Crash

Sometimes when I am walking in midtown, I find myself an obstacle in someone else's trajectory: unless one of us steps aside, we will crash. When I first moved here, I was always the one to move. Then I got angry. Why do I have to be the one to move. I began to mow past people in my path. Sometimes they moved. Mostly, I bumped into them. What, you expect me to move? I always move. You should move!

Then I realized everybody else probably thinks the same thing.

Paper v Plastic

Easy grocery shopping is the best argument for the suburbs yet.

A Syllogism

If you are not in college and you are not tipsy, then you are rudely awakened: Top Ramen really isn't very good.

Old Dog, New Tricks

In other news, I am trying to train myself out of the apparently outdated habit of double spacing between sentences. These were the parting words of my former editor, and as we enter a new year and a new administration, it seems a perfect time to enact new typographical habits.

Update 7/1/09: Success.

Audition Technique

I do not understand showing up to an audition dressed for clubbing. At my first NYC audition, I showed up wearing dance pants and a fitted t-shirt. I thought it'd be important to be able to move. Wrong. Apparently it is more important to be femme. Heels. Skirts. Stockings. This was shocking to me. So heels, skirts, stockings it is. But must I really vamp it up with leggings and a low cut sweater that debatably functions as a dress and high heeled boots? Because I can do that. Or after a trip to H&M, I could do that. But are you serious?

Red/Green Colorblind

I think more coffee shops should give some kind of discount for getting their coffee in a mug rather than a paper cup. Think's mugs are equivalent to a medium paper cup. The cost: exactly the same. I wish they'd charge for a small rather than coerce the in-store drinker to spend more, but I understand. These are tough times. Still, couldn't there be a tiny discount in the interest of environmentalism? 10 cents off, save the polar bears.

Trade Winds

Upon leaving Trader Joe's by Union Square, you feel as though you've accomplished some great feat. You have fought for your food. You have been yelled at by angry buyers of clementines. You have dodged twenty carts careening toward you with no regard for your safety. You have waited in line for what feels like hours and you have survived. And then, back out on the street, hard-won bags in hand, you realize: all you've done is buy your yuppie groceries.