8:04 am: I wake up, frantic and hungover. I begin to clean my apartment, which no living human other than me has stepped foot in for at least a month. After a few hours, every available drawer is stuffed to bursting with the random shit I’ve accumulated over the past few weeks/months/years, but it smells better. This looks good, I think to myself as I shove 12-15 cardboard boxes behind my headboard.
8:45 pm: I’m at work in midtown, waiting for my dad’s train to come in. I get a text: “The Eagle has landed.” I guess that means he’s here, though it might mean a literal eagle has landed on his bus. You never know with my dad.
9:15 pm: He’s not at my office yet.
9:25 pm: Okay, where the fuck is he.
9:27 pm: He got mugged, he got kidnapped, he joined a gang. (more…)
For God so loved the world that he gave them his only Summer. Edit credit: Sam Corbin / Brokelyn
Memorial Day has come and gone, which means the God of all seasons is upon us: summer. Over the next few weeks you’re going to see a lot of lists that tell you what to do this summer, but none of them are going to tell you how to do it. Wouldn’t it be great if there were some kind of ancient book that had guidelines for living as well as weird stories about grown men living in the stomachs of fish?
Never fear. I’m here to inject a little Judeo-Christian wisdom into your world with The Ten Commandments of New York Summer, passed down to me by the God of Summer himself —who, in case you’re wondering, looks like a giant can of beer wrapped in a Brokelyn™ koozie. (more…)
Andie and Duckie might be stuck in a few different zones, but mere ‘friend’ isn’t one of them.
Fuck the friend zone.
Before you throw your phone across the room in a feminist rage, let me elaborate. I’m not saying fuck being in the friend zone. I’m saying fuck it as a general concept, because I don’t think it actually exists. Saying someone put you in the ‘friend zone’ is essentially just a way of blaming them for not being attracted to you. It’s the relationship equivalent of a participation ribbon, as if being friends with someone is less worthwhile than dating them. It doesn’t help that the phrase is almost always used derogatorily toward women, as a complaint that despite the fact of man performing acts of basic decency, the woman won’t reward him by providing sex.
Listen, I get it– it’s hard out there. In the shark tank that is the New York dating scene it’s natural to look to your friends, and sometimes you can’t help it when the feelings creep up. Or maybe you met someone new, and you figure the best way to get in is to keep your intentions hidden (for now). But how you deal with these feelings and intentions is the true marker of whether you’re an adult or an adult baby.
So I say death to the friend zone. Not only can we be less sexist but, goddamnit, we can be more precise. For your consideration I offer up these five zones more accurate than the friend zone to help you navigate the turbulent waters. (more…)
You’re squished somewhere between a gas stove you keep igniting with your hip and a guy you knew in college who has an overly-ambitious beard now. You’ve been on your own for about twenty minutes since the lightweight friend you came with started fighting with some guy because, well, that’s what she does. “Trap Queen” is playing for the fourth time, and you’re not that mad about it but you feel like someone probably should have switched the playlist by now. As you try to subtly adjust your tights because they’re doing that terrible creep-down-your-legs thing again, you hit the critical mass point. Like a salmon urged upstream to his ancestral waters, you feel the call of home. Before you go, however, there is something very important you have to do: you must get a road beer. (more…)