MyBad.

Heavy on your heart like a million little weights. Knowing from Kudi that everything that shine aint always gonna be gold, but this was platinum. This was diamonds, shining the way you did that very night. With a feeling and a look stronger than an Ironman competition, I knew, and you knew that I knew. "No, its ridiculous..." "Just say it." Then those words, first on your part then on mine. And that was that, and then came tears. Tears not from sadness but from feeling. A feeling of having the breath knocked out of you. That moment in between, when you feel unreal, surreal, more real than you ever knew you could possibly feel. A day, a week, a month, a year. We're both here, always were, always will be. Fight it, go ahead. Youre only fighting yourself. My thoughts, your thoughts, theyre all the same. Wordless, speechless, mindful, thoughtful. I said I hate the middle, and I do with all of my heavy heart, but who am I kidding? We're not in the middle, never were. We couldnt find the middle if it were standing in front of us. Us, yes us. Breathe, just hold your breath. Sink or swim situation. Ive always been a really good swimmer. Water which is too pure has no fish.

"Its the tits."

This is for my good friend RS.
Enjoy.














LAZERTITS

With a cherry on top.

Sylvia Ji

I

I appeared over dressed wearing a dress, blazer, and stilettos.
I wore sunglasses even though my side of the train wasn't sunny.
I smelled of maple syrup and cigar tobacco.
I listened to my ipod way too loudly.
I had elegantly disheveled, dirty blonde hair.
I was busy on my blackberry.
I smiled and occasionally laughed.
I will always be a stranger to her.

She

She was on the 8:04 train, got on at Syosset, and sat across from me.
She had medium length, straight, mousey brown hair and a Cindy Crawford mole.
She was dressed for winter but was clearly in need of summer.
She wore an engagement ring and read Hemingway.
She had on an unnecessary amount of eye liner but no other makeup.
She never smiled.
She will always be a stranger to me.

How I feel Today

Gaaaahhhhhh

"My First New York"

Last spring, New York Magazine invited 30 notable New Yorkers to share their memories of arriving in this vast city. Next week, Ecco/HarperCollins will be releasing an expanded collection entitled My First New York. Below, read a heartfelt excerpt written by Colum McCann about his arrival in 1984 to where else but New York City.

"Drunk and sober, high and low, off and on, up and down, lost and found, New York has been my city for sixteen years now. It’s a vast mystery to me, like it is to most New Yorkers, how this ugly lovely town became my lovely ugly town, this gorgeous rubbish heap of a place, this city of the timeless Now, with little of the style of Paris, little of the beauty of Rome, little of the history of London, and not even much of the dear dirty dereliction of my hometown, Dublin.

New York is a fiction of sorts, a construct, a story, into which you can walk at any moment and at any angle and end up blindsided, turned upside down, changed.

There are dozens of moments I can recall from the early days, when I first got to the city as a naïve young Dubliner, in 1982. I was 17 years old and visiting for the summer. I ran the midtown streets as a gopher for Universal Press Syndicate. I rushed for sandwiches, answered phones, delivered parcels. My ears popped in the Time-Life elevators. On a July afternoon, I lay down in the middle of Sixth Avenue and looked up at the skyscrapers. I laughed as people stepped over and around me. Later, I sat in the back of the Lion’s Head pub and dreamed myself into writing days. I bluffed my way into Limelight. On the D train, I nursed a cocaine itch back to Brighton Beach, where I rented a cockroached room. It was all a fantastic fever dream: Even now, the moments collide into each other and my memory is decorated by a series of mirrors flashing light into chambers of sound and color, graffiti and roar. I left it after a few months, back to Dublin, enchanted and dazzled.

But I truly fell in love with the city many years later, on my second stint, when I wasn’t quite sure if I was meant to be here at all, and it was a quiet moment that did it for me, one of those little glancing shoulder-rubs that New York can deal out at any time of the day, in any season, in any weather, in any place—even on the fiercely unfashionable Upper East Side.

It had snowed in the city. Two feet of it over the course of the night. It was the sort of snow that made the city temporarily magical, before all the horn-blowing and slush puddles and piles of dog crap crowning the melt. A very thin little path had been cleared on 82nd Street between Lexington and Third, just wide enough for two able-bodied people to squeeze through. The snow was piled high on either side. A small canyon, really, in the middle of the footpath. On the street—a quiet street at the best of times, if anything can be quiet in New York—the cars were buried under drifts. The telegraph wires sagged. The underside of the tree branches appeared like brushstrokes on the air. Nothing moved. The brownstones looked small against so much white. In the distance sounded a siren, but that was all, making the silence more complete.

I saw her from a distance halfway down the block. She was already bent into the day. She wore a headscarf. Her coat was old enough to have once been fashionable. She was pushing along a silver frame. Her walk was crude, slow, laborious. With her frame, she took the whole width of the alley. There was no space to pass her.

There is always a part of New York that must keep moving—as if breath itself depends on being frantic, hectic, overwhelmed. I thought to myself that I should just clamber over the snowbank and walk down the other side of the street. But I waited and watched. Snow still fell on the shoveled walkway. Her silver frame slipped and slid. She looked up, caught my eye, gazed down again. There was the quality of the immigrant about her: something dutiful, sad, brave, a certain saudade, a longing for another place.

As she got closer, I noticed her gloves were beautifully stenciled with little jewels. Her headscarf was pulled tight around her lined face. She shoved the silver frame over a small ridge of ice, walked the final few feet, and stopped in front of me.

The silence of strangers.

But then she leaned forward and said in a whisper: “Shall we dance?”

She took off one glove and reached her hand out, and with the silver frame between us, we met on the pavement. Then she let go of my hand. I bent to one knee and bowed slightly to her. She grinned and put her glove back on, said nothing more, took a hold of her silver frame, and moved on, a little quicker now, along the corridor of snow and around the corner.

I knew nothing of her, nothing at all, and yet she had made the day unforgettable.

She was my New York.

Still is."

If I didnt post this then my week just wouldnt be complete.

A Man, A Legend.

Peter Tunney


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Thing that crossed my mind today

Starring down the track doesn't make the subway come any faster.

A change in your attitude is a change in your day.

Men that randomly buy their wives flowers are good men, unless they're saying sorry, then the fact that they're saying sorry makes them good men and not the flowers.

Summer can come in Winter, actually it usually does.

Contrary to what they say, crying only makes it better.

Its not hard to forget about lunch.

Honesty comes from strength, strength comes from honesty.

It is okay on days like this to wear your sunglasses on the train.

I don't need you, I want you.

I will never grow out of my love for chocolate or for myself.

No matter what you do your converse sneakers will squeak as you walk.

Sincerity goes a long way, the longest actually.

Even if your back burner is on, when the heat in the front is extinguished youre left cold.

Once a creep always a creep.

My friends are precious, always, even when they're not.

The taller you are the more you see but the less you know.

Backpacks are atrocious and should be reserved for the 4th grade.

Your darkest jeans will bleed forever.

Jeans and love have a lot in common, worn in washed out comfortably destroyed.

There is nothing you can do to stop your nose from running like a child.

And last but never least, you either are or are not, there's no in between.

No expiration date

heART & soul

For quite some time now I've been wanting to begin to collect art. That may seem simple to you, you may even say "Okay, so just go out and buy a piece of artwork that you like." Well its not that easy.

Not being a gazillionaire, or even a thousandaire for that matter, I was pretty limited to what I could actually afford WHILE loving it. Artwork isnt a need, its a want. This fact made it all the more enticing to me. I would see pieces here and there that while beautiful, meaningful, and desirable, they still just didnt "feel right" to me as a choice for my very first collected piece. Then Friday, March 5th 2010 happened... I was at the Pulse Art Show and acquired a gift bag from 20x200. The gift bag was stuffed with papers and a few other random things that I'll probably never use. The bag itself is just a canvas bag with print on it. Nothing special, figured I'd use it to food shop the "green way."

The Sunday following my attendance to the Pulse show I cleaned out the bag, put the papers aside to sit on my desk [for the next week until I had the time to go through them and toss what was uninteresting to me], and put the bag with all my other bags away in my closet. Today as I finally got the chance to peruse through the loose papers I came across one that caught my attention. On one side of the paper it was titled "Why You Should Buy Art!" by William Powhida, the other side of the paper contained the artists bio and statement. After reading it I realized that "Why You Should Buy Art!" wasnt just a collection of short statements that supported and reinforced why purchasing art is a fantastic idea, this side of the white photocopied sheet was actually a photocopy of a limited-edition print which is available for purchase. This is it. This would be my very first collected piece of artwork, perfection. One of those moments where you dont even have to think...like stepping into a street, seeing a car coming, and jumping back 3 feet.

Heres what it looks like

Not fancy, not elaborate, but exactly what I wanted and I had no idea until the second I saw it. I believe that art isnt one of those things that you have to think about... its something that comes from inside that you never even knew you had in you. Loving art is not practiced or learned, its just something that you are immediately drawn to for reasons unknown to you. Im excited for this new endeavor into a whole new world.

Using Your Big Voice