Respect Authority

What could be worse than skinny jeans and neon-framed Wayfarer sunglasses? That’s right: hippies.

Brooklyn’s Prospect Park is one of several places in the running to become the official site for the latest incarnation of Woodstock, according to the parks department, which says it’s been in talks with promoter Michael Lang to bring the show to BK this summer. 

The goal: attract some 150,000 people, with headliners from the original Woodstock, plus pothead stalwarts like Dave Matthew and Phish. The perhaps unintended consequence: filling Brooklyn with an entirely new sect of annoying people which, when combined with Williamsburg’s hipsters and Prospect Park’s existing stroller army, spells disaster, as well as a potential class war and an abundance of stringy unwashed hair. 

It continues to baffle me when cities insist on playing host to all manner of large-scale events, particularly New York City - which struggles to house, feed, clothe and transport its own population, let alone tourists and other travelers. I mean, have you been on the train after a Yankee game? It’s about two well-placed jeers away from Lord of the Flies, and that’s without amassing people who consider their musical tastes a testament to their life philosophy.

New York is already a seething pit of freaks and people for whom showering is low on the list of priorities, so while I’m pleased to think the city’s homeless population may, for one day, feel right at home among equally dirty and destitute Janis Joplin fans, adding 150,000 potential “mud people” to our populace is not my idea of a good time.

It was bound to happen. After watching probably 1,054 episodes of Law and Order over the last five years of my life, and that’s a conservative estimate, it was karmically inevitable that I would - within two years of actual New York City residency - be chosen for jury duty. 

All things considered, I have moved through the stages of grief with admirable aplomb. Denial — “The envelope went to my old address; I wonder if I can just pretend I never got it” — lasted only five minutes, before anger took over: “Fuck the justice system. Fuck it. I don’t want to judge the innocence or guilt of other people. I mean, not professionally. What I do in my spare time, on the subway, without any prompting and based entirely on first impressions, is my own business.” I then bypassed bargaining in favor of depression, and then - after considering how many Law and Order episodes I HAVE watched, and how really I never found Judge Judy/Mathis/Joe Brown/etc. all that boring, I thought, “Hm, maybe I’ll enjoy this.”

A quick Google search revealed that I’ve been summoned to civil court, which means (1) chances of a high-profile and absorbing case are minimal (fingers crossed for Brooke Astor’s son) and (2) all knowledge of the justice system that I’ve gleaned from multiple episodes of SVU is likely irrelevant. On the upshot, it seems unlikely I’d be stuck with the kind of case that drags on for weeks/months, good news for my employer.

So no, I don’t plan to dress in a costume, or spout disingenuous claims about racial bias and white power. Nor do I anticipate a 12 Angry Men scenario, where I’m stuck in a room with 11 moronic strangers for hours upon hours deciding the innocence or guilt of some hapless Brooklynite. I plan to be in, and out. 

Unless there’s free pizza.

The tower formerly known as the Freedom Tower

And it’s true! Since America is pretty much broke, 1WTC’s first commercial tenant is actually a Chinese firm, for whom “freedom” is probably akin to naming the place “Free Tibet Tower.” Although the Port Authority has reportedly been leaning away from the somewhat anachronistic Freedom Tower for nearly a year, signing an actual deal for an actual influx of actual dollars probably helped them make the final decision.

Besides, it’s not like they changed the name to “Tower of Death” or “Wow, This Place is Cursed.” 1 World Trade is a testament to the fact that we — America, New York City, patriots — are prepared to restore Lower Manhattan to what it once was. By contrast, the Freedom Tower, particularly as it ushered in Operation Iraqi Freedom, Freedom Fries and that repetitive Aretha Franklin song, was little more than a passive-aggressive PR gimmick.

Besides, no matter what we name it, 1WTC will now and always be a phallic representation of our national insecurity. Yay!

Just as my morning cup of coffee is starting to seem an extravagant expense, I find myself miffed this morning at having spent a completely unnecessary and wasteful $21 at PetSmart yesterday. On what, you ask? What could I possibly be so enamored with at this store, which by the way perpetually smells like unwashed animals, that I would risk the financial insecurity of spending two digits’ worth of cash. 

This. You see, despite my near-ludicrous love for Godzilla, my erstwhile feline friend, I also have a growing affinity for the sanctity of my high-end furniture. In a fit of cathartic cleansing, my mother and her boyfriend purged their storage unit, created by the uniting of their two households in a creepy sort of sitcom-esque “Mom has a boyyyyfrieeend” moment, foisting on me piece upon piece of quality furninutre — suede ottoman, suede chairs, barely used futon. My new apartment, which would have otherwise looked much more like the aftermath of a college dorm tornado, instead appears oddly put-together, to the point that I sometimes find myself wondering how to reconcile this newfound aesthetic maturity with the fact that I still stumble home drunk and make frequent use of a two-foot bong. Read More ›

I’ll be the first to admit I do a lot of stupid things when I’m high. Why, just last night I paused reality television to satisfy a sudden and very strong urge to watch at least five YouTube videos of animals doing silly things - like running into walls, or attacking babies. Oh how I laughed, and laughed.

But this is something I’ve never done. A Nebraska man who was trying to calm down his over-hyper cat stuffed the poor thing into a boxlike homemade bong, and proceeded to smoke up with her inside. 

The 20-year-old faces animal cruelty charges, to say nothing of good old fashioned drug charges. Moreover I think someone should consider sending this genius to engineering school, because if this was somehow an effective bong construction, then we all have a thing or two to learn.

The thing is though, and it pains me to say this since nothing would give me greater pleasure than getting my own furry friend high, cats don’t seem particularly fond of weed. It’s sort of like dogs and peanut butter: they’re curious about it, primarily because it makes that significant journey from humans’ hands to their mouths, but when given the opportunity to partake it’s mostly confusion and slight distaste. In fact, when Godzilla - my own cat - is demolishing my expensive Pottery Barn loveseat with his talons, it’s not harsh words or the threat of beatings that deters him, but rather a well-aimed plume of smoke between the eyes. That or a squirt gun. 

So word to the wise. If your cat starts acting up, let him. I personally take great pleasure watching Godzilla tear ass from one of the apartment to the other, or chase imaginary bugs, or entertain himself with a sock full of catnip. In fact, having a cat when you’re a pothead is sort of like a 24-hour America’s Funniest Home Videos, in your own home. A stoned cat, on the other hand, would probably just eat a ton of food, throw it up on your carpet, and then go to sleep.

On Saturday I offered a few tongue-in-cheek complaints on how the slowly climbing temperature has made me feel guilty for not being more active on the weekends. This was my 6 a.m. Monday morning karmic retribution. 

Fuck you, Mother Nature.

Two days ago, artist and apparent soap fetishist Stuart Semple released 2,057 smiley-faced clouds into the miserable gray wash the British call “sky.” The clouds, made up of helium, biodegradable soap, and vegetable dye, floated past the Tate Modern and Southbank before dissolving into the air after 30 short-lived minutes. Frankly, I’m not sure if seeing a few of these hovering next to my face on the way to work would come across as anything other than smug. Like, “Hah hah, I’m a cloud, I never have to work! See things in me!”

The project, intended to inject a little cheer into the dreary London skyline, was certainly unique. However, the artist probably could have made people even happier if he just threw all the money these blissfully ignorant clouds cost into the air instead. Not as cute, maybe, but after using that free money to buy a few beers, everything else starts looking cuter anyway.

And while they may have elicited a few unsuspecting chuckles at the time, now just imagine if all of those little happy clouds had anthrax or nerve gas mixed into their sudsy solution. The clouds and even great Allah himself might be smiling now, but they’re the only ones!

So yeah, the clouds were a real gas. But only in time will we see which definition of the word really best applies. Smile, we live in such a wonderful world!

So the big story this morning - which I couldn’t make up if I tried - is that of a 200-pound pet chimpanzee that authorities were forced to shoot to death after he mauled Charla Nash, a woman he had known for years, leaving her critically injured and lacking significant pieces of her face. 

The woman was a friend of the chimp’s Connecticut owner, 70-year-old Sandra Herold, who’s had 14-year-old Travis for years. The monkey has appeared in television commercials and often poses for photos with the locals. He also has many a claim to domestic fame: among Travis’ skills were drinking wine, bathing and dressing himself, and using the computer. 

I’m as much of an animal lover as the next person - those ASPCA commercials with Sarah McLachlan and probably-not-her-real-dog make me cry every time - but I also have a very clear understanding of the difference between “pet” and “wild animal.” Pets include dogs, cats, fish, turtles, even the occasional pot-bellied pig. Wild animals, as we’ve seen through countless in-home maulings, include alligators, tigers, oversized snakes — and chimpanzees. 

Yes, they’re cute, and they seem smart. But the ability to react to speech, wear pants with suspenders, or smoke cigarettes does not a creature of higher intelligence make. And either way, a good rule of thumb is to keep no pet that weighs more than you do. Especially at age 70, since I’m fairly certain Medicare doesn’t cover monkey maulings.

Hold on to your butts.

Nope, that’s not a well-placed Samuel L. Jackson Jurassic Park reference, but rather a legitimate warning to all of the young boys out there in the Big Apple. Police are currently looking for a man who keeps walking up behind boys in the city, and “squeezing their buttocks.” He’s grabbed the bums of boys between the ages of 11 and 15, and kissed one of them on the neck, something I’m pretty sure I could drop-kick someone before they’d get close enough to achieve with me. 

The attacks have been going on since September, with the most recent incident taking place Thursday. 

Let me say this: My bum has been touched, whether “accidentally” or in an outright way, probably five or six times in New York. Never have I reported the incident to police in the interest of contributing to the discovery of a broader butt-grabbing trend. Because the creeps of New York City are in and of themselves a butt-grabbing trend. When you walk around in the Big Apple, be you boy, girl, 11 or 23, you watch your ass. 

But if someone kisses your neck, you mace them.

Just when you were starting to think that maybe graffiti would be a fun endeavor to try, notorious L.A.-based crew, the Metro Transit Assassins, goes and gets themselves arrested. Conveniently, the contraband confiscated in the process only proves once and for all that graffiti really is a fun endeavor to try… until you get thrown in jail. And isn’t that just the case with everything fun these days? And by everything, I mean pretty much just drugs.

The MTA is responsible for L.A.’s single largest tag, a monstrous three-story-high, half-mile long signature on the concrete banks of the Los Angeles River. You know, that festering trickle of runoff and slime, a brook at best, babbling only because of the ferocious bacterial life within, that skateboarders sometimes do really cool tricks over? Regardless, the MTA so kindly graced L.A. with a veritable landmark and how does the city repay them? By putting them in cuffs and confiscating all their guns and weed. Pretty fucking ungrateful if you ask me.

Their work is not your typical crudely drawn ejaculating penis or alien giving the finger scrawled in alleyways and along the subway tracks. One has to be pretty fucking good, and organized, to deface something as huge as the L.A. river bank. And it shows — one of the suspects arrested drives a $60,000 BMW, and another member of the crew, well-known graffiti artist Smear, has recently sold pieces to wealthy collectors. Their operation is, or was anyway, on a scale equivalent to that of their massive acts of public beautification. Indeed, the term “high rollers” works on so many levels here that I think I just popped some of the pun receptors in my brain.

Meanwhile, the cost to clean up the tag is also proportional — the city estimates it will run about $3.7 million to remove the three lumbering block letters, as extra measures must be taken to keep the 400 gallons of paint used to create the tag from running into the river. After all, one wouldn’t want to contaminate all the blood-encrusted syringes and filthy condoms that live there.

Nonetheless, these guys are in some shit now, and it’s considerably deeper than the Los Angeles River.

Illustrator Christoph Niemann has a blog on the New York Times’ website (don’t we all) called Abstract City, where he, more or less, gets paid to upload his doodles. And frankly, in a culture where people get paid to show up at PR events, where they drink top shelf liquor for free and leave with a gift bag costing in the thousands of dollars range, that’s a pretty fucking terrible job. So kudos, Mr. Niemann, for deigning to press that “scan” button on your Lexmark scanner/copier/printer/espresso machine.

Now, because I’ll be killing Christoph tonight and stealing his job, I thought it’d be a nice tribute to share some of his brilliant New York lego sculptures. Of course, you could also just visit his blog to view them the entire collection, but then what would be the point of stealing content at all?

Despite an egregious omission of a lego junkie taking a midday nap with his head in a trash can, overall these constructions represent the “real” New York much more accurately than any laborious recreation of the skyline, that ultimately, nobody except six-year-olds and really fucking pathetic 35-year-olds (Lego Magazine’s two primary demographics) will appreciate. Read More ›