slackerology
Greg. 27. purveyor of sassy musings.
Kalamazoo, Michigan native living in NYC.
writer. blogger. urban explorer. espresso enthusiast. hiker. wiener dog admirer. red wine drinker. beachgoer. hookah smoker. expressionist. ginger lover. smiler. laugher. happy.
Displaying results for "New York City"
The Pizzeria on Front Street
What is there to possibly say about Front Street Pizza? It has every ounce of charm you’d expect from a Brooklyn pizzeria. Behind the counter, balding Italian American men exemplify the stereotype by tossing around expletives, proclaiming their fierce loyalty to their mothers, and saying things like ‘youse guys.’ There is no line; you order when one of them deems it convenient to beckon his meaty hand at you.
The pizza? There’s nothing inherently special about it, but then again, there’s something about being in the middle of this bustling mayhem that feels very quintessentially New York. This is the scene I sought out. This is what I’ve been looking for. Even in the middle of this chaos, these swift restauranteurs manage to remember the names of regulars, and acknowledge your food with a nod and simple “thanks guy!”
This is what makes me happy.
Missing Murray Hill
I find myself laying in bed. The silence of DUMBO, Brooklyn caving in on me with it’s deafening embrace.
Last month at this time I found myself laying in the same bed, in a room overlooking a neglected back alley in Midtown Manhattan. A neighborhood with all the sterile charm you would expect from that perfectly gridded section of the island. My evenings were spent falling asleep to the hum of traffic on Second Avenue, regularly awakened by the divine reverberation of a semi truck’s jake brake, the blaring horn of an irate cabbie, or a tranny hooker brawl on the street below.
But, DUMBO, man; it’s so quiet here. After nine months of constant noise and chaos, I have no idea how to eek out any semblance of sanity in this disgusting tranquility.
Restless, I jaunt up to the rooftop and look out over the city. I gaze uptown, past the Williamsburg Bridge, toward the site of my former life.
Somewhere, nestled behind all those projects, there is a testosterone-driven Bro-brawl happening outside a tavern on Third Avenue. Somewhere, right there on 28th Street, well-groomed and slightly aged former sorority girls are cussing each other out like back alley hookers. Somewhere, over there, an irritable bum is screaming and throwing chicken bones at passersby who ignore his repeated demands for a ‘dolla.’
Somewhere, under the white glow of the Empire State Building, I imagine myself in a past life, falling asleep to the sound of ripped weaves and faded glory.
I miss Murray Hill.
(OK… no I don’t)
Reassured, and finally tired, I conclude my rooftop venture with a sigh of satisfaction.
“DUMBO…” I mutter to myself, “I think I’m here to stay.”
“And now?
To sleep… to dream… perchance to fart.”
Moonlight Over Gramercy Park
I thrust open the window and slid into an agreeable corner of the couch, gazing at the twinkling lights of Midtown in the distance. The refreshing spring zephyr danced across my face, washing away the stressful chaos that comes with living in New York City. “Life is good,” I thought to myself, completely satisfied.
…and that’s when I farted.
And we’re not just talking any mundane old toot. This was a sound so shrill that even the old and nearly deaf Jewish bubbys on the Upper East Side cocked their heads and raised their painted eyebrows poignantly, as if to say, “Olé to you, good sir. Olé!”
After which, they resumed flogging the hired help.
I have a knack for ruining even the most picturesque of moments.
