Pondering Veganism

Politics aside, being a militant vegan is awfully boring. It's like playing z-pong, when the rest of the world is playing PS3. No. Wait. That's a terrible analogy. You spend the majority of your life justifying your lifestyle, sitting on your stoop in Williamsburg inhaling toxic nicotine and tobacco. The alternative is eating at a vegan-friendly restaurant for what seems to be eternity, because the only thing waiting for you outside of the restaurant is that uncomfortable stoop. You're so strict and intent on this political statement that you can't even go to the local pub, like Clem's, to enjoy a pint with your friends and other hiptsers. You are destined to spend the prime of your life on that god damned stoop. Give me jail because I don't think I could handle militant veganism.

King's County

You do not need a passport to visit Williamsburg, a hipster enclave of Brooklyn, but be sure to dress appropriately. For girls, that means: skinny jeans, bangs, and an ill-fitted (read, baggy) top. For extremely skinny boys, that requires: at least one sleeve of tattoos, skinny jeans, Chuck Taylors Converse, a beard, and thick glasses that would make Woody Allen envious. When drinking at a bar, a woman thumbs her nose at cosmos and gulps a whiskey or gin drink. The hipster boy spends $4 for a Pabst Blue Ribbon. What did I order? Brooklyn Lager. I believe they call that "hipster fail."

Woody Allen

It's just one of those things. They're almost synonymous, Woody Allen and NYC. I've taken a liking to his work and I suppose that cements my stature as a New Yorker. What's next? Walking behind my Teacup Yorkie, named Periwinkle (like the color), with a plastic bag in hand begging to pick up a steaming, heaping, massive pile of feces?

Do yourself a favor and read Without Feathers. Much like the author, it's short, peculiar, witty, sarcastic, and humorous.

Gemma & Rufus

[Scene opens at Gemma, a restaurant in between NoHo and the East Village, with the sun setting and Rufus meeting friends for cocktails]

Friend: It's so great to see you, Little Pizza!
S.A.: I know. It's been too long. How have you been?
Friend: Oh, I'm grea... Oh, this is Kristin, Erin, you know Rod...[as she continues to introduce me to friends and colleagues in the medical profession]...This is Little Pizza.

[Time lapses, and strangers approach me curious to know the origins of my name]
I simply point to her and say she just started calling me Little Pizza, it doesn't really bother me.

Erin: I don't get it but that's alright. I'd rather call you by your real name. What is it?
S.A.: It's Chip Douglas. Honestly you could call me anything. By the time I have my fill of Peronis, I'll probably be responding to Rufus.

[Erin introduces me to Kristin (again)]
Erin: Kristin, this is Little Pizza. His real name is Chip Douglas, but he said we can call him Rufus.
Kristin: Rufus? Why would I call him Rufus?
S.A.: It's really not a problem. You can call me whatever you want. It's really not going to matter. No offense, but hopefully I never have to see any of you people again.
Kristin: Well, that's not very nice.

It probably wasn't a nice thing to say, but as a male I hope to never have to see anyone who considers urologic oncology a profession at their place of business.

Test Results

Dear Ex-Lover(s),
Despite the results of the test, I still hate you. Am I positive? Yes, I'm sure you still make my blood boil, but in an unscripted twist of fate I'm negative. Wait. Positive and negative? It's impossible. I'm positive; I'm negative. You may now exhibit a great sigh of relief knowing that you dodged a bullet. At this point you should resume your planning of your ordinary life without me.

Regards,
S.A. [not even a drip]

93% Humidity

With 93% humidity, just stop teasing and wash out this oppressive grid of sidewalks. I guess it could be worse, I guess I could live in Portland, OR, where they've seen record temperatures of 109 degrees. Even worse, I could live in Staten Island or New Jersey.

Shaving Whiskers

Recently the days have been defined by the unending pursuit of justifiable excuses to conveniently not shave my whiskers.