Tuesday, April 17, 2007
This is even more awesome
The Post has these awesome pictures today of the Columbia torture rapist using the ATM at the (not five but) Six Stars Deli, which is my corner bodega.
Apparently along with everything else he did to the poor girl, he jacked her debit card and emptied her bank account at my local deli. Fucking asshole. Get out of my neighborhood!
On the bright side, maybe these pictures will hasten the process of Ice-T and Mariska Hargitay's real-life counterparts at the NYPD arresting his ass and shipping him off to Riker's Island, where, if there's any justice in the world, he will discover that karma is truly a forcefully sodomizing bitch.
Apparently along with everything else he did to the poor girl, he jacked her debit card and emptied her bank account at my local deli. Fucking asshole. Get out of my neighborhood!
On the bright side, maybe these pictures will hasten the process of Ice-T and Mariska Hargitay's real-life counterparts at the NYPD arresting his ass and shipping him off to Riker's Island, where, if there's any justice in the world, he will discover that karma is truly a forcefully sodomizing bitch.
Labels: crime and punishment, for serious people, Harlem world, NYC, oh the horror, sexual assault
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Jake Taylor has really let himself go
Last night, I arrived home to see several gigantic trailers and production trucks pulling up to the sidewalk outside my house. I got all excited, thinking they might be filming more episodes of "Law and Order:SVU" there and I could get a glimpse of Tracy "Ice-T" Marrow, his buxom ho-bag of a wife CoCo, or the hotness that is Mariska Hargitay running around my hood. However, I couldn't discern from the "No Parking By Order of the Mayor's Office of Film and TV Production" signs what they were filming, so I basically forgot about it.
This morning, I was reminded when I ventured out to the park with the dogs, but I still couldn't figure out what was going to be filmed, and the production assistants were all running around, wearing headsets, and looking very busy with VERY important stuff like plugging in big cables and unloading equipment, so I didn't ask them. It's a good thing I didn't, because they turned out to be assholes.
Tonight, I arrived home to see lots of activity around the trailers, and one PA was eyeing me beadily as I approached. She looked as though she were ready to tackle me if I made so much as a step toward the trailer directly in front of my building's door. I must have looked sketchy, on account of having a horrible headache. I spent the afternoon doing organic chemistry (which I suck at; in college I got a C in it, and the only thing I was ever good at was distilling alcohol...go figure), and even worse, I was using ether. I don't know why Hunter S. Thompson was into huffing that shit, because the only thing it did for me was provide me with a splitting headache. Then again, I did have it in the fume hood, so maybe I didn't experience the full effects, but have a general policy of not getting high off organic solvents, especially those that are notorious for volatility and explosions. Anyway, I must have looked angry or sketchy or stalkerish, so she eyed me warily until I was safely inside my building. I figured there must be some big celebrity in that trailer to warrant such a vigilant PA guarding it.
I came back out with the dogs five minutes later, only to see that the big Hollywood movie star had emerged and was standing in front of my building. It was not Brad Pitt, or Halle Berry, or Jack Nicholson, or even Justin Timberlake. At first I thought the star, surrounded by an entourage, was James Gandolfini wearing a curly wig, based on his hulking girth and man-boobs (visible even beneath a black shirt AND jacket), but as he turned to face the camera, I realized that it was a much, much fatter version of this guy:
Yes! Tom Berenger, the actor who immortalized Cleveland Indians catcher Jake Taylor in one of the greatest movies ever made, Major League. In case you haven't seen this film, it's a silly but sublime movie with an awesomely 80s cast (also including Charlie Sheen as volatile ex-con pitcher Rick "Wild Thing" Vaughn, Corbin Bernsen--who thanks to "L.A. Law" was unbelievably a stud of the era--as wealthy, womanizing shortstop Roger Dorn, Wesley Snipes as wisecracking, base-stealing outfielder Willie Mays Hayes, Bob Uecker as the drunken commentator, and Rene Russo as Jake Taylor's librarian ex-girlfriend.) There's also a cast of awesome supporting characters, including the super cunty team owner's trophy widow, the curmudgeonly old coach, an aging born-again pitcher (who sucks), the Tribe's dedicated fans in all their Indian gear, and the Dominican-Haitian-Mexican designated hitter Pedro Cerrano, who speaks Spanish, practices voodoo, and at one point tells the born-again "chingate, cabron." (Obviously the writers suffered from the surprisingly common confusion that drives J-Sexy crazy, that all the nations of the Caribbean are on one big island and share one big blurred culture.) Major League was a favorite in the Razzy household growing up, so I recognized Jake Taylor's ass IMMEDIATELY, in spite of the fact that he's blown up like Lil' Kim.
His entourage started hurrying him across the street to the Harlem School for the Arts, where they were shooting the movie Order of Redemption, in which Tom Berenger plays a former stud of a criminal defense attorney who becomes a hard-core drug addict. Busta Rhymes is also in this, but I didn't see him. He's probably hanging out with a real-life criminal defense attorney since the people of the City of New York are taking his non-snitching ass to trial on assault charges in May. Caesar wasn't paying attention to any of this. He was more interested in pissing on his usual fire hydrant.
The beady-eyed PA guarding the trailer hurried over and gave me a very admonishing look. "Excuse me," she said. "He needs to do that somewhere else." I looked at her incredulously. Apart from providing water for firefighters and acting as impromptu sprinklers for kids on particularly sweltering summer days, the one other thing fire hydrants are famous for is DOGS PISSING ON THEM. Furthermore, who does this bitch think she is that she can issue such imperative commands to me in front of my own fucking apartment building? At least say "please" and phrase that request in the form of a question, you self-important slut!
"He's a dog. It's a fire hydrant," I said coldly to her. "And it's a public street." She gave me a very offended look. Apparently Tom Berenger is such a big fucking star that he warrants peons stationed outside to prevent dogs from pissing in his trailer's vicinity. I was irritated. As far as I could tell, Mayor Bloomberg gave them the right to park their giant trucks and trailers on the street, not dictate where my dog can or can't urinate, and I resented this dumb snatch telling me otherwise. I thought the best solution was to rattle her by showing how very little I cared for her mandate to fetch coffee and shoo dogs away from Tom Berenger's trailer by addressing the celebrity directly.
"Hey Jake! Where's Willie Mays Hayes?!" I shouted. I know exactly where Willie Mays Hayes is (in federal court answering to charges of tax evasion to the tune of $12 million dollars and probably gearing up to star in Blade 4), but it was the only pithy thing I could think to shout to a man who once called his shot like the Babe and then shocked the (evil) Yankees by bunting, thus securing a pennant for the Tribe.
If Tom Berenger heard me, he didn't respond. He probably didn't, because he was fully across St. Nicholas Ave. at that point, and it was clogged with traffic. In any event, he didn't respond, but the look of horror on the PA's face was priceless. She failed at preventing the local riff-raff from bugging the big MOVIE STAR, and was probably worried about her bullshit job. I felt totally vindicated. Welcome to Sugar Hill, bitch.
On a separate but related topic, if you look up Major League on IMDB.com, the listed plot keywords "include "Voodoo", "Wife's Sexual Pretence", "Vulgarity", "Rum", "Bad Haircut", "Mullet Haircut", "Obscene Finger Gesture", "Sombrero", "Watermelon", and "Urination Scene." What, no "Joe Boo" or "Corbin Bernsen taking one in the nuts?" I wouldn't have noticed this, but you have no idea how difficult it is to find pictures of Tom Berenger on the internets in anything except Platoon. I've literally spent two hours RESEARCHING this blog entry and snagging Major League screen captures off YouTube. Uff da.
This morning, I was reminded when I ventured out to the park with the dogs, but I still couldn't figure out what was going to be filmed, and the production assistants were all running around, wearing headsets, and looking very busy with VERY important stuff like plugging in big cables and unloading equipment, so I didn't ask them. It's a good thing I didn't, because they turned out to be assholes.
Tonight, I arrived home to see lots of activity around the trailers, and one PA was eyeing me beadily as I approached. She looked as though she were ready to tackle me if I made so much as a step toward the trailer directly in front of my building's door. I must have looked sketchy, on account of having a horrible headache. I spent the afternoon doing organic chemistry (which I suck at; in college I got a C in it, and the only thing I was ever good at was distilling alcohol...go figure), and even worse, I was using ether. I don't know why Hunter S. Thompson was into huffing that shit, because the only thing it did for me was provide me with a splitting headache. Then again, I did have it in the fume hood, so maybe I didn't experience the full effects, but have a general policy of not getting high off organic solvents, especially those that are notorious for volatility and explosions. Anyway, I must have looked angry or sketchy or stalkerish, so she eyed me warily until I was safely inside my building. I figured there must be some big celebrity in that trailer to warrant such a vigilant PA guarding it.
I came back out with the dogs five minutes later, only to see that the big Hollywood movie star had emerged and was standing in front of my building. It was not Brad Pitt, or Halle Berry, or Jack Nicholson, or even Justin Timberlake. At first I thought the star, surrounded by an entourage, was James Gandolfini wearing a curly wig, based on his hulking girth and man-boobs (visible even beneath a black shirt AND jacket), but as he turned to face the camera, I realized that it was a much, much fatter version of this guy:
His entourage started hurrying him across the street to the Harlem School for the Arts, where they were shooting the movie Order of Redemption, in which Tom Berenger plays a former stud of a criminal defense attorney who becomes a hard-core drug addict. Busta Rhymes is also in this, but I didn't see him. He's probably hanging out with a real-life criminal defense attorney since the people of the City of New York are taking his non-snitching ass to trial on assault charges in May. Caesar wasn't paying attention to any of this. He was more interested in pissing on his usual fire hydrant.
The beady-eyed PA guarding the trailer hurried over and gave me a very admonishing look. "Excuse me," she said. "He needs to do that somewhere else." I looked at her incredulously. Apart from providing water for firefighters and acting as impromptu sprinklers for kids on particularly sweltering summer days, the one other thing fire hydrants are famous for is DOGS PISSING ON THEM. Furthermore, who does this bitch think she is that she can issue such imperative commands to me in front of my own fucking apartment building? At least say "please" and phrase that request in the form of a question, you self-important slut!
"He's a dog. It's a fire hydrant," I said coldly to her. "And it's a public street." She gave me a very offended look. Apparently Tom Berenger is such a big fucking star that he warrants peons stationed outside to prevent dogs from pissing in his trailer's vicinity. I was irritated. As far as I could tell, Mayor Bloomberg gave them the right to park their giant trucks and trailers on the street, not dictate where my dog can or can't urinate, and I resented this dumb snatch telling me otherwise. I thought the best solution was to rattle her by showing how very little I cared for her mandate to fetch coffee and shoo dogs away from Tom Berenger's trailer by addressing the celebrity directly.
"Hey Jake! Where's Willie Mays Hayes?!" I shouted. I know exactly where Willie Mays Hayes is (in federal court answering to charges of tax evasion to the tune of $12 million dollars and probably gearing up to star in Blade 4), but it was the only pithy thing I could think to shout to a man who once called his shot like the Babe and then shocked the (evil) Yankees by bunting, thus securing a pennant for the Tribe.
If Tom Berenger heard me, he didn't respond. He probably didn't, because he was fully across St. Nicholas Ave. at that point, and it was clogged with traffic. In any event, he didn't respond, but the look of horror on the PA's face was priceless. She failed at preventing the local riff-raff from bugging the big MOVIE STAR, and was probably worried about her bullshit job. I felt totally vindicated. Welcome to Sugar Hill, bitch.
On a separate but related topic, if you look up Major League on IMDB.com, the listed plot keywords "include "Voodoo", "Wife's Sexual Pretence", "Vulgarity", "Rum", "Bad Haircut", "Mullet Haircut", "Obscene Finger Gesture", "Sombrero", "Watermelon", and "Urination Scene." What, no "Joe Boo" or "Corbin Bernsen taking one in the nuts?" I wouldn't have noticed this, but you have no idea how difficult it is to find pictures of Tom Berenger on the internets in anything except Platoon. I've literally spent two hours RESEARCHING this blog entry and snagging Major League screen captures off YouTube. Uff da.
Labels: assholes, Caese Doggy Dogg, celebrities, doggity style, fat fucks, Harlem world, intentional buffoonery, movies, NYC, scathing indictments, vengeance is sweet
Friday, March 16, 2007
Aural bombardment
My upstairs neighbor, a butt-ugly hippie jazz musician, has been having problems with me because I listen to RAP MUSIC. Although I'm by no means the only person doing so in our Sugar Hill tenement building, I'm the only one he feels comfortable complaining to, probably because he thinks I'm a sweet petitle girl who gives a shit about his dislike of bass. In the past, this resulted in the exchange of bitchy notes. After I dropped off my last note telling him to fuck off, he cornered me at the elevator and apologized for "being an asshole." I accepted his apology and thought our issues were resolved.
Yesterday I was about to leave for work when I noticed a piece of yellow paper on the floor of my entryway. I picked it up and found an unsigned note reading as follows:
To make matters worse, AT FIVE A.M. this morning the asshole woke me up with what was probably an extended jam session from a live Phish bootleg or something. He's totally the type who would have a whole shelf of illegally recorded Phish shows on tape. I knew this girl in college who would always have dumb debates over whether "Tucson '98" or "Vegas '96 New Years Eve" or whatever was a better concert to listen to on a busted ass cassette tape. In other words, it sounded like what I imagine elevator music sounds like in hell. Four years of living in New York City, however, have enabled me to willfully tune out most distracting noises. I simply rolled over and went back to sleep, but vowed that from now on, there will be no more note exchanges or other attempts at civility. The time for negotiating is past. I plan to wake that motherfucker up every morning by playing every last goddamn rap song in my arsenal.
So far this plan is working splendidly. Around 8:45 a.m., I wasn't even a full minute into "Bitch, Get Ya Mind Right" by my favorite rapper's favorite trapper Young Jeezy before he was stomping on his floor loudly, his preferred method of telling me that I'm bothering him. I smiled to myself and turned up the volume for a moment to indicate that I am no longer going to quiet down or otherwise respond to his stomping. I fucking hate his ass and resent his leaving me brusque notes informing me what I can and cannot do. I shouted at my ceiling, "Get some fucking earplugs, asshole!"
Then I turned on 50 Cent, because nobody says "fuck you all" quite like my boyfriend Curtis. He's the king of starting and perpetuating beef, and I felt it was appropriate. I get a feeling that my conflict with Upstairs Guy is going to be more protracted than the Cold War. Running with that analogy, he's totally Russia. I'm going to kick his pinko ass with my unimpeachable freedom, free trade, and brash American ways. You stomped on the wrong floor, hippie!
Yesterday I was about to leave for work when I noticed a piece of yellow paper on the floor of my entryway. I picked it up and found an unsigned note reading as follows:
"You can't play music with that much bass early in the morning. Please!"Though unsigned, I know it was this motherfucker. For one thing, it was his handwriting. For another, my other neighbors have never said a single word to me about my music or anything else. It's not like I'm bumping my music at top volume. It's just that this dude has hypersensitive hearing, and rather than get a set of earplugs, he thinks I should accommodate his ass. And by the way, "early in the morning" means 9:30 or 10 a.m.
To make matters worse, AT FIVE A.M. this morning the asshole woke me up with what was probably an extended jam session from a live Phish bootleg or something. He's totally the type who would have a whole shelf of illegally recorded Phish shows on tape. I knew this girl in college who would always have dumb debates over whether "Tucson '98" or "Vegas '96 New Years Eve" or whatever was a better concert to listen to on a busted ass cassette tape. In other words, it sounded like what I imagine elevator music sounds like in hell. Four years of living in New York City, however, have enabled me to willfully tune out most distracting noises. I simply rolled over and went back to sleep, but vowed that from now on, there will be no more note exchanges or other attempts at civility. The time for negotiating is past. I plan to wake that motherfucker up every morning by playing every last goddamn rap song in my arsenal.
So far this plan is working splendidly. Around 8:45 a.m., I wasn't even a full minute into "Bitch, Get Ya Mind Right" by my favorite rapper's favorite trapper Young Jeezy before he was stomping on his floor loudly, his preferred method of telling me that I'm bothering him. I smiled to myself and turned up the volume for a moment to indicate that I am no longer going to quiet down or otherwise respond to his stomping. I fucking hate his ass and resent his leaving me brusque notes informing me what I can and cannot do. I shouted at my ceiling, "Get some fucking earplugs, asshole!"
Then I turned on 50 Cent, because nobody says "fuck you all" quite like my boyfriend Curtis. He's the king of starting and perpetuating beef, and I felt it was appropriate. I get a feeling that my conflict with Upstairs Guy is going to be more protracted than the Cold War. Running with that analogy, he's totally Russia. I'm going to kick his pinko ass with my unimpeachable freedom, free trade, and brash American ways. You stomped on the wrong floor, hippie!
Labels: comeuppance, Harlem world, ranting, rap, retard rage, vengeance is sweet
Monday, January 15, 2007
Bringing the noise
My neighbor upstairs is a jazz musician, and I hear him at all hours of the night jamming. I'm not the world's biggest jazz fan, as it often sounds the same to me. Jazz is fine background music for bars and coffee houses, because it's meandering and unintrusive, but I don't typically opt for jazz when I'm massacring rodents in lab or kicking it at my crib. Even more to my distaste is the type of jazz my upstairs neighbor composes. He likes that hippie sort of jazz that is basically one interminable organ jam session. It's like listening to the full-length "Inna Gadda Da Vida," except instead of appealing to Dazed and Confused-esque 70s rockers, it appeals to white people with dreadlocks, backless shirts, and a disdain for personal hygiene who fund their nitrous habit by selling grilled cheeses made on their VW bus engine blocks. It sounds like a fucking Widespread Panic concert above me every night, and it would drive me crazy if I weren't used to living in New York. In the caliber of apartment that my salary allows (poorly constructed and only slightly larger than a veal-fattening pen), I hear everything: my neighbor's TVs, their music, their domestic squabbles, their dogs barking, etc. If I complained about every unwanted noise that filtered into my grossly overpriced living space/vermin condominium, I wouldn't have time to grouse about everything else in the world. I just learn to tune out the other noises, like in yoga class: observe without reaction or judgment.
My neighbor has clearly never taken yoga. Every time I happen to turn on my stereo, he starts pounding on his floor. At first, I thought he was just dropping heavy objects coincident with my morning Dirrty Dirrty ass rap get-psyched-for-the-day routine. However, over time his floor pounding became louder and more insistent, and I realized this was his way of telling me to turn my music down. In fact, he somehow has managed to make thumping sound downright bitchy. I dislike this passive-aggressive tactic for telling me to shut up, and furthermore, I think that if I have to put up with his neverending jam session, he can tolerate twenty minutes of Young Jeezy on low volume. At one point, we crossed paths while getting our mail, and he said something to me about it. He first gave a half-assed apology for thumping, but then immediately disqualified any sort of contrition by saying that because he's up all night composing his shitty music, he needs to sleep in the morning and the faint sounds of a bass line at 9 a.m. bother him. I said, "Well, sorry, but I watch NY1 while I wake up, then I listen to Southern rap while I'm getting dressed. It's part of my morning routine. I'll try to keep the volume down." He was not pleased, as clearly he expected me to be like, "Oh, so sorry, I will immediately amend my life to accomodate your vampiric music composing schedule and need for subsequent sleep during the day." I was annoyed with him, but resolved to continue living my life the way I have. I pay rent to live here, too, so kiss my fine voluptuous ass, hippie. I'm diurnal, and it's not my problem that you work the graveyard shift at home.
A few months ago, he started pounding at 7 p.m. on a Saturday. I was listening to Destiny's Child (and NOT ashamed of that) and puttering around the apartment, and this motherfucker starts stomping at me. I ignored it, but turned off the music and took the dogs out for their evening constitutional. He was coming down the stairs as the boys and I waited for the elevator, and decided to mention to me that sometimes my music makes it hard for him to work. He was like, "Yeah, it's just hard to think about the music I'm writing when all I hear is your music." Why is that my problem? If you need a soundproof environment, go to a fucking recording studio or something. Besides, being that MANY of our other neighbors are blasting rap, reggaeton, and/or R&B music on the regular, I'm hardly the only person listening to audible music that interferes with crafting perfect horrible hippie jazz. This guy is acting like a damn Smith girl, thinking that because he and his job are so fucking important, everyone around him should alter their lifestyles to accommodate his preferences. Additionally, I was pissed because he wouldn't just man up and clearly state his intent (turn down the fucking "Say My Name" and "Bugaboo"), choosing to instead imply that I should give a shit about how he doesn't like my music and act accordingly. I was annoyed because he was trying to be a manipulative pussy instead of stating his objective, so I just said, "Okay, whatever. Later." Then I took the dogs out and dismissed him.
Yesterday, he upped his passive-aggressive tactics to a new level by slipping a note under my door, while I was fucking asleep and thus not making any noise at all. The note irritated the shit out of me, partly because it was so bitchy and partly because he's a grown man (at least 10 years older than me) and he hasn't yet realized that "a lot" is two words:
I'm sorry to be so rude, from 6E. Better to just say something after all this time, than keep getting mad and banging on the floor.
I get woken up by a door slamming, something heavy hitting the floor, or both too many mornings (7:00-7:30). It's almost predictable.
These apartments have no sound proofing, sound carries alot. Whatever it is rattles my dishes, shakes the floor, wakes me. I need as much sleep as I can get these days working so much. I appreciate you being a good neighbor, which you are--maybe you're not aware of it. It's not easy for all these people crammed into these cubicles like sardines.
I know you've really made an effort with your music and it's much appreciated.
Again--sorry to get so pissed off. When I'm woke, when I have to work all day--it's tough. I don't hardly hear you except early morning.
Anyway--there it is. Healthier to say something than to let it go on. Please let me know if there's anything I do that bothers you. I really try to be quiet knowing these floors are like amplifiers. Thanks Again!
I have no idea what "slamming" sound he is talking about since at 7:00-7:30, I am usually either just waking up or still hitting the snooze button on my alarm clock. I suspect it may be one of my neighbors, either the chick who lives next door to me and always arrives home around this time (and slams her door), or the elderly woman on the other side who gets up at the ass crack of dawn to either fight with her man in loud Spanish or clean/rearrange her apartment with the door open in her underwear. Furthermore, I don't give a rat's ass about the quality of sleep he is getting. Therefore, today I slipped this note under the fucker's door:
Dear 6E,
I received your note and was mystified as to what sound you are talking about, as I am typically still in a state of semi-consciousness and in bed at the times you mentioned. As you astutely pointed out, these apartments are not soundproof, and it's quite possible you are hearing one of my or your neighbors making this slamming/banging noise. While I have tried to keep my music at an appropriate volume early in the morning or late at night, you rarely show me the same consideration. I frequently hear your music at all hours of the day, as well as what often sounds like moving furniture around in your apartment. I would complain, but I remind myself that this is New York City, and there is a certain amount of ambient noise inherent in living here, especially in a cheap-ass apartment building like this one. I hear my other neighbors going about their daily lives as well, and it would be foolish and inconsiderate to ask everyone around me to treat their apartments as if they were libraries and be silent to accommodate my schedule. I also work hard, and also am sometimes woken up by you and my other neighbors listening to music, slamming doors, speaking loudly, or generally making noise. I cope with this. I suggest you do the same.
Sincerely,
5E
P.S. Foam earplugs cost less than $5. You may wish to invest in a pair, as they are a more cost-effective means of accomplishing your need for undisturbed sleep than demanding that your neighbors change their lifestyles to accommodate yours.
He has yet to respond, but I've now realized that I am pissed to the point of not getting over it. I want to go up there and yell at him, but that would accomplish nothing except making me look like a fucking lunatic. Therefore, I decided to let him know exactly how concerned I was about my music, and any other noise I make, bothering him so he can get his beauty sleep (except by "beauty" I mean "ugly"; the man is a troll). I made an iTunes playlist dedicated to pissing him off.
All the music I listen to is what Vh1 would categorize as "awesomely bad." I like rap music, but not the preachy, serious stuff, like Mos Def or Talib Kweli or Common. I like rap with good beats and hilarious lyrics concerning the ins and outs of financial success at the trap, overspending at "designer malls," getting in some overweight ho's guts, customizing cars to look like crayons, opening the trunk to retrieve your Mac-10, keeping at least 6 women up in the bed, slizzin on the sizzurp/Hp-n-Hennessey/Goose, etc. Similarly, I like R&B that elicits more chuckles than the desire to make sweet love (ie: lyrics implying that "I'm butt naked in sweat socks and house shoes" is a viable seduction line), a genre mastered by the incomparable R-uh in R&B, my man Robert Sylvester Kelly. I also like some reggae, but not "Three Little Birds" or that sort of thing. I like to hear Vybz Kartel exhorting a woman to "tek buddy" (penis) because he bought her a gold-plated doorknob and paid her U.S. entry visa fee, or cautioning the young schoolgirls of Kingston to protect their virtue until they get to an an age where slutting it up in the dancehall is appropriate ("don't take feel up inna the school bus.") As far as rock goes, I'm WAY more into the Tolkien-inspired ragings of Ronnie James Dio, the soaring synthesizer riffs of Journey, and the thrashing speed guitars of "Master of Puppets"-era Metallica than John Mayer or James Blunt or whatever folksy therapy journal crap by slim penised men people listen to these days and call "rock" music. With the exception of my Chopin and Liszt fetishes, I seem to favor music that most other people find funny, ridiculous, cheesy, or just plain bad. Since everyone is entitled to their own likes and dislikes, I really don't give a fuck. My upstairs neighbor doesn't like my music, and I don't like his, so we're even. However, if he thinks that I'm going to succumb to his demands that I favor his music or need to exist comfortably over mine, in the words of Judas Priest, he's got another thing comin'.
Therefore, I decided to make a playlist on my iTunes dedicated to pissing off my neighbor. It's called the "Fuck You, Upstairs Guy" playlist. Not only do I resent his attitude that his music is a more worthy form of noise pollution than mine, I intend to let him know PRECISELY how much I care about his ability to play his shitty organ in peace. I chose the songs on this list because they represent all the kinds of music I listen to in addition to fitting several important criteria:
1. Bass, and plenty of it, ensuring that the music thunders up the walls, to counteract his floor pounding.
2. Ridiculous and/or brazenly offensive lyrics intended to distract him from whatever deep thoughts he's having about his music.
3. Incorporation of shouting, castigation, and/or screaming, to convey my frustration at his sense of entitlement to a silent apartment building in which he's the only person allowed to make noise.
4. (optional) Most people in the world except me hate the song.
Here are the songs, many of which have been featured on a Vh1 countdown about ridiculous or sucky stuff.
"I Smoke, I Drank" by Body Head Bangerz and the YoungBloodz
Upstairs guy HATES this song. Every time I turn it on, he almost immediately starts pounding. I'd advise him to follow the lyrics of this song and relax by keeping a stack-a that funny smellin' tobacca (which would certainly be consistent with his hippie leanings) and calm his nerves by getting head in the 'Burb consequent to being a fool with dem womens, but since the BHB'z and YB'z say it so much more eloquently than myself I'll defer to their masterful means of persuasion. Besides, lyrics like "I smoke, I drank, I'm supposed to stop but I can't, I'm a dog, I love hoes, and I'm addicted to money, cars, and clothes" pretty much sum up my general attitude about life. Well, except for the cars part...my money addiction has been relatively unfed as of late, thus standing in the way of my ability to satiate my need for tricked-out Lambos.
"Bills, Bills, Bills" by Destiny's Child
This song is a little off-topic, as it features Beyonce et al breaking it down to a loser boyfriend for being a broke parasite, but I like the chorus which calls him "a trifling, good-for-nothin' type of brother." That's exactly how I feel up Upstairs Guy, despite the fact that he's never been maxing out my credit card to go on shopping sprees at the mall, "perpetratin' to his friends that he be ballin'" (I can do that all on my own).
"Rock You Like a Hurricane" by the Scorpions
Because that's what Klaus Meine and his cohort of Teutonic rockers are going to do to Upstairs Guy.
"Stomp" by Young Buck, The Game, and Ludacris
This song says "Keep talkin' and you 'bout to get that ass stomped." Since Upstairs Guy is always stomping on the floor, this is my way of stomping back.
"Why We Thugs" by Ice Cube
Upstairs Guy has a particular hatred for O'Shea Jackson's classic album The Predator, and this is his new jam. Despite Cube's recent forays into mainstream kid-friendly cinema (Are We There Yet? I hope they paid him well for that.), this song's beat is guaranteed to drive Upstairs Guy crazy, and lyrics like "stop trippin' on it" and "when niggaz get tribal, it's all about survival, nobody liable." I want him to know that I will absolutely get tribal on his ass.
"Tek Buddy" by Vybz Kartel
In addition to saying things like "fuck me like Matrix inna 3-D, for the TV, DVD", Vybz is always shouting "bi-a-bi", which, if you're not into ridiculous dancehall reggae, will drive you fucking insane. I also laugh every time I hear the unforgettable lyric "I even pay your visa fee, so grab me cocky and sing on it like Alicia Keys."
"The Final Countdown" by Europe
It's sort of embarrassing that I have this mp3, because songs combining brain-melting synth riffs with lyrics about travelling through space to Venus are a bit much even for me. However, since this may be the most annoying song ever written, I have no doubt that it will stick in Upstairs Guy's craw.
"Turn Me On" by Kevin Lyttle and Madzart
As long as we're on the topic of annoying songs, this pop reggae masterpiece may be in a different genre, but it's absolutely in Europe's league. Between Kevin Lyttle's Caribbean-tinged I-just-sucked-helium falsetto and Madzart's (note: that's Madzart--not to be confused with a certain Wolfgang Amadeus) unintelligible dancehall rapping, "Turn Me On" is one of those songs where you can't decide if you should bust out your best dutty wine or pour gasoline on yourself and strike a match. With Upstairs Guy, it's likely to be the latter.
"I Like Dem Girlz" by Tyrese
I figured I may as well go for the irritating song trifecta. I like cheesy, ridiculous R&B, but "I Like Dem Girlz" by Guess model/singer/actor Tyrese is right at the edge of my tolerance envelope. Not even silly lyrical content about Tyrese's preference for gold-digging whores and/or rap video vixens ("I like dem girlz between the sheets, I like dem girlz iced up like me, I like dem girlz in the fly Gucci, rolling deep in the 6, Cartier on the wrist") makes me willingly listen to this song. However, if it bugs me this much, it will definitely send Upstairs Guy into an open mouth-insert shotgun mode.
"Under the Influence" by D12
Lyrics like "you can suck my dick if you don't like my shit" pretty much sum up my feelings regarding this situation.
I'm going to come up with some more, since I have approximately 8 days worth of music on my iTunes. I plan to determine experimentally which songs piss him off the most. The other day he started banging in response to Beethoven's Pastoral symphony, for God's sake, so I'm sure there's ample material from numerous genres in my music library to actually drive his scraggly Trey Anastacio-wannabe ass to into an inpatient treatment facility and/or out of the building permanently. Upstairs Guy wrote a bitchy note to the wrong fucking bitch. This means WAR.
My neighbor has clearly never taken yoga. Every time I happen to turn on my stereo, he starts pounding on his floor. At first, I thought he was just dropping heavy objects coincident with my morning Dirrty Dirrty ass rap get-psyched-for-the-day routine. However, over time his floor pounding became louder and more insistent, and I realized this was his way of telling me to turn my music down. In fact, he somehow has managed to make thumping sound downright bitchy. I dislike this passive-aggressive tactic for telling me to shut up, and furthermore, I think that if I have to put up with his neverending jam session, he can tolerate twenty minutes of Young Jeezy on low volume. At one point, we crossed paths while getting our mail, and he said something to me about it. He first gave a half-assed apology for thumping, but then immediately disqualified any sort of contrition by saying that because he's up all night composing his shitty music, he needs to sleep in the morning and the faint sounds of a bass line at 9 a.m. bother him. I said, "Well, sorry, but I watch NY1 while I wake up, then I listen to Southern rap while I'm getting dressed. It's part of my morning routine. I'll try to keep the volume down." He was not pleased, as clearly he expected me to be like, "Oh, so sorry, I will immediately amend my life to accomodate your vampiric music composing schedule and need for subsequent sleep during the day." I was annoyed with him, but resolved to continue living my life the way I have. I pay rent to live here, too, so kiss my fine voluptuous ass, hippie. I'm diurnal, and it's not my problem that you work the graveyard shift at home.
A few months ago, he started pounding at 7 p.m. on a Saturday. I was listening to Destiny's Child (and NOT ashamed of that) and puttering around the apartment, and this motherfucker starts stomping at me. I ignored it, but turned off the music and took the dogs out for their evening constitutional. He was coming down the stairs as the boys and I waited for the elevator, and decided to mention to me that sometimes my music makes it hard for him to work. He was like, "Yeah, it's just hard to think about the music I'm writing when all I hear is your music." Why is that my problem? If you need a soundproof environment, go to a fucking recording studio or something. Besides, being that MANY of our other neighbors are blasting rap, reggaeton, and/or R&B music on the regular, I'm hardly the only person listening to audible music that interferes with crafting perfect horrible hippie jazz. This guy is acting like a damn Smith girl, thinking that because he and his job are so fucking important, everyone around him should alter their lifestyles to accommodate his preferences. Additionally, I was pissed because he wouldn't just man up and clearly state his intent (turn down the fucking "Say My Name" and "Bugaboo"), choosing to instead imply that I should give a shit about how he doesn't like my music and act accordingly. I was annoyed because he was trying to be a manipulative pussy instead of stating his objective, so I just said, "Okay, whatever. Later." Then I took the dogs out and dismissed him.
Yesterday, he upped his passive-aggressive tactics to a new level by slipping a note under my door, while I was fucking asleep and thus not making any noise at all. The note irritated the shit out of me, partly because it was so bitchy and partly because he's a grown man (at least 10 years older than me) and he hasn't yet realized that "a lot" is two words:
I'm sorry to be so rude, from 6E. Better to just say something after all this time, than keep getting mad and banging on the floor.
I get woken up by a door slamming, something heavy hitting the floor, or both too many mornings (7:00-7:30). It's almost predictable.
These apartments have no sound proofing, sound carries alot. Whatever it is rattles my dishes, shakes the floor, wakes me. I need as much sleep as I can get these days working so much. I appreciate you being a good neighbor, which you are--maybe you're not aware of it. It's not easy for all these people crammed into these cubicles like sardines.
I know you've really made an effort with your music and it's much appreciated.
Again--sorry to get so pissed off. When I'm woke, when I have to work all day--it's tough. I don't hardly hear you except early morning.
Anyway--there it is. Healthier to say something than to let it go on. Please let me know if there's anything I do that bothers you. I really try to be quiet knowing these floors are like amplifiers. Thanks Again!
I have no idea what "slamming" sound he is talking about since at 7:00-7:30, I am usually either just waking up or still hitting the snooze button on my alarm clock. I suspect it may be one of my neighbors, either the chick who lives next door to me and always arrives home around this time (and slams her door), or the elderly woman on the other side who gets up at the ass crack of dawn to either fight with her man in loud Spanish or clean/rearrange her apartment with the door open in her underwear. Furthermore, I don't give a rat's ass about the quality of sleep he is getting. Therefore, today I slipped this note under the fucker's door:
Dear 6E,
I received your note and was mystified as to what sound you are talking about, as I am typically still in a state of semi-consciousness and in bed at the times you mentioned. As you astutely pointed out, these apartments are not soundproof, and it's quite possible you are hearing one of my or your neighbors making this slamming/banging noise. While I have tried to keep my music at an appropriate volume early in the morning or late at night, you rarely show me the same consideration. I frequently hear your music at all hours of the day, as well as what often sounds like moving furniture around in your apartment. I would complain, but I remind myself that this is New York City, and there is a certain amount of ambient noise inherent in living here, especially in a cheap-ass apartment building like this one. I hear my other neighbors going about their daily lives as well, and it would be foolish and inconsiderate to ask everyone around me to treat their apartments as if they were libraries and be silent to accommodate my schedule. I also work hard, and also am sometimes woken up by you and my other neighbors listening to music, slamming doors, speaking loudly, or generally making noise. I cope with this. I suggest you do the same.
Sincerely,
5E
P.S. Foam earplugs cost less than $5. You may wish to invest in a pair, as they are a more cost-effective means of accomplishing your need for undisturbed sleep than demanding that your neighbors change their lifestyles to accommodate yours.
He has yet to respond, but I've now realized that I am pissed to the point of not getting over it. I want to go up there and yell at him, but that would accomplish nothing except making me look like a fucking lunatic. Therefore, I decided to let him know exactly how concerned I was about my music, and any other noise I make, bothering him so he can get his beauty sleep (except by "beauty" I mean "ugly"; the man is a troll). I made an iTunes playlist dedicated to pissing him off.
All the music I listen to is what Vh1 would categorize as "awesomely bad." I like rap music, but not the preachy, serious stuff, like Mos Def or Talib Kweli or Common. I like rap with good beats and hilarious lyrics concerning the ins and outs of financial success at the trap, overspending at "designer malls," getting in some overweight ho's guts, customizing cars to look like crayons, opening the trunk to retrieve your Mac-10, keeping at least 6 women up in the bed, slizzin on the sizzurp/Hp-n-Hennessey/Goose, etc. Similarly, I like R&B that elicits more chuckles than the desire to make sweet love (ie: lyrics implying that "I'm butt naked in sweat socks and house shoes" is a viable seduction line), a genre mastered by the incomparable R-uh in R&B, my man Robert Sylvester Kelly. I also like some reggae, but not "Three Little Birds" or that sort of thing. I like to hear Vybz Kartel exhorting a woman to "tek buddy" (penis) because he bought her a gold-plated doorknob and paid her U.S. entry visa fee, or cautioning the young schoolgirls of Kingston to protect their virtue until they get to an an age where slutting it up in the dancehall is appropriate ("don't take feel up inna the school bus.") As far as rock goes, I'm WAY more into the Tolkien-inspired ragings of Ronnie James Dio, the soaring synthesizer riffs of Journey, and the thrashing speed guitars of "Master of Puppets"-era Metallica than John Mayer or James Blunt or whatever folksy therapy journal crap by slim penised men people listen to these days and call "rock" music. With the exception of my Chopin and Liszt fetishes, I seem to favor music that most other people find funny, ridiculous, cheesy, or just plain bad. Since everyone is entitled to their own likes and dislikes, I really don't give a fuck. My upstairs neighbor doesn't like my music, and I don't like his, so we're even. However, if he thinks that I'm going to succumb to his demands that I favor his music or need to exist comfortably over mine, in the words of Judas Priest, he's got another thing comin'.
Therefore, I decided to make a playlist on my iTunes dedicated to pissing off my neighbor. It's called the "Fuck You, Upstairs Guy" playlist. Not only do I resent his attitude that his music is a more worthy form of noise pollution than mine, I intend to let him know PRECISELY how much I care about his ability to play his shitty organ in peace. I chose the songs on this list because they represent all the kinds of music I listen to in addition to fitting several important criteria:
1. Bass, and plenty of it, ensuring that the music thunders up the walls, to counteract his floor pounding.
2. Ridiculous and/or brazenly offensive lyrics intended to distract him from whatever deep thoughts he's having about his music.
3. Incorporation of shouting, castigation, and/or screaming, to convey my frustration at his sense of entitlement to a silent apartment building in which he's the only person allowed to make noise.
4. (optional) Most people in the world except me hate the song.
Here are the songs, many of which have been featured on a Vh1 countdown about ridiculous or sucky stuff.
"I Smoke, I Drank" by Body Head Bangerz and the YoungBloodz
Upstairs guy HATES this song. Every time I turn it on, he almost immediately starts pounding. I'd advise him to follow the lyrics of this song and relax by keeping a stack-a that funny smellin' tobacca (which would certainly be consistent with his hippie leanings) and calm his nerves by getting head in the 'Burb consequent to being a fool with dem womens, but since the BHB'z and YB'z say it so much more eloquently than myself I'll defer to their masterful means of persuasion. Besides, lyrics like "I smoke, I drank, I'm supposed to stop but I can't, I'm a dog, I love hoes, and I'm addicted to money, cars, and clothes" pretty much sum up my general attitude about life. Well, except for the cars part...my money addiction has been relatively unfed as of late, thus standing in the way of my ability to satiate my need for tricked-out Lambos.
"Bills, Bills, Bills" by Destiny's Child
This song is a little off-topic, as it features Beyonce et al breaking it down to a loser boyfriend for being a broke parasite, but I like the chorus which calls him "a trifling, good-for-nothin' type of brother." That's exactly how I feel up Upstairs Guy, despite the fact that he's never been maxing out my credit card to go on shopping sprees at the mall, "perpetratin' to his friends that he be ballin'" (I can do that all on my own).
"Rock You Like a Hurricane" by the Scorpions
Because that's what Klaus Meine and his cohort of Teutonic rockers are going to do to Upstairs Guy.
"Stomp" by Young Buck, The Game, and Ludacris
This song says "Keep talkin' and you 'bout to get that ass stomped." Since Upstairs Guy is always stomping on the floor, this is my way of stomping back.
"Why We Thugs" by Ice Cube
Upstairs Guy has a particular hatred for O'Shea Jackson's classic album The Predator, and this is his new jam. Despite Cube's recent forays into mainstream kid-friendly cinema (Are We There Yet? I hope they paid him well for that.), this song's beat is guaranteed to drive Upstairs Guy crazy, and lyrics like "stop trippin' on it" and "when niggaz get tribal, it's all about survival, nobody liable." I want him to know that I will absolutely get tribal on his ass.
"Tek Buddy" by Vybz Kartel
In addition to saying things like "fuck me like Matrix inna 3-D, for the TV, DVD", Vybz is always shouting "bi-a-bi", which, if you're not into ridiculous dancehall reggae, will drive you fucking insane. I also laugh every time I hear the unforgettable lyric "I even pay your visa fee, so grab me cocky and sing on it like Alicia Keys."
"The Final Countdown" by Europe
It's sort of embarrassing that I have this mp3, because songs combining brain-melting synth riffs with lyrics about travelling through space to Venus are a bit much even for me. However, since this may be the most annoying song ever written, I have no doubt that it will stick in Upstairs Guy's craw.
"Turn Me On" by Kevin Lyttle and Madzart
As long as we're on the topic of annoying songs, this pop reggae masterpiece may be in a different genre, but it's absolutely in Europe's league. Between Kevin Lyttle's Caribbean-tinged I-just-sucked-helium falsetto and Madzart's (note: that's Madzart--not to be confused with a certain Wolfgang Amadeus) unintelligible dancehall rapping, "Turn Me On" is one of those songs where you can't decide if you should bust out your best dutty wine or pour gasoline on yourself and strike a match. With Upstairs Guy, it's likely to be the latter.
"I Like Dem Girlz" by Tyrese
I figured I may as well go for the irritating song trifecta. I like cheesy, ridiculous R&B, but "I Like Dem Girlz" by Guess model/singer/actor Tyrese is right at the edge of my tolerance envelope. Not even silly lyrical content about Tyrese's preference for gold-digging whores and/or rap video vixens ("I like dem girlz between the sheets, I like dem girlz iced up like me, I like dem girlz in the fly Gucci, rolling deep in the 6, Cartier on the wrist") makes me willingly listen to this song. However, if it bugs me this much, it will definitely send Upstairs Guy into an open mouth-insert shotgun mode.
"Under the Influence" by D12
Lyrics like "you can suck my dick if you don't like my shit" pretty much sum up my feelings regarding this situation.
I'm going to come up with some more, since I have approximately 8 days worth of music on my iTunes. I plan to determine experimentally which songs piss him off the most. The other day he started banging in response to Beethoven's Pastoral symphony, for God's sake, so I'm sure there's ample material from numerous genres in my music library to actually drive his scraggly Trey Anastacio-wannabe ass to into an inpatient treatment facility and/or out of the building permanently. Upstairs Guy wrote a bitchy note to the wrong fucking bitch. This means WAR.
Labels: comeuppance, Harlem world, ranting, retard rage, vengeance is sweet
Thursday, January 04, 2007
Tenement sweet tenement
Well, I'm back in New York, and the trip getting here was a little grueling. Chingy! acted up in an unprecendented manner once we got to JFK, but since I now have to go to work and spend a wild and crazy day remembering what the hell it is I do in lab and separating about 9,000 cages of mice, I'll have to wait until this evening before I can relate that story here.
In the meantime, I'll just mention that there was no doubt in my mind I wasn't in the P-N-Dub anymore when my elderly Puerto Rican neighbor Rosa woke me up at six this morning reading the riot act en espanol to her common-law husband. After two peaceful weeks in the P-N-Dub, where the most disruptive sound is that of my insomniac father lumbering around the house late at night, I had completely forgotten how noisy life is here in New Jack City. It appears I have some ghetto reacclimatization to do.
On the bright side, all the mouse poison I'd baited my apartment with before leaving seems to have been eagerly devoured by my rodent roommates, and my kitchen counter and oven top was surprisingly devoid of mouse shit. I may have actually succeeded in exterminating all those motherfuckers over the holidays. No hantavirus for me this year!
In the meantime, I'll just mention that there was no doubt in my mind I wasn't in the P-N-Dub anymore when my elderly Puerto Rican neighbor Rosa woke me up at six this morning reading the riot act en espanol to her common-law husband. After two peaceful weeks in the P-N-Dub, where the most disruptive sound is that of my insomniac father lumbering around the house late at night, I had completely forgotten how noisy life is here in New Jack City. It appears I have some ghetto reacclimatization to do.
On the bright side, all the mouse poison I'd baited my apartment with before leaving seems to have been eagerly devoured by my rodent roommates, and my kitchen counter and oven top was surprisingly devoid of mouse shit. I may have actually succeeded in exterminating all those motherfuckers over the holidays. No hantavirus for me this year!
Labels: Harlem world, NYC
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Running in Harlem is fun
Hopefully you'll all excuse my radio silence over the past couple days. I was taking a break from the internet and existing in a state of sheer post-Thanksgiving gluttony. I was going to write a blog entry about the fabulous holiday dinner I made, but then realized that most people who read this aren't looking for domestic tips, like how to weave a gorgeous lattice crust on an apple pie or how to formulate the perfect turkey brine. Since FalloniusMonk has been blogging in my stead, as well as stirring up lots of comment page controversy with her aggressive pro-smoking stance, I decided to instead do a lot of nothing.
Since my guests left in the wee morning hours on Friday, I have been reclining on my couch, watching yesterday's marathon of "Engineering an Empire" on the History Channel, and eating a disgusting amount of leftovers. Thank God I don't have a scale at my house, because I'm pretty sure that I've gained a solid ten pounds in turkey, gravy, stuffing, and pie. I've basically been lounging about in my darkened lair, slowly turning into Jabba the Hutt, except without the army of grunting pig soldiers, cool band of oboists, or a button I can use to feed tentacle-headed strippers to a large, Chingy!-esque monster at my whim. Man, that would be awesome.
As awesome as the perks of Hutt life would be, however, I'm not trying to rock Jabba's figure. Therefore, I got off my now-even-rounder ass, clipped my pedometer to my jogging pants, and went for a run around the hood. I ran an extra mile just to make sure to burn off the holiday poundage. Besides, the weather was gorgeous and I didn't mind being out and about, and it was just as well, because people said some funny shit to me.
I was running toward Lenox Ave, AKA Malcolm X Boulevard, down 127th Street past a row of brownstones. A very, very large woman wearing an Akademks shirt that could double as a sail for an America's Cup racing skiff was sitting on the stoop of one of these houses with her equally obese friend. As I ran by, this woman turned to her friend and said, very loudly, "See, I told you white people are crazy. They runnin' even when nobody's chasing 'em."
I snorted with laughter as I ran by. Shortly after, a fat man smoking a Black and Mild outside the Frederick Douglass Houses (one of the New York City Housing Authority's local developments AKA the 'jects) noticed me running by and asked, "Hey ma, you need a personal trainer?" I looked him over as I trotted past and asked, "What personal trainer? You??" He grinned. "Thanks, I think I'm doing fine on my own," I said and ran off, him protesting in my wake that he would "train me good."
I fucking love my neighborhood. Harlem world!
Since my guests left in the wee morning hours on Friday, I have been reclining on my couch, watching yesterday's marathon of "Engineering an Empire" on the History Channel, and eating a disgusting amount of leftovers. Thank God I don't have a scale at my house, because I'm pretty sure that I've gained a solid ten pounds in turkey, gravy, stuffing, and pie. I've basically been lounging about in my darkened lair, slowly turning into Jabba the Hutt, except without the army of grunting pig soldiers, cool band of oboists, or a button I can use to feed tentacle-headed strippers to a large, Chingy!-esque monster at my whim. Man, that would be awesome.
As awesome as the perks of Hutt life would be, however, I'm not trying to rock Jabba's figure. Therefore, I got off my now-even-rounder ass, clipped my pedometer to my jogging pants, and went for a run around the hood. I ran an extra mile just to make sure to burn off the holiday poundage. Besides, the weather was gorgeous and I didn't mind being out and about, and it was just as well, because people said some funny shit to me.
I was running toward Lenox Ave, AKA Malcolm X Boulevard, down 127th Street past a row of brownstones. A very, very large woman wearing an Akademks shirt that could double as a sail for an America's Cup racing skiff was sitting on the stoop of one of these houses with her equally obese friend. As I ran by, this woman turned to her friend and said, very loudly, "See, I told you white people are crazy. They runnin' even when nobody's chasing 'em."
I snorted with laughter as I ran by. Shortly after, a fat man smoking a Black and Mild outside the Frederick Douglass Houses (one of the New York City Housing Authority's local developments AKA the 'jects) noticed me running by and asked, "Hey ma, you need a personal trainer?" I looked him over as I trotted past and asked, "What personal trainer? You??" He grinned. "Thanks, I think I'm doing fine on my own," I said and ran off, him protesting in my wake that he would "train me good."
I fucking love my neighborhood. Harlem world!
Labels: exercise drama, gluttony, Harlem world, NYC
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