p0sitivityxx asked: Please don't EVER insult Karmin publicly like that again. Thanks.
Who are you and what the fuck are you talking about?
Who are you and what the fuck are you talking about?
With all the hullaballoo that comes with the recent arrival of the Wythe Hotel, one in a long line of insufferably trendy hotels at which to see-and-be-seen, I decided to do a little detective work into North Brooklyn’s lesser known (which makes it all the more desireable in some circles, no? [Yes.]) specialty hotels; the first of which you’ve probably passed many times and thought, “Does anyone know what the fuck is going on with this place? I mean, clearly it’s for real, but is it For real for real?” Well guess what dildos. It totally is.
The Bushwick Hotel, located at 171 Bushwick Avenue is most definitely an operating hotel, and one of NYC’s best kept secrets. Everything about it from the faux-stucco exterior, to the promise of “cable TV optional” screams locals-only; and while the management is nothing if not incredibly hard to get a hold of, the charms found behind it’s plastic-lined fencing are multiple.
I was immediately whisked away to a bygone era by the charmingly quaint neon sign which suggests the simple elegance usually only found along the backroads surrounding Houston’s airport terminal. The superficial delights don’t end there, however, as numerous rooms carry this whimsy a step further in details like this:
The cones and bars provide a sort of faux-naïf European club appeal that, while perhaps somewhat over the heads of those midwest cornfed bumpkins who don’t appreciate anything, will certainly succeed in bringing a twinge of nostalgic delight to those of us who have spent anytime in Paris or the gated sections lining the Riviera.
Offering everything you could possibly desire from a hotel, ranging from extended stay reservations for those brave souls who kneel before the great literary figures found in the myriad works of Hemmingway and Steinbeck (who amongst us has not yearned for the freedom of those transient workers following the harvests en route to the the great golden future of Santa Fe?), to very reasonable hourly rates for those looking to take a quick prositute and crank fueled catnap amidst the pleasant aroma of antiseptic, all while wrapped in the very unique plastic sheets. I lay my head upon the pillow (a very reasonable $6 deposit) and suddenly I am transported to a dangerous sexual re-awakening not seen since Bernardo Bertollucci’s Last Tango in Paris.
With regards to amenities, the proprietors consistently - and bravely I might add - lean so far toward the Bauhausian ideals of form follows function, that they have embraced a wholey new mantra of so here’s a form, now go ahead and function. While I was a little disappointed at the lack of a pool and gym (what can I say? I’m a total pilates/lap-swimming nut!), I was pleasantly surprised by the very egalitarian lack of a bathroom, an overwrought convenience if ever there was one, which nowadays serves less as a necessity, and more of a staidly reminder of provincial American totalitarianism. The views, while not spectacular or even existent in many cases, offer real insight into the strange world of a real mom-and-pop artisinal hotel experience and its struggle to exist amongst the Rockefelleresque world of all the Marriots and Hiltons. While the oft regarded know-it-all-bitch Virginia Woolf may have craved the opulence found at The Wythe, those of us with a more refined taste have come to think of a room with a view as more of a cage than an escape. What exactly is it that we hope to find out of these windows? Would we rather experience the world from the safety of what is essentially a fucking hole in the wall? Or would we prefer to dip our toes into life? For me, it is certainly the latter.
The only caveat to be found was when I inquired about the option of a continental breakfast, and was summarily laughed at by the cooler-than-thou front desk hipster/Guatemalan refugee Hernando, in what I can only assume is just one of the inescapable holdouts from the “specialty hotel movement” of recent. (Hernando. Really? Trying a tad too hard there aren’t we?) Okay guy, I get it. I received the same treatment before at The Ace, and, like The Bushwick’s more publicized sister-hotel, The Standard, the rooftop bar here is so exclusive that not only was I consistently not permitted access, but also denied even a confirmation as to its very existence. Ugh… so chic. I suppose there are some elements of gentrification that we simply cannot escape.
Overall, 99 PANTS STARS
Putting on the ritz. More like, putting on the pants… which is what I do every morning at 2pm when I wake up and get ready to start another glorious fucking day in New York city (or as Hitler called it, “Jewish Shark Shitty,” because of his whole thing with Jews and sharks). But nevermind all that horseshit, and get to peepin’ these classic pants specimens I’m wearing in the photos cuz’ they’re as classic as I’ve ever seen them and - wake up America - because I’ve seen them all. That’s how I became editor of a successful Pants blog.
Holy shit, my house looks like it was art directed, the only thing missing is a broken fishtank full of pornography and cigarette butts. As you can see I just bought a boaters hat and did some laundry and, if you look close you’ll notice that I also have my patented “fan pointed at denim” method of drying pants going on in the corner. I’m an incredible human being.
Anyways… obviously if I’m rocking’ some fly ass seersucker pants-gear like this and dancing around like Fred Fucking Astaire, the last thing I want to do is sit around in front of a computer all day looking like a fucking nerd waiting for the middle school down the road to get out so that all the children (who are assholes) can shout at me through my first floor window. Hells no. I want to get out there and scrounge up some weed, some strange pussy, and some ice cold brew doggers and get my brunch on homey. Hey-ooooh!!!! Let the games begin… the hunger games that is… and I’m not talking about the book. I’m talking about the game whereby I venture out very hungrily and seek a decent brunch all while killing motherfuckers with a crossbow just like Katniss because, yeah, I read that shit.
Moving on. I make my way down the road and, lo and behold, first stop on my journey and already something’s afoot…
I am of course referring to the length of this sandwich that I just bought from Subway®, which is commonly 1 foot in length. I’m sorry but even though I wanted to offer you some choice insights into Brooklyn food culture, I got super hungry on the way and the smell of Subway® brand bread is fucking crazy so I was like, “Let’s do this.” To the surprise of absolutely no one, the actual sandwich sucked. You’ve been there. You know.
Moving on again, I was able to make it down the road to Fornino’s, which is a pizza restaurant that is usually pretty good but on this particular afternoon was an absolute misfire in every way, which I would have known had I taken the time to go through these well-informed yelp reviews:
Let me stop you right there Michelle. As a person who has been inside of a restaurant, I can tell you right now that nobody is on your or your terrible children’s side.
But of course you did.
Okay, so these the typical well informed opinions by some very scholarly people that one finds on Yelp. Note how they’re usually based - very reasonably I might add - on some piece of fiction that the patron made up about the staff. Let’s delve a little deeper, and take a look at another restaurant…
You may not know this but I haven’t always been a super wealthy pants blogger and have, on and off, worked in restaurants when down on my luck. What you also may not know is that the “hipster douchebag” she mentions, is actually me. I look back fondly on my time serving good natured food bloggers like this, please let her be our guide into the universe that is being served by me at a restaurant:
I remember when this happened and thinking, well at least there’s another pretty cool dude working here that could possibly be confused with the insecure tattooed asshole (me) who ruined poor Greer’s life and between-gigs-lunch, so I potentially won’t get any shit about this.
Not really though. Because she updated it shortly afterwards so that there wouldn’t be any confusion:
Wow is right. The only fault I can find in her prose is that my arm does not say EVERYONE. Other than that, it is damn near perfect. Here’s how I rate it:
67 PANT STARS FOR MY PANTS
1.233 PANTS STARS FOR SUBWAY AND FORNINO’S
32 PANTS STARS FOR THE SMELL OF SUBWAYS BREAD
154 PANTS STARS FOR GREER AND KEEPIN’ SHIT REAL BETWEEN GIGS
Something very important is happening in our beautiful city right now and, well, I think we all recall the now classic comedy bit, but allow me to paint the picture for you…
The year is 1999, the dawn of the Willenium, and Chris Rock, who’s at the height of superstardom, struts along the stage, bravado pouring from the seams in his patent leather suit, as the crowd settles down from the last joke. The air is thick with the sort of racial/political fervor that one might expect at the apex of a pre-Willenium Chris Rock show as Rock begins what will be remembered by former President Gerald Ford as, “The greatest fucking observation about my bitch wife that I’ve ever, or will ever, witness. Don’t tell former President Bill Clinton this but, I swear, when Rock said that joke that night at the Apollo I felt like I was cumming out of my fucking eyesockets.” Even though I’m sure you know it by heart, here’s the Rock bit paraphrased:
Ya’ll ever notice how bitches be smelling like pizza!? Man, you can’t stop a lady from smelling like a pizza! You know what I’m talkin’ about fellas. You’re all sitting at home. Doing your thing. And everytime… ev-er-y-time… every-mother-fuckin’-time your lady walks through the goddamn door, it’s like, WHERE THE FUCK IS THE PIZZA! Right! Fellas, you know what I’m talkin’ about. I see you looking’ at your girl and saying, ‘You don’t smell like a pizza.’ But I see you ladies! Sitting there. Smiling… You know goddamn well you smell like Sal’s Famous. And what the fuck you ladies doin!? You fuckin’ Radio Rakeem or some shit!? I swear to god, you can’t stop a woman from smelling like a pizza!!!
Former President, and history’s greatest monster, Gerald Ford was right when he said truer words had never been spoken. Anyway, we all know the rest of that classic bit, and of course it’s fun to indulge in enjoyable recollections of past events about olden times when we were all dumb as a fucking brick, but the question remains: why do ladies always come home smelling like a goddamn pizza?
You know how it goes, your lady comes through the door and drops her LuLu Lemon yoga mat next to the atrium, removes her yoga pants and yoga shirt, takes a shower, puts on some non-yoga apparel and then smothers you with blowjobs and, even through the dour musk of Pantene Pro-V, you can’t shake the overwhelming aroma of pizza. And even though you want to smother her with recipricory lady blowjobs, you also really want to know if it would be rude to walk down the road and buy a pizza because her hair makes you crave it.
Guess what motherfuckers. I figured it out. It’s coconut water. But what, you ask like a fucking idiot, is coconut water? Nice question asshole. Way to keep a finger on the pulse or whatever.
You’ve probably heard people talking about it without even knowing. Not surprisingly, the cult of coconut water has developed it’s own array of ‘breeves to better conceal their allegiance to the super shitty drink. Let me fill you in on some of the cocoluminatti’s favorite slang. Does any of this sound familiar:
"I’m riding the coco train to refreshment-town."
"You need a co-ki-wa-wa fix, girl?"
"I’d love to get a beer with you but I just totally hydro’d a coo-coo bird."
"If I do one more downward dog, without getting some of that sweet Hawaiian husk juice into my fucking gullet, I swear…"
"The corner store is my mother and it’s lactating coconut water."
Of course it sounds familiar. You literally (and I mean literally) can’t swing a dead cat without hitting some pizza-smelling’ish lady shouting this crazy shit. You’ve heard it a million times on your daily errands, but never really paid it any mind. Perhaps you assumed that they were talking about a new trend in street art. The sad truth is that this is the high-as-a-fucking-kite type lingo of a culture waist deep in fucking bullshit beverages. All your pizza-smelling-lady-friends can’t get enough of it, especially after a crazy ass yoga-sesh. And when it comes out of their lady-pores, it smells like a fucking pizza. I don’t know why, but I think that this is true.
Beyond that, I think it’s just great marketing.
A great hypothetical sitch I came up with last night. Truly the Russian Roulette of cum vs. major food and pants impediment of our time.
We had a reader submission documenting yet another example of the startling trend sweeping the New York City subway system: real life Baby Geniuses.
This diabolical bastard was last seen on the Manhattan Bound L train wearing hot pink wellingtons, reading the Daily Metro like a fucking psychopath, and the dried residue of human blood covering her rotten teeth.
Here’s a guided tour of the Nick Graham Brooklyn food experience. You may have noticed that I put a website down for the first restaurant but then clearly I was all, fuck that. So if you’re really interested (which I know you can’t possibly be), you have google don’t you? Um… are you sitting at a goddamn computer? Well okay, now that we;ve established that, I need you to go up to that address bar up top there… See it? Yup. That’s it. Now fucking here’s a goddamn life altering tip for your ignorant triflin’ ass: bring up google.com, and type that shit into google. And I know what you’re saying, “Mmmmmeeeh… come on Nick, how about you just include a map or something… blah blah blah.”
Um, how about I’m not your fucking bitch?
Anyways, here we go, buckle your safety harnesses assholes.
Sal’s Pizzeria in Brooklyn
Get the Grandma Pizza
Not a cheap slice but if you’re trying to sit down with some chill bros for an imminent bro hang, this is pretty good. Basically this shit is empirically delicious and anyone who says otherwise is being a contrarian weirdo who probably was never your friend to begin with and if they do that thing where they wine like, ”I’m not going all the way out to Bushwick, blah,” just drop them on the spot. Seriously, toss them from the first tier of your friendship palladium altogether because that’s the dumbest fucking thing I’ve ever heard. Also, my dad saw Elijah Wood here and we all agreed that this meant something.
Not in Brooklyn.
This place is fucking stupid unless you like the sight and sound of some stooge in a vest shaking a metal cup full of ice like the entire world gives a fuck
Pies and Thighs
Lived across the hall from the owner. She seemed like exactly the kind of frizzy haired weirdo that I would love to fuck. Haven’t eaten here though. I’ve only heard good things but come on… it’s too hot for fried chicken and pies. Why would I ever eat that combo?
Dried out bullshit. Pass. ANyone who likes this is an idiot, which you can probably tell just by looking at them.
Anna Marias Pizza
This is my old school nostalgia pizza experience, and my go-to spot whenever I’m in the mood to re-visit my glory days. The first pizza I ate in NY and my first suggestion for a drunken piece of sloppy wet pussy pizza that is so sloppy wet, pussy-like, piled high with garbage, and devastating that I literally have to take it home and eat it with the lights turned off so that no one will see me and I won’t have to see myself being a monster. After finishing a slice I feel like I don’t deserve to be loved and the best thing I could do for the world is to just die alone.
True story: I got shitfaced and ate an entire pizza while crying here once after some girl hurt my feelings with her careless actions, which leads me to believe it was pretty good. Unfortunately I can’t recommend it because of the terrible memories that surround that delicious pizza and getting assfucked in the heart beforehand.
Amazing servers. The food can be epic, or you can end up with a little tumbler full of pickled deviled rabbit, which sounds funny, but is insanely disappointing and will kind of piss you off because all your friends are eating actual food and you have to just sit there and pretend like your meal is awesome and exactly what you expected because you’re the one who fucking suggested this shit in the first place and now you feel like an asshole. For realsies, they should not list something like this on the menu next to a hamburger like they’re two equitable things. Good clams though.
The dudes behind the counter here were to total cunts to my mom when she was in town and I cannot let that shit slide. Good place to go if you want to sit on a laptop with a bunch of dipshits for 3 hours and have the world’s most bland wrap though, or if you want to show your mother a bad time. Swallow Cafe: not just a clever name.
The opposite of Swallow… sort of. It’s your basic wi-fi cafe, only it isn’t filled with fucking shitheads and is only 2 blocks away from Swallow and actually has banging-ass food. The one drawback: no artificial sweeteners.
Is it ever open? Do the people working there know that it is a restaurant or, at the very least, a bar? Basically no one I know has the first fucking clue what is up with this place. They might be closed now. Not that it makes a fucking difference.
Whatevs. Food 101 in Bushwick. that said, they serve a fairly dope burger as well as a salmon burger. The veggie burger is a fucking dry-ass falafel on a bun with no sauce which is absolute bullshit and doesn’t make sense. Breakfast is intensity in ten cities though. Reliable deliciousness and easy to understand menu.
Pretty dope place to kick it for a while. No one will hassle you if you read a book here. The only good scone I’ve ever had. For reals though, I feel like this is some hidden gem type shit and that it’s a place where you can brunch it up and not be made to feel like a dick if you’re just loungin’ with your best pals from outta town for like three hours… That said, if you wanna get in and get out (like if you’re with some chick and… whatevs) then this is not the place for you, and also, what’s your problem? The only caveat is that there’s a dude there who gives way too much of a fuck about coffee and is the embodiment of everything everyone hates about youth, bicycles, coffee, Brooklyn, New York, beards, pants etc… Like, seriously, he’s the absolute living worst… but no need to take it personally, as a lifetime of his never getting pussy will be revenge enough for all of us. Full disclosure: I worked here and he was the dude that went out of his way all the time to make my day shitty, but the jokes on him cuz I could give a rat’s ass about being a good waiter or preparing excellent coffee, and anyone who takes cappuccino seriously in any way is a goofball.
Snice (Park Slope)
Obviously, you have to preface any discussion of Park Slope with how much you hate all the pregnant and child owning sluts that live there. They suck. That said, you will not get a better fucking wrap in all of new york. They’re hot, they’re filled up with shit, toasted, somewhat healthy. I love this place. And with 3 locations in Park Slope, West Village and SoHo you absolutely cannot go wrong.
How does Brundlefly eat? Well, he found out the hard and painful way that he eats very much the way a fly eats. His teeth are now useless, because although he can chew up solid food, he can’t digest them. Solid food hurts. So like a fly, Brundlefly breaks down solids with a corrosive enzyme, playfully called “vomit drop”. He regurgitates on his food, it liquifies, and then he sucks it back up. Ready for a demonstration, kids? Here goes…
The Brundle-Fly is what Seth Brundle (played by Jeff Goldblum, and later, an animatronic puppet) turns into after fusing with a fly vis~a~ vis a telepod accident in the film The Fly.
Typically, Brundle-Fly has to vomit up gastric acid onto his food in order to eat. During the course of the film he enjoys Mallomars as well as a human Leg. This is important because we get to see exactly what a lifesized human/fly would eat in a real world scenario. The film is also noteworthy for its exploitation of our basic human fear of decomposition (there’s a part where Seth Brundle’s teeth fall out like loose pellets set in play-doh that has influenced my nicotine gum fueled nightmares for decades), as well as its portrayal of sweet lofts in industrial settings.
Here are some choice as Goldblum quotes:
Brundle - My teeth have begun to fall out. The medicine cabinet is now the Brundle Museum of Natural History. You wanna see what else is in it?
Brundle - You have to leave now, and never come back here. Have you ever heard of insect politics? Neither have I. Insects… don’t have politics. They’re very… brutal. No compassion, no compromise. We can’t trust the insect. I’d like to become the first… insect politician. Y’see, I’d like to, but… I’m afraid, uh… I’m saying… I’m saying I - I’m an insect who dreamt he was a man and loved it. But now the dream is over… and the insect is awake.
Veronica - I want an abortion. I’ll do it myself if I have to.
Ronnie - Don’t you get it? I am finally onto something that’s big. Huge.
A Doctor - What? His cock?
I sighted these two implements of The Man going deep undercover in a thrift store, probably looking to bash in the heads of some hippie pieces of shit before going on to do more of tricky Dick’s dirty work. To their credit though, this camouflage is incredibly effective.
21 AMERICAN PANTS STARS OF FREEDOM