January 10, 2004 #


I don't normally post screen shots of the weather, or post on Saturdays, or bust out banal banter I wouldn't normally cover here but geezusfukinchristallwhitey. There's no way in hell, the cold one, I'm even thinking of leaving the apartment today (looks like Twizzlers soup and a fried peppermint pattie for lunch today) and I have nothing better to do. So sit back, light up a stogie - then put it right out cause you don't smoke them - and take a freezer-burn pill, yo.

#1 I went to the Black Table party last night. I mainly kept to my two friends until I was drunk enough to be social. Unfortunately that shares an area, thornier than Kashmir, with "drunk enough to be an ass." I met Will Leitch and sister Jill. The former being as admirable in person as in print, the latter being subjected to a mad ranting by me of what's wrong with Midwesterners in New York. I was as articulate as she was amused, and believe me when I say neither articulation or amusement registered a pulse. Sorry about that.

I was also introduced to everyone's favorite rock-n-roll wet nurse, Lindsay, and she made the evening's three chords sound like eight. (What does that mean? Nothing. Less than nothing. In fact, it makes "nothing" look like a gun to the head or losing your virginity. Okay, you get the point.) Of course, Jami and Cat are my window to this cool and bizarre world. I did my best to fog up the glass with too many jokes about fisting.

#2 Dynatrite, done by my ex-roommate Grellan, takes the whole frat/gay thing to levels not seen since two Fijis were caught in the now infamous "Beemer Hummer" incident. Seriously, his writing is some of the funniest I have seen in parking lot tailgates. The site could also be called Post-CollegeHumor.com.

#3 Julia Ames is talented, poor, and looking for work. Help her out if you can.

#4 TOP Guest Editor, Chris Gage wrote this last weekend and I neglected to put it up. Sorry dude. Here ya go.

The aftermath.

After tear-assing through AK's apt on New Year's, I spent Thursday recovering in the cave that is my home. I should have been a good friend and gone over there afterward to help clean up, but that place now reeks of quiet desperation and cheap beer, a lethal combination that shrinks my willy like I was hitting the Big Pond with the Polar Bear Club. I'm staying inside where the only thing hotter than my soon-to-be-cooked dinner is the porn I'm downloading.

I gave him the two verses and a chorus about how staying in was my plan and the effort it would take to clean that place would make the CIA Wet Team look like the Merry Maids but he harangued me like a nagging mother until I pulled the Cat-5 on my cable modem (subsequently missing the money shot I was looking for) and hid my aching head under a pillow like I was trying to smother a crying baby.

Instead I researched buying an apartment where I could throw a respectable party a la Plimpton, and this utterly consumed me for the next five days. But real estate web sites are as Byzantine as rats nest and the oroborouses that shill for those places frankly scare me. Seriously, they make Medusa look like the prom queen. Did King Diamond teach them makeup application? It's a RuPaul lookalike convention over there.

In order to afford a classic six, a straight eight, or even a handyman's dream, I'd have to be dreaming myself or pillaging some third-rate Mexican drug cartel's yearly earnings. I pulled out my Casio calculator watch and did some back-of-the-dwindling-Roth-IRA-statement math but came up one much, much better job short and called it a day. Besides, ever since those damn Olsen Twins bought the penthouse of 4 Astor Place (R.I.P. Jupiter), I've been thinking I should move out of this kiss-ass town and find myself a shack in the woods where my startling thorough gun collection won't scare the neighbors.

#5 The Other Page update. I just wanna give fair warning that new features and lows will be explored soon on this site. We plan to take the genre of stunt-blogging to Blaineian heights. We also might have a "The Other Page Girl" of the day once a week. Submit your headshot and stats, I mean bio, now.

On a serious note, I've talked with Jake Dobkin of Gothamist about an idea (admittedly simple and not entirely original, but hopefully still interesting) we hope to test as a partnership with the YoungManhattanite.com domain I own. It's gonna be a daily interview thing. They will not be like Claire Zulkey's which I've been reading all morning because she possesses damn good and actual journalistic talent. My skills are along the lines of writing the apartment building bulletin, or a "CLOSE THE DOOR!" sign. That said, YM will be largely templated, like an absurd New York centric version of Vanity Fair's Proust Questionnaire and a Friendster profile. I will be asking those I know (and much more I don't) to be willing subjects for their 15 pixels of fame.

Also, I can't promise but I hope I never have a Saturday post like this again. Thanks, if you got this far.


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