this is what concerns me:

Blah blah MoCCA was supersweet blah blah.

If there were really any question, it’s now been answered: life imitates art imitating life imitating god only knows what. Evidence: Nathan Barley fashion has appropriately hit Manhattan at UNIQLO. The window displays are full of mannequins wearing uberhip candy-colored Japanese sweaters as pants. Terry Richardson would approve. The idiots have won.

The idiots are self-regarding consumer slaves, oblivious to the paradox of their uniform individuality. They sculpt their hair to casual perfection; they wear their waistbands below their balls. They babble into handheld twit machines about that e-mail about a woman being bombed by a wolf. Their cool friend made it. He’s an idiot, too.

Well fucking futile.

I had the fortunate occasion to overhear both of these gems today at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

A mom to her 4-year-old boy in the Africa & Americas galleries: Joey, listen to me, all right? There are some places in the world where people aren’t ashamed of showing their penises.

A mom to her 8-year-old girl, on Sol Lewitt’s 13/3 sculpture: You could build that with your Jenga, couldn’t you?

I also saw two different security guards leaning against walls taking naps — perhaps to lull passersby into a false sense of security about their embarrassing snippets of conversation. Very clever.

I’m in New York (right now, specifically, Go!wanus) for the MoCCA indie comics fest this weekend, which I’ll be covering for these guys, natch.

But enough about art — it’s breakfast time and I just spent the last week putting together a list of all the New York foods I needed a taste of before I return back westward. So stop reading now if you care more about art than you do about soy.

I knew some of these already, but I didn’t realize what a lot of my favorite foods in New York were until I couldn’t eat them anymore (I never would’ve guessed that dosas would dominate over Veg Palate crispy nuggets):

• Mac & cheeze from Little Lad’s Basket
• A dosa from the Dosa Man
• A vege patty and coco bread from Christie’s
• Jerk chicken and plantains from Stir It Up
• A poppy bagel with tofu veg cream cheese from anywhere (why do all the bagels in San Francisco taste like donuts?)
• Cheap falafel from anywhere (why does all the falafel in San Francisco taste like particle board?)

I think I’ll start with that bagel. I’d also like to track down some kosher candy lentils…

I archived the radio documentaries I worked on at Columbia in this handy hip muxtape format in hopes of landing a job at KQED. Please only leave very positive comments about my comedic timing and ability to write short declarative sentences on the off chance that they see this blog post.

Last summer I lived in the Lost Boys (and Girls) camp of 206 Classon Avenue, across the street from the well-appointed complex for retired Catholic nuns, and down the block from the Hasidic housing “bldg” and the Pratt art school. I wrote on the history of 206 for the Syncopated 3 anthology, from dairy pasteurization compound to illegal loft (to luxury condos?). While I still think that piece did the place justice, I don’t think it captured some of the subtleties of the 206 petri dish. Subtleties like Rick.

Rick was an ex-ad photographer and current dolly grip for film and television, and a former resident of a small Midwestern town, Venice Beach, Canada, various rehabilitation facilities and the L train. He had an impressive collection of stories that involved a colorful cast of characters including, but not limited to, Ron Jeremy, David Bowie, Katey Sagal of Married with Children; and though nearly 50, he showed no sign of slowing down. I haven’t spoken with Rick in nearly eight months, but here I recount Rick’s Greatest Hits: some of my favorite things he ever said to me and various other roommates. Rated M for Mature.

On Jocelyn’s family complaints: Why don’t you just kill everybody in your family and live like me?

On John acting douchey: I’ll jump on you like a fuckin’ lizard. I’ll never get off your face. [Pause] It’ll be like you stepped on a landmine.

On Stephanie joking that 206 uses resources like a community center: We are a fucking community center.

On me, to Chris: Don’t you wanna just bash her in the head?

On himself, wearing my sunglasses: I remind myself of Jackie O. Don’t I look like Jackie O?

On himself, forever young: The Picture of Rick Morrison. How about me? 48 and I have a zit! Do you have a zit?!

On himself, waiting to get old: I can’t wait to get Alzheimer’s. I can say crazy shit and people will just feel sorry for me.

When I first started volunteering at 826 New York City last November, I was warned, as “a journalist,” that I was not to use my role as a tutor to facilitate my “career” as a “writer;” i.e. no interviewing, no poking around, no pursuing of stories behind the secret book-case-come-door panel that leads to the back room at the Superhero Supply Company on 5th Avenue in Brooklyn. Considering I was using the opportunity more to clarify if I really did hate kids or not (not, mostly, it turns out) the warning struck me as particularly laughable. But then I found myself writing down all the cute stuff they said…

In April I (temporarily) ended my once-a-week stint disciplining the children at 826–and a few weeks later, I started getting nostalgic for their youth. I realized that my favorite part about the kids was that they weren’t as boring as most of the people I interacted with each day. Examples:

-Do you live with your dad?
-Nope. I live with my friend.
-… How old are you?

-Yeah, like real vegetarians. I have friends who don’t even wear leather…
-Oh my god!

-If my calculations are correct, love is a feeling.

Next time: a collection of quotes from my former grizzled, formerly-homeless-alcoholic 48 year old housemate. I’m all about fair and balanced.

New York Magazine somewhat recently published a cover story on how (and how not) to praise kids such that they grow up into unmotivated twixter brats who have no self confidence and/or work ethic. In a nutshell: don’t tell them they’re smart (or stupid); do tell them they worked hard (or didn’t). This seems to explain a lot of the nearly life-long problems for a surprising number of my friends: instead of being properly mirrored by their parents and teachers, they got the fun-house version, a warped kind of reality where being smart gets you ahead in life–plus makes you superskinny.

It’s Generation Me Me Me! Or at least that’s how Jean Twenge sees it in this NPR interview. She blames the “self-focus [and] inflated expectations” on 1. schools (and their self-esteem programs [any first-hand evidence of this? sounds like madness to me]), 2. the media (aww, Jean), 3. parents (cum-NYM). She really lets the sarcasm fly in this piece, saying parents act as though “feeling good about yourself is the most important thing in the world–more than working hard or having talent or caring for other people.” And that the citizens of Generation Me (like, um, me!) are entirely self-focused, care only about becoming rich and famous, and feel “entitled and like [we] deserve special treatment.” I think she spits a little on the mic at that point.

After I wiped the hysterical tears from my eyes, this stuff came off like salt in my narcissistic wound. But then I realized that this seems to breed a special, deep-seated and ugly kind of guilt in people who know/think they’re capable of more, but don’t know how to apply themselves to get it. At least they feel good doing it, whereas I blame myself for my failures (like not updating this blog nearly enough). I think the answer is to aim lower. It usually works.

It’s only been like, six days! And it was great! Lots of Mr. Brendan Burford’s Syncopated Three’s on hand for the buying and viewing pleasure of all. Depicted: the lovely and talented Ms. Caroline Dworin and myself. Caroline did a bang-up job copy-editing the book. You should really go buy one! Except that you can’t yet. But maybe you should write it on a post-it note and put it on the wall above your desk or something so you don’t forget by the time it’s available in stores. Which will be, like, really soon!

Between yesterday afternoon and this morning, four of my flights from Myrtle Beach, South Carolina have been canceled due to weather. I’ve been stuck in Charlotte, North Carolina for a few hours now. They guarantee I’ll be back to New York by Sunday (or else my money back?)! Hopefully I’ll make it til then: I’ll have to ration these three Clif Bars. And who knows where and when my luggage will show up.
Fortunately the Charlotte airport has free wireless internet. But there are conditions: they block all websites that are flagged “Adult/Mature Content.” The ones I’ve discovered so far: Nerve and MySpace. VeganPorn’s okay though. Oh, Charlotte, a woman after my own heart. Now if only she could get her act together and get me on one of these damn planes before my computer battery dies (in 33 minutes…).

Update, 4:59 p.m. E.T.: Six canceled flights, down to one bar. But I found an outlet. I’m not sure what my total is then: negative twenty-three hours?