This is more than just a mere sticker saying that you voted. This is a badge. A medal. A token. It’s a symbol of your opinion being heard in our political system. It represents your power to shape the nation, your state, and your immediate surroundings. Just as importantly, and oft-overlooked, you’re shaping how we affect the world community.
Those of you with this sticker (or any variation of it), thank you for taking the opportunity to shape our lives today.
Wear your badge proudly.
The cover of this week’s NY Mag
It’s almost time for me to head into the salon (yes, salon) for another haircut. I’ve found the process of getting haircuts an awful and exhausting experience resulting in causing me to go through periods of life where I’ll just let my hair get a bit unruly. I present to you Exhibit A:
and Exhibit A(2):
I let my hair grow out to these unmanageable lengths not so much because I think Korean/Japanese pop star style hair suits me, but rather to avoid the embarrassment of a cut gone awry.
Ladies and gentlemen, Exhibit B (the bowl cut):
Why does this happen? Because there are maniacs in the hair styling profession!
I’ve been happy with my haircuts for the past year, but after pulling that picture from the depths of my hard drive I’m almost convinced getting in a butcher’s chair isn’t worth it again.
Will Smith (Jim West) - Wild Wild West
Just spent this past weekend at Lollapalooza. Just making little bullet entries that will trigger memories when I read this in the future.
By the way, hi, future Chris. I hope you’re not lame.
- Nathaniel, Vincent
- Bottom floor squalor with great hosts
- Poop and pizza all weekend long
- Broville, USA
- Wall of Bro
- Creepy jump-on-shoulder-girl
- Electrotent that turned out to be a giant ad tent
- Childish Gambino afterparty show
- Being the only people dancing like crazy to Star Slinger
Now I’m looking forward to being back in the bay and settling into my new place.
After visiting Canada several times and now seeing this news report, I declare Canada a nation full of ketchup fiends and barbeque chip thieves.
The following are a few select quotes from the clip:
“That particular brand of barbecue…is quite tasty.”
- “For two university students, too tasty to pass up.”
“There had been some illicit chip tastings.”
Americans love their bbq sauce and if there were any bbq bandits coming across the border looking to steal our bbq sauce and bbq Lays chips they better turn around. Chuckling cops and reporters aren’t the norm in the States. They can expect to have their greasy fingers booted back to the Great North.
Canada has given us some great things such as hockey, Wayne and Garth, and poutine. Wait, Imma let you finish, but I gotta say that poutine is the best potato dish of all time. There few things that I’m glad have never made it south of their border—barbecue chip bandits and their love for ketchup.
When I visited Canada the first time I remember seeing ketchup flavored chips. It made sense; we dip french fries into ketchup so why not flavor another potato product with that flavor? I didn’t think much of it until I was at Pizza Hut with relatives and there was ketchup on the table. Ketchup at a pizza joint? Well it’s Pizza Hut, they’re not exactly known for their fine dining; maybe they even replaced their tomato sauce with ketchup. Maybe they had fries? Nope. No fries to be seen at least until the McDonalds a couple doors down.
What was the ketchup for?—I pondered. As I grabbed my first slice of pizza, I watched in horror as my relatives took the ketchup bottle and *poot-poopootpoot* smothered their cheese pizza with ketchup. Before they set the bottle down they turned, looked at my stupefied face, and asked if I wanted any ketchup. That was when I knew, Canadians were nice, but essential crazy at their core.
I think I now want to be a “Barbeque Bandit.” Goodbye former lifelong dream of becoming “Money-taker.”
*This post has no rhyme or reason. Sorry if you took the time to read.
My sublease in Berkeley is quickly coming to an end. You know what that means? The awful search for a new place and even worse, the physical act of moving stuff—where you pack things into a moving apparatus (car, van, rickshaw) and actually use your body to move things from point A to point B—BEGINS!
Wait, no. I take that all back. Searching for a place is worse than actually moving. I forgot that I lived in New York City and now I’m trying to move to a potentially even more daunting San Francisco. At least in NY there were brokers who would show you listings and then gouge you. In SF, you have to make your own appointments and hopefully not gouge yourself.
“In the big city housing market, the rooms are represented by two separate yet equally important groups: the renters who vet dingy apartments and the district landlords who persecute the renters. These are their stories.”
On Saturday, I went and saw my first San Francisco apartment that I found on Craigslist. It seemed super promising! Inner Sunset, a block away from the edge of Golden Gate Park, two blocks from N-Judah.
Before I went, I checked the street view on Google and all the buildings there looked great, except for this one that I couldn’t make out the address. I kept my fingers crossed that it could be any one of the other buildings. To my dismay, it was the one that looked like it was painted with the color swatch from Behr called “old and vomity.”
I guess the first sign of this being too good to be true was when found out the landlord was Asian. I’m not saying that you should avoid renting from Asian homeowners, but you should avoid renting from Asian homeowners because I’ve seen my fair share of places throughout my childhood, and trust me, it wasn’t pretty—foil wrapped kitchen appliances, cling wrapped tv remotes, and the smell of moth balls throughout the entire house.
After I took my first step into the building, I immediately went into “be courteous and go through the renting motions” mode. The place was dark and dank, the stair carpeting had slabs of extra carpet nailed to them, the room had a different color carpet from the rest of the place. It just wasn’t my scene.
I felt bad that I was just going to be wasting our time here, but I felt the need to ask to see the bathroom and kitchen—even though the only motion I wanted to make was the one down the stairs and out the doors.
Before leaving I was able to meet one of my six potential roommates, Mr. Chong. After the landlord introduced me by telling him I didn’t speak Chinese, but that I was indeed Chinese, he proceeded to begin to play “guess the ethnicity,” “Japanese? Korean? No? Chinese. Japanese?” Eventually he came to a conclusion. He triumphantly declared, “OH ABC!”
Oh well. The search continues, though I will miss Mr. Chong. What a character!