This tale comes from our friend “Sid Mohammed” who stayed with us over the New Years holiday. He’s a multi-talented guy who also happens to be hilarious. Enter Sid: ____________ Bed-Stuy was as washed out as Eddie Van Halen’s jeans when I came out of the subway, laden with bags, and squinting like a naked mole rat put in a tanning bed. As I crossed Malcolm X Street I was trying hard to adopt a gait that would project an air of confidence...

“eh, really doesn’t affect me anymore”. “What do you mean?” “It just doesn’t affect me” “bullshit” “seriously” “Really? just try some, I think it’s good.” “I doubt it” “Just try some” “Fine” It is around 9pm on a typical Friday at the Hostel. The above conversation is referencing MDMA. Molly, E, X, whatever. The game plan for the evening was to hit Webster Hall, the largest club in NYC, to see Orchard...

Ahhhh, the ‘eye of the storm’. A magical time here, it describes the brief window typically between 2 and 5 pm when all the hungover stragglers have finally made their exit, and the early rising go-getters are not yet back. Free from the typical chaos, the eye of the storm is my time. I usually can use this time to relax, sleep, or complete any/all productive output for the day. Usually. But not on this day. My sanctuary this afternoon was...

“..and done” sitting on the couch I put the finishing touches on my masterpiece. I’m bored. The past 30 minutes have been spent peeling letters into my St. Ides label, pondering ways to turn this night around. Nas is explaining what he would do if he ruled the world over the speakers. I nod my head, flick some condensation off the bottle and survey my domain. My roommate George is across the room on the other couch, also with an Ides,...

Today, this term is overused. Not everything, nor everyone, can be ‘game-changing’. Drink a 12 pack and think you’re the man? You’re an embarrassment. Hook up with a foreigner? Who hasn’t. Tell me about your ‘crazy’ trip to Costa Rica? Get da fuck outta here. Try: 4 St. Ides chased with shots of jager. Or a threesome in the living room. Or the time you rode your bike from Cape Town to Cairo. NOW we’re talkin. For a statistical...

House. If name alone isn’t ominous I can assure you the man attached is. The first few weeks in our new place, my interactions with House followed the classic black-gangster-from-ghetto and white-dude-obviously-not-from-ghetto stereotypes. Specifically, him mean-mugging me from a distance, giving me the feeling I needed to check for my wallet, and, on occasion, a well placed shoulder into my chest. If the body language wasn’t loud enough, I...