Browsing PBH By Articles

Hurry up and kill yourself! For +10 EMO Points!

Good Reads

Shameless plug for another site, but it has to be done (so join!!):

Checkout my reading list on Goodreads – where you can see what your friends are reading.

http://www.goodreads.com/

Aww… How cute!

We woke up to a few inches of the white stuff this morning… as the precip ended, the cleanup crews started to scour the neighborhood for a walk and driveway they could shovel for a few bucks.

I did our cleanup (we own a snowblower), but we have our own crew of workmen working on our garage today.

As usual, my racist dog growled at the black men shoveling for a buck, while she licked the hands of the white repairmen at our door. While we’re not a perfect family, we have managed to train the dog well!

A Case of Mistaken Identity

In light of Facebook disabling my account for using an alias, I had to switch my account to my real name — Alec Baldwin! This has meant new “who are you” messages, but in a recent development, one of the odder messages I’ve ever received:

Um, if you’re thee A.B., then I have something to say: As a Lobbyist for a conservative thinktank in Washington, DC, your personal passion for all things unpatriotic and unAmerican is the biggest turnoff to me…and I want to dislike you…BUT…you are such a talented actor…not to mention a very, VERY sexy man…that I cannot help but hate to love you. Thank you for making my Thursday nights on 30 Rock, baby. Please, just stop the political rants–as ignorance is not your best feature–however, your eyes, hair, smile and quick witted banter are….just abosolutely sublime.

So, may I be your token conservative friend?

If this is not thee A.B.– get a life and claim it as your own. There’s simply no need to pretend you are a misguided liberal with brilliant, comedic timing.

The self-described uber-conservative and culture-warrior turned actor-stalker is Julie Neff, a Liberty University graduate and a lobbyist for CWA (Concerned Women for America). The CWA is an organization that helps “people focus on six core issues, which we have determined need Biblical principles most and where we can have the greatest impact. At its root, each of these issues is a battle over worldviews.” Biblical inspiration, of course, amounts to preventing homosexuals from having civil rights, making sure abortions are only available to minorities and infidels, and encoding all of their video samples into an unheard of and unplayable Windows Media format. Oh, and also railing against network broadcast shows for talking about getting laid and other perverted things that baby Jesus doesn’t approve of and forewarning girls about the ‘transformation zone’, aka the vagina (what the fuck is a transformation zone??).

The point is that the internet is weird and is now being populated with Christians, even though the Bible strictly forbids science, technology, and other forms of wizardry. With that being said, get your heathen ass over to facebook and add me as a friend:

The Short, Drunken Life of Club Row

The Article: An excellent article in New York magazine by Isaiah Wilner detailing the rise and fall of 27th Street.

Choice bits (since the article is long, read it at the New Yorker website):

Nightclubs were big business now. If you carried a black AmEx card, you could count on getting in, somewhere. “Bottle service—it was a killer,” one club worker recalls. “Because now you didn’t have to look right to get in. The owners didn’t care about the quality of the crowd. The bottom line was the money. It was, Sell those tables, sell those tables, up-sell, magnums, bottle minimums. And you now had—forgive me for saying it—every undesirable seated in a nightclub.”

The same summer, B.E.D., which had opened in January on the sixth floor, debuted its rooftop lounge. “That’s when all the bridge-and-tunnel guys came in,” a 27th Street veteran recalls. “These are the guys who brought the Jersey girls and the short shorts. They mobbed the whole street. And then, when you walked to Bungalow, you saw seven trashy blonde chicks standing outside begging to be let in, and guess what? It takes away from the atmosphere.”

By the summer of 2006, the street crawled with people—forcing the police to barricade both ends. Masses of visored men in bright T-shirts stumbled through, smoking joints, carrying plastic cups, urinating on the walls. Thin girls toddled out in spike heels. It was a boozy Cancún North. People threw up in front of buildings and on their clothes; turned away at the door, they spat at the doormen. “We’d find people passed out in the bathroom,” recalls a former employee of B.E.D. “You would think it was a dead body. Passed out, like scary passed out, like smack them, pick them up, they’re like Jell-O, like someone took their spine out. And on the street. You would literally see people face down in the gutter.”

And the keeper:

“It’s not about who you know, it’s how you carry yourself,” says one visibly excited man, tonguing his teeth and working his jaw as he strides with his friend toward the bar in back. “I’m the guy that walked in, said ‘hi,’ paid for my drinks, did my blow in the bathroom, and came out smiling. They respect me for it.”

The importance: Not much frankly, except for the lesson of keeping people from New Jersey out of your club if you want it not to be a cesspool of disgusting human beings.