'9," 145) gets within 8 inches of Hansbrough's face and screams "Faggot!" at Hansbrough (6'9," 250). Many others join in and begin to loudly question his sexuality. Then one kid, appropriately enough wearing a Knicks Starbury jersey, knocks Hansbrough's draft cap off his head. He is quickly apprehended by security and escorted out of the building to chants of "MVP!" and we all offer him high fives in support of his bold act of bravery.

Brandon Jennings quickly follows and I give him a high five. Sure I don't have a job, paying rent is going to be a struggle soon and Brandon Jennings, 3 years my younger, just secured himself a contract for a couple more million on top of the $2 million he earned in Italy; but for that second all seemed right in the world.

• For the record I don't know shit about Earl Clark and I don't really care. Also when Hansbrough was drafted one fan behind me began chanting "Austin Croshere!" unfortunately nobody picked up on it.

• I was excited for the Suns to bomb the upcoming season with hopes of getting John Wall next year... Until Gould reminded me that the Suns gave away their 2010 first-round unprotected pick along with Kurt Thomas for a conditional second round pick. Enjoy that top five pick next year OKC.

• I later bumped into Bruce Pascoe, gotta respect your local Tucson beat writers.

• I bounced around the theater some more and ran into the Jennings clan. I saw a skinny kid in a nice suit with the Bucks draft cap. I yelled Brandon at him twice until I realized it was a his little brother Terrence, who if you don't know is the coolest kid in the universe and you would expect far too cool to remember meeting me multiple times before.

• A group of fans waved an Israeli flag and celebrated when Israel-born Omri Casspi was selected. Later I saw a guy wearing a shirt reading "Palestine Spyders," I would have like to see his reaction to Casspi's selection.

• The remaining fans began chanting "Jeff Van Gundy" until the former Knicks coach and current ESPN announcer acknowledged them, to which they responded with cheers. They repeated the process with Mark Jackson. And they began chanting "Bilas sucks!" God bless draft fans.

• I finally saw one of my journalism heroes Lang Whitaker in the flesh. I shouted "Hey Lang!" at him and he turned around from the media section. I told him I was a long-time Linkstigator and he gave me solid finger point of respect. If you guys understood how long and how much I have read of Lang's work you would understand how amazing that is.

• I was really, really upset that I did not run into the Stephen A. Smith Heckling Society of Gentlemen. That guy is one of my personal heroes, but on a lesser scale than Lang Whitaker.

• I stayed for the first few picks of the second round just to see the NBA Deputy Commissioner Adam Silver, who was greeted to chants of "We want Russ," in reference to Russ Granik, the former Deputy Commissioner, who announced the second round until 2006. I hope you all can appreciate how insanely hardcore these fans were.

• I left the draft in a decent mood, still a little messed up over losing my job. But if I learned anything on the day, it's that going to the draft is not about having a good time. For New Yorkers its about having your GM pick a brain-dead, raw power-forward in hopes that he will compliment a superstar you probably won't be able to sign in 2010; and leaving the theater furious as a result. And for the rest of us, it's seeing one young kid after another make more money in a night than most of us will ever see in a lifetime.

• Here are some pics I took on the day:

Young Money now a Buck.


Hansbrough before he was de-capped.

This lady was quite bizarre.


Uhhhhhhh.

Ordinary people

This is a story I have been meaning to run for a while and it has a lot of footnotes.

While I was moving my suitcases from my previous stripper/coke apartment to my current stoner/disgusting (that is in the past now) apartment I noticed a treadmill on the street that had a sign reading "Take me, I work."

Jackpot. I have no idea what a real winter is like, but I have been told you cannot go outside, so a treadmill seemed like a nice device to have. I tried to move it 300 feet to my previous apartment by myself, but I could not because the wheels were broke and it was too heavy.

Because I am delusional and I thought someone would take my precious find within 60 seconds, I ran back into my apartment to try to get my neighbor Kenny¹ to help me out. I burst into their apartment² and Kenny was nowhere to be found. His roommate Kayvene³ sat in one of the rooms with Rhonda⁴.

"Kenny's not here?!" I asked.

"No," Kayvene replied.

"Fuck."

"What do you need?"

"Nothing. Don't worry about it, enjoy yourself," I said sacrificing my treadmill so Kayvene could finish his date or whatever the fuck was going on.

Then Rhonda asked if I remembered Lauren⁵ from the other night and told me Lauren wanted my number. She asked me a million questions that I did not have time for. I was very short with her and I told her to have the girl call me if she wants.

I then ran downstairs because my roommates would be of no help⁶ and returned to the sight of my treadmill, which was still there because it was unmovable and because only three minutes had elapsed.

I was determined so I dragged the beast along the sidewalk, carving small half-circles into the cement with every two feet of progress. After I struggled for a bit, Moses⁷ came out of nowhere and helped me carry the treadmill inside my building.

The next day, my current roommate Grant⁸ came by to help me lug the treadmill to our current place. We decided it would be smart to make sure it worked first before we carried it five blocks. Fortunately Gretchen⁹ was outside with an extension cord hanging to the ground from her third floor window.

We plugged it in and it worked. I can now say that it feels really cool to run on a treadmill outside on a busy street.

After a long back-breaking walk, we made it back to our place with the treadmill.

Three weeks later: Lauren never called me and nobody has used the treadmill.

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1. Kenny, 21, moved to NYC with much less than I did. He had never been here before he moved here two months ago. He now walks dogs to pay his rent.

2. Their apartment was big, but except they had next to no furniture. In one common room they had a corner table which held a laptop. The other common area they had three mismatched chairs and a small table. One bedroom had a bed and the other had a sleeping bag and a Guatemalan flag. Nobody in their apartment was Guatemalan.

3. I have no idea how to spell this guy's name. He is a 29-year-old Irish architect whose name is pronounced KAY-veen. He's a very nice guy.

4. I met Rhonda at a party at their place. I referenced her in an earlier blog as a female I was going after until I learned she had a 10-year-old son. She took me to a crazy art jamfest/rave once. It was very bizarre.

5. I met Lauren at the crazy art jamfest/rave. She appeared to be on an incredible amount of drugs. When I first met her, she laughed uncontrollably and asked if I was from Pennsylvania.

6. My old roommates were rarely awake between the hours of 11 am and 9 pm.

7. Moses is a Latino dude with a weird mullet, who always wears a bright orange Nascar t-shirt. He claimed to be the super of a nearby building, but I think he might be homeless. A very, very nice guy though.

8. Grant is a good dude.

9. Gretchen was my neighbor who was always sitting outside, drinking a beer and working on her screenplay. She attended the University of Oregon. She had hairy legs and lived with her partner, who I never met.

Weeks in Review

Here is a bunch of shit that happened in the last few weeks:

• I moved out of my second one-month sublet in as many months in Brooklyn. That sublet was a much nicer set-up than my first, but it still had its quirks. My roommates stayed up every night until 10 a.m., to which I figured they must be using some kind of performance-enhancing drugs if they are going to play that game.

However they kept their habits well hidden until one Monday morning when I woke up to use the bathroom and I saw my roommate cutting up lines at 8:30 in the morning. I judged them for a second and then realized that I was in a shitty mood waking up for a shitty job and they were much happier and therefore winning the game of life... Until I came home that evening and they were still passed out on the couch sleeping in a room that was littered with beer cans and cigarette butts.

The other minor issue with the place was that I was renting a room from a stripper. I did not know this when I signed up, but there were a few subtle hints that gave me a this-broad-might-be-a-stripper premonition. For starters she had the thin-from-cocaine build that is the quintessential stripper body until the stretchmarks and heroine tracks come into play. Also there was a stripper pole in the hallway. Eventually in a roundabout way I received confirmation that she was a stripper, which did not bother me too much but changed my perception of the furnished room.

The cheap Ikea couch I sat on. Paid for by picking up singles off the floor. The fish tank and fish I fed every day. Paid for by a couple gross lap dances. The desk and computer chair I worked on. Bought with money pulled out of her g-string. The bed I slept on. A nice gift from her loving parents completely clean of any STDs or AIDS, or at least that's what I told myself.

• I then moved into fixer-upper apartment, which took a lot of fixing-upping. It was uninhabitable by humans when we first moved in on Monday, June 1st. Then on Wednesday June 3rd, a group of Mexican painters lead by a man named Mendez began to start painting the entire place. This is roughly how the following time went down:

6/4 - Hail Mendez as the second coming of LeBron James for his hard work ethic and dramatic improvements to our basement. I declare that Mendez gave me more hope than Obama.
6/5 - Still down with Mendez and his boys. We learn they are in a mariachi band and we plan on hiring them for our first party.
6/7 - Grow tired of coming home every day and seeing his crew smoking and drinking in our house. We also stop calling Mendez "Sam" because we learn his name is Aquiles not "Sam." We realize we were confusing him with the director of American Beauty.
6/8 - Still plan on hiring their band, but only if they give us the two stereos they stole from us back.
6/10 - We become sick of the non-stop Spanish music, their presence and they fucking stole from us. And I hadn't got a good night's sleep in a week now.
6/11 - They eventually finish and our house looks 100 times better than it did. We never got the stereos back, but we negotiated a lot of free work in exchange.

On the last day I stopped giving a fuck and starting drinking and talking them. I learned that one of the workers was recently in Phoenix, except in a different capacity than my time there. He lived in a drop-house bedroom with no food or lights for 5 days before getting a ride to LA, then a ride to Chicago and eventually ending up in Brooklyn where his cousin lived. It was one of those moments that shut me the fuck up, as I was his worries involved staying in the States, providing enough money for his wife back in Mexico and eventually getting her across the border without her getting raped 20 times.

• However within 48 hours I was bitching about my easy-ass job. I sit at a nice desk all day doing next to nothing. My coworkers are nice, albeit mad boring, and I can sit there all day checking my e-mail and sneaking Deadspin. I don't have to worry about being deported or providing for my wife, but it still drives me crazy and half the time I sit there thinking about how I can move and support myself in a Latin country.

• I went to Philadelphia. It was fun. My friend Dustin took this picture of me which I like because I am wearing a football jersey of a country that I have never been to and I am putting A-town down although I have never been to Atlanta.


Dustin and I also saw Jim Cramer while in line for Geno's. We said hello to him and then he got in the back seat of an RX330 and left. As he sat in the back seat, I blankly stared at him thinking, "Wow. I have watched your show countless times on mute as I used the elliptical machine at the gym." Then he waved at me and I awkwardly waved back. Boo-ya.

• This does not have shit to do with anything and I normally hate collegehumor, but this is too good: Every week on Entourage.

• Also does not have shit to do with anything, but it's very important: Willy Northpole honored by Phoenix.

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.

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.