world's worst car names
prod test: pretzel m&ms
the dominican republic
titus andronicus @ maxwell's
miles kurosky @ mercury lounge
dinosaur jr. @ bowery ballroom
be your own dj
big apple circus
greatest actor of his gen.
why sirius/xm will fail
the 2nd worst block in nyc
prod. tes: dentyne blast
tokyo police club
the antichrist goes home
bubba's secret campaign
celeb sighting 8: steve schirripa
the police @ msg
celeb sighting 7: andrew mccarthy
puerto vallarta, mexico
kurt vonnegut: r.i.p.
worst boss ever
best purchase ever
montclair: hipster central
the cali roadtrip
celeb sighting 6: rupaul
product 1: diet coke w/ splenda
cell phone headsets
casualties of war
celeb sighting 5: max kellerman
deus ex: invisible war
the weakest fortune ever
celeb sighting 4: christina aguilera
the six flags guy
celeb sighting 3: len berman
celeb sighting 2: christena pyle
max payne 2
celeb sighting 1: amber valletta
st. thomas, usvi
mr. hipster goes domestic
the danger of googling
why i love whitney matheson
joe strummer tribute show
london part deux
new jersey state fair
lake george, ny
ford motor company
look kids, parliament
tuesdays with morrie
the blogger bash
the geniuses at fox
the blvd of porn & trinkets
the ugly bar
fat loss miracle
the free gift
| greatest actor of his generation
why sirius/xm will fail
second worst block in manhattan
test: dentyne blast
Everyone can appreciate R. Kelly's
magnum opus Trapped
in the Closet, but it's this little piece of theater that I think
cements him as the greatest actor of his generation. So fuck Sean
Penn (and his hackey rendition of gays,
Crow and Tom
Hanks can go punt. Anybody can play schizophrenic or act opposite
a volleyball, but it takes a true talent to act/sing the line "there
she is with some boy-shorts on!" right in Usher's face while
ridin' dirty in an Aston
Notice his reactions, his phrasing, his clear eye for emotional connection
to both his cheating tattooed girlfriend and his boy, Usher. Absolutely
So Ms. Hipster and I went out and
leased a new VW
Tiguan to replace the old Subaru 3.0R.
And, like all new VWs, the thing came with a free three-month subscription
to Sirius Satellite
Radio. Yeah, we get to experience Howard
Stern again for 90 days! Granted, this is the car she'll be
driving two miles a day from the train station and back, and we'll
most likely use to drive Hipster Jr. to birthday parties on the
weekends, and ourselves to Manhattan to go to dinner. I get to drive
Earthfucker the mile to Hipster Jr.'s school and back every
day. So the satellite radio is hardly a necessity, and barely something
that we'll get to enjoy.
So every time we got in the lovely little blue Tiguan with its glass
roof, I turned on the Sirius expecting it to be turned off. Ninety
days came and went, and still I got my Sirius
XMU station and my Howard
100. And then about four months in, the stations went silent.
"Oh well," we thought, "it was nice while it lasted, but now we'll
just have to listen to the one station that is even tolerable in
the tri-state, 101.9
WRXP, and supplement it with the iPod plug-in." And then one
night I went to go pick up a pizza and accidently hit the satellite
button on the stereo, and on popped Artie
Lang with some heroin-filled rant about a trip to Vegas. I had
paid exactly zero dollars for this, and here it was. What a deal!
I came back in with the pizza and told the missus about the radio's
miraculous resurrection. "Oh," she said, "We actually just got a
letter from Sirius apologizing for turning off the subscription
we weren't paying for."
So here's a company that is supposed to be making its money by charging
fees for subscriptions. And they're giving us ours for free. Well,
they're giving us a taste and then legally taking it away and giving
us a chance to pay money to keep it going. We say "no thanks" and
they walk away and we walk away and everyone's generally happy.
And then they come back and say, "We're soooo sorry for walking
away--please, please, please take some more of our costly product
gratis. And we know we said 90 days--but we totally meant 180 days!"
I don't get that business model. Meanwhile, they're losing money
hand over fist, and I'm listening to Gary' Dell'Abate bitch about
some stripper who missed her bus from Akron. Thanks, dudes. And
this is why you're going to fail. See the evidence below.
I happen to work on the second
worst block in all of Manhattan. At any given time there are at
least a half million construction projects going on, two hundred
and fifty Times
Square Alliance trash cans gathering at its mouth on Eight Avenue,
dog poop laid at the foot of its Ninth Avenue entrance and the last
vestiges of the moldering Burritoville
franchise adorning its Southwest corner. To walk its length necessitates
at least three crossings and/or the inhalation of noxious fumes
both urinary and smoked festering under the many scaffoldings.
Yes, you must walk into the street in order to get down the
block. You are literally at the mercy of every Chinese food
bike dude, cube truck and delivery van in the city. I can't
imagine this is in any way legal, is it?
And the other side of the block literally corrals you in, pinning
you between a window grate, a dumpster and a riot fence. Luckily
this dead end alley is guarded by a veeery sleepy couple just
basking in the glory of the stink.
The funny thing about this couple is... Well, funny isn't really
the right word, but I swear the guy on the left has $175 jeans
on and the same shoes I was wearing when I snapped this shit
with my cell phone. It's really a sweet photo when you look
at it, but the fact it's like 1:30 in the afternoon makes you
wonder if they're sleepy or dead.
This is the sad hut where the 39th Street trolls live. They
come out and pee under the overhangs of the construction sites
and make that same dude smoke skunk weed day after day by the
chain link fence next to the other construction site. I do so
love those trolls, but the fact I have to cross the street to
avoid their hut causes me undue annoyance.
And this is the rival dwarf hut on the opposite side of the
street. Sometimes they come out and battle in front of taxis
and BMWs and whatnot. On the day I took this photo I got a battle-axe
to the t'aint. Sucky 39th Street.
Walking East, you are once again forced to not only walk into
the street, but circumnavigate the giant orange cement-mixing
truck while the orange vested dude whistles at the sassy Latina
in the v-neck sweater.
Dentyne Blast Arctic Chill: It
tastes more like if you made a paste with saccharine and one of
those pine tree air fresheners. There’s nothing cool or refreshing
about it, and my thought that it would be like a hunk of Chewels
(or its latter day copycat, Tidal
Wave) was met with nothing but a fizzle. No liquid center shot
into my mouth, nothing did anything but make me wonder how the bodega
around the corner from my office has the balls to charge like $1.65
for this garbage. Plus, there are only 9 chicklettes in the package,
which only adds to my wonderment and frustration. If I’m going
to overpay for crap, at least make it multitudinous crap. Set your
blasters on blech.
So our baby was summoned home.
After four years of good times, fast driving and looks aplenty from
folks who couldn't figure out what the hell happened to the back
of our Outback, we sadly let our lease lapse on the 3.0R.
One of about three other Subaru Outback 3.0R Sedans on the street,
we decided to once again lease a car that nobody else in the world
seemed to want. It seems that other folks who decided an Outback
would be a good idea also decided they didn't want an Outback with
the interior space of a small Honda. Who knew? So they made our
model for about three years and then abruptly stopped. Sad, really,
as it was a nice car. It was fast (about 250hp) and sprung high
like a crossover, but was small like a shrimpy Acura, so I could
take speed bumps like a truck, but fly over them like a BMW. The
only thing about the car that kinda sucked was the stereo. Oh well,
nothing's perfect. In any case, at least we know there won't be
anybody else diriving around in new versions of it any time soon.
R.I.P., my friend.