For anyone who has ever looked for roommates or needed a room in New York City, a mention of Craigslist can cause a reaction not unlike that of a Vietnam vet hearing a car backfire. Anyone who has had completely painless experiences with Craigslist are either lying, insane, or a reincarnation of Ghandi or Mother Theresa and have enough good karma to last forever.
Some pieces of advice for those searching for either place or person (hopefully no one is searching for “thing”):
1) Make your ad awesome. If people read “$640 pad in willyburg avail 3/1 or asap heat hot water included cozy bedroom with cool roomies” they will respond in kind. If you receive a ton of abbreviated, incoherent e-mails, there is no way to weed anyone out. And you do not want the crazies knowing your real address.
2) Make your response awesome. If someone went to the trouble of putting up a well-crafted (for Cragislist) posting, do not insult them with “sounds awesome can i come 2mrw?” You will not hear back from anyone sane, and you will be homeless.
3) The internet is your friend. If full names are included, do not feel bad about internet-stalking people. Even if their name is not included, you can use e-mail to search in MySpace, Frienster, Facebook, etc. It’s free, it takes five seconds, and it immediately helps you eliminate people who include “Linkin Park” on their favorite bands section.
4) Know the Code. “Cozy” = small. “Safe neighborhood” = You might get shot. “Clinton Hill” = Bed Stuy. “South Park Slope” = 4th Avenue and 23rd Street. “Close to Express Train” = Coney Island. “Fun Roommates” = Coke heads. “Affordable” = Shitty.
5) Do not hold open houses. Regardless of whether you think it will be more convenient, schedule appointments. There is nothing more awkward than having 13 people in your apartment who, unless they impress you, will be without a home in 3 weeks. As they leave they will vigorously shake your hand, saying THANK YOU I JUST WANT TO LET YOU KNOW I LOVE THIS PLACE AND AM READY TO TAKE IT TOMORROW. Scary.
6) Don’t choose/move in with roommates you’re sexually attracted to. You are asking for trouble.
This is merely the tip of the iceberg, but with common sense, gumption, and a little luck, you too can use Craigslist to help you live with strangers who hopefully will not harbor fugitives in your living room.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Friday, February 23, 2007
A Little Piece of Hipster Heaven: French Kicks play Union Hall
Union Hall. Bocce. Beer. Books. Bands. And lots and lots of hipsters.
What a perfect evening. Firstly, trekking 25 minutes in sub-zero temperatures is a joy. I can't feel my legs when I get there, but that's usually what alcohol's for, so tonight I'm just being more efficient. Besides, the large plate of pasta I've just eaten has pretty much guaranteed that no amount of beer will get me drunk. I resign myself to an evening of sober entertainment, surrounded by drunk morons. I am not disappointed.
The space at Union Hall is tiny. It's pretty much like seeing a band in someone's basement, because it is a basement and the decor is reminiscent of your creepy uncle's house, only you know, in an ironic way. My friend and I get downstairs before the big rush, and manage to claim a piece of real estate front and center, which, once people start pouring in, becomes smaller and smaller and closer and closer to the monitors. Add to this the fact that the stage is about .5 inches off the floor, and we are practically part of the act, for better or worse.
It's time. Opening band. A scary moment. Knowing you may be subjected to an entire 45 minutes of horrid, derivative crap. But lo and behold, the band is actually good. Very good, in fact. White Rabbits is their name and you should check them out if you know what's good for you. Their set ends and at this point my lower back hurts and I realize I am an old woman. Also, welcome to the sweet sensation of permanent hearing loss.
Despite this and the fact that I've had to bundle my 17 layers of clothing and essentially stand on them, things are going well. Then the crowd becomes denser and I begin to realize there is a trifecta of evil surrounding us. To our left: obligatory awkward sexually confused trio. It is clear immediately they will be dancers. Combined, their body mass probably quadruples that of mine and my friend's. This is a bad sign.
Bad sign #2: Another trio behind us. "omigod! look at this picture! I took it yesterday!!!" screeches a voice. A girl is walking her friends through all the photos on her camera phone. Scintillating, I'm sure. Her friends nod enthusiastically as she continues in the loudest voice I've ever heard. When you remember that I have already suffered a great deal of hearing loss, you will understand the magnitude of this situation.
The worst is yet to come. To my right is a duo. Breasts hanging out. Tacky, synthetic tops, purchased for "going out". Bad hair. Dark brown lipstick. The works. And we have another loud talker. Ok, maybe she isn't so much loud as speaking at an octave that manages to cut through the music they're piping through the sound system and go directly into my brain. I cannot figure what they are doing here besides trying to ruin my night.
As I am about to punch someone (I can't decide who is more annoying, the loud talker behind me or the total trian wrecks to my right), the French Kicks come on stage. The lead singer is 8 feet tall. I am not kidding. Dude is fucking huge. And he is standing directly in front of me. My face is essentially navel-height. He towers. I am slightly frightened. We make eye contact once and it's so awkward because of our physical proximity that he looks out over the crowd and never down at us in the front ever again. It is really hot down there. They play some awesome songs. 11:30 curfew rolls around (what? curfew? really? not cool, Union Hall) and they have to stop playing, anticlimactically. The big girl from our left grabs the set list that is directly in front of me, so I lean over and grab the one at the side of the stage. Yes! Set list!
After squeezing past the now insane crowd of more and more hipsters upstairs (cute boys! they are wearing glasses! their hair is mussed!) we go outside and immediately realize it is now not only sub-zero, it's fucking windy and oh yeah, it's really annoying catching a cab in Brooklyn. Somehow I manage it and here I am. I think I'm listening to music on my computer, but I'm not sure. I don't remember Beethoven sounding so much like a high-pitched whine...
What a perfect evening. Firstly, trekking 25 minutes in sub-zero temperatures is a joy. I can't feel my legs when I get there, but that's usually what alcohol's for, so tonight I'm just being more efficient. Besides, the large plate of pasta I've just eaten has pretty much guaranteed that no amount of beer will get me drunk. I resign myself to an evening of sober entertainment, surrounded by drunk morons. I am not disappointed.
The space at Union Hall is tiny. It's pretty much like seeing a band in someone's basement, because it is a basement and the decor is reminiscent of your creepy uncle's house, only you know, in an ironic way. My friend and I get downstairs before the big rush, and manage to claim a piece of real estate front and center, which, once people start pouring in, becomes smaller and smaller and closer and closer to the monitors. Add to this the fact that the stage is about .5 inches off the floor, and we are practically part of the act, for better or worse.
It's time. Opening band. A scary moment. Knowing you may be subjected to an entire 45 minutes of horrid, derivative crap. But lo and behold, the band is actually good. Very good, in fact. White Rabbits is their name and you should check them out if you know what's good for you. Their set ends and at this point my lower back hurts and I realize I am an old woman. Also, welcome to the sweet sensation of permanent hearing loss.
Despite this and the fact that I've had to bundle my 17 layers of clothing and essentially stand on them, things are going well. Then the crowd becomes denser and I begin to realize there is a trifecta of evil surrounding us. To our left: obligatory awkward sexually confused trio. It is clear immediately they will be dancers. Combined, their body mass probably quadruples that of mine and my friend's. This is a bad sign.
Bad sign #2: Another trio behind us. "omigod! look at this picture! I took it yesterday!!!" screeches a voice. A girl is walking her friends through all the photos on her camera phone. Scintillating, I'm sure. Her friends nod enthusiastically as she continues in the loudest voice I've ever heard. When you remember that I have already suffered a great deal of hearing loss, you will understand the magnitude of this situation.
The worst is yet to come. To my right is a duo. Breasts hanging out. Tacky, synthetic tops, purchased for "going out". Bad hair. Dark brown lipstick. The works. And we have another loud talker. Ok, maybe she isn't so much loud as speaking at an octave that manages to cut through the music they're piping through the sound system and go directly into my brain. I cannot figure what they are doing here besides trying to ruin my night.
As I am about to punch someone (I can't decide who is more annoying, the loud talker behind me or the total trian wrecks to my right), the French Kicks come on stage. The lead singer is 8 feet tall. I am not kidding. Dude is fucking huge. And he is standing directly in front of me. My face is essentially navel-height. He towers. I am slightly frightened. We make eye contact once and it's so awkward because of our physical proximity that he looks out over the crowd and never down at us in the front ever again. It is really hot down there. They play some awesome songs. 11:30 curfew rolls around (what? curfew? really? not cool, Union Hall) and they have to stop playing, anticlimactically. The big girl from our left grabs the set list that is directly in front of me, so I lean over and grab the one at the side of the stage. Yes! Set list!
After squeezing past the now insane crowd of more and more hipsters upstairs (cute boys! they are wearing glasses! their hair is mussed!) we go outside and immediately realize it is now not only sub-zero, it's fucking windy and oh yeah, it's really annoying catching a cab in Brooklyn. Somehow I manage it and here I am. I think I'm listening to music on my computer, but I'm not sure. I don't remember Beethoven sounding so much like a high-pitched whine...
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Maria Sharipova Not Only Woman on Tennis Tour
WIMBLEDON, ENGLAND, Feb. 21 – In a shocking announcement today, the All England Club has revealed that it will now pay women the same amount as men in Wimbledon prize money. This came as a surprise to much of the casual tennis-watching populous, as most Americans believed Maria Sharipova to be the only player on the Women’s tour. “She’s in them ‘Power Shot’ commercials,” commented one man from Texas. “I’d like to give her a ‘Power Shot.’ Heh heh heh.” President Bush then glanced around to see whether the First Lady had heard him, and hurried away from the baffled reporters gathered on the White House lawn, who had been expecting an update on Operation Shitstorm in Iraq.
Rumor has it some of the officials who made the decision felt physically intimidated by the mere presence of Amelie Mauresmo, who at some angles is nearly indistinguishable from the longer-haired pretty boys on tour. “The difference between the men and women on the tour is negligible at this point,” said one high-ranking official. “If it weren’t for the skirts, I would have no idea who I was watching half the time.”
Despite widespread apathy, it is a surprising decision for the tradition-steeped Club, where at one time tennis players not only had to wear white, but they had to be white. “Arthur Ashe was one thing,” said an anonymous staffer, “but women making the same amount of prize money as men? That’s just ridiculous.”
“It just doesn't seem right to us that the lady players could play in three events and could take away significantly more than the men's champion who battles away through these best-of-five matches,'' club chairman Tim Phillips said last year. ''We don't see it as an equal rights issue.'' However, when Serena Williams, who had been in attendance at the press conference screamed, “Who are you calling a lady??” and smashed her racket over her own head like a piece of balsa wood, Philips said, shaking, “I mean, we will pay you as much as the men. It’s clearly the right thing to do.”
Rumor has it some of the officials who made the decision felt physically intimidated by the mere presence of Amelie Mauresmo, who at some angles is nearly indistinguishable from the longer-haired pretty boys on tour. “The difference between the men and women on the tour is negligible at this point,” said one high-ranking official. “If it weren’t for the skirts, I would have no idea who I was watching half the time.”
Despite widespread apathy, it is a surprising decision for the tradition-steeped Club, where at one time tennis players not only had to wear white, but they had to be white. “Arthur Ashe was one thing,” said an anonymous staffer, “but women making the same amount of prize money as men? That’s just ridiculous.”
“It just doesn't seem right to us that the lady players could play in three events and could take away significantly more than the men's champion who battles away through these best-of-five matches,'' club chairman Tim Phillips said last year. ''We don't see it as an equal rights issue.'' However, when Serena Williams, who had been in attendance at the press conference screamed, “Who are you calling a lady??” and smashed her racket over her own head like a piece of balsa wood, Philips said, shaking, “I mean, we will pay you as much as the men. It’s clearly the right thing to do.”
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Movie Reviews: Sight Unseen
Helping you wade through the stinking pile of shit that is popular film.
Bridge to Terabithia
A heartwarming tale of two youngsters who go on the adventure of a lifetime, fighting dragons and defending the earth from the reign of th—wait, doesn’t she die of cancer in the book?
The Number 23
Another wacky turn from rubberface himself, Jim Carrey. Watch the hilarity ensue as he tries to figure out the mystery behind a violent prophecy revealed through a series of numerical signs and a creepy-ass book he receives from his wi—oh, this isn’t a comedy, is it?
Reno 911: Miami
Dude falls into a dead whale. That shit is funny.
Ghost Rider
Nicholas Cage rides around on a motorcycle seeking revenge on someone or something for turning him into this flaming skeleton ghost…did this movie seriously make $44 million in its first weekend?
Norbit
Eddie Murphy in yet another film that involves him wearing a fat suit. On the upside, no sign of Janet Jackson this time. If you don’t consider this a colossal waste of $10.50, then you almost definitely have some kind of mental deficiency.
Bridge to Terabithia
A heartwarming tale of two youngsters who go on the adventure of a lifetime, fighting dragons and defending the earth from the reign of th—wait, doesn’t she die of cancer in the book?
The Number 23
Another wacky turn from rubberface himself, Jim Carrey. Watch the hilarity ensue as he tries to figure out the mystery behind a violent prophecy revealed through a series of numerical signs and a creepy-ass book he receives from his wi—oh, this isn’t a comedy, is it?
Reno 911: Miami
Dude falls into a dead whale. That shit is funny.
Ghost Rider
Nicholas Cage rides around on a motorcycle seeking revenge on someone or something for turning him into this flaming skeleton ghost…did this movie seriously make $44 million in its first weekend?
Norbit
Eddie Murphy in yet another film that involves him wearing a fat suit. On the upside, no sign of Janet Jackson this time. If you don’t consider this a colossal waste of $10.50, then you almost definitely have some kind of mental deficiency.
Welcome to the Internets
An inexplicable power has drawn you here, like pheromones, or the promise of an open bar. Don't question it. Embrace it. Drink in its sweet ambrosia. Enjoy. You won't remember a thing in the morning.
Fun with Food & Clothing Analogies
“How has frozen yogurt, the leg warmer of food trends, managed to stage such a showy comeback?”
Touché, New York Times.
But who decided frozen yogurt = leg warmers?
How about....
Touché, New York Times.
But who decided frozen yogurt = leg warmers?
How about....
- Carb-free bread: the Uggs of food trends
- Energy drinks endorsed by rappers: the Lucite Shoes of food trends
- Ratatouille: the Espadrilles of food trends
- PB&J sandwich: the Romper of food trends
- A $60 Burger: the Empire (pronounced “aahm-peer") Waist of food trends
- Raw food: the Skinny Jeans of food trends
- Meatloaf: the Overalls of food trends
- Foams: the Velvet Capelet of food trends
Ratatouille...mmm...unpronouncable
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