Everyone is leaving. An interfaith exodus is underway. Did Moses post a “heading for the desert” status update on Facebook? Did I miss the crucial “RT @JesusTheChrist: Pestilence, War, Famine, and Death. WE OUT” tweet? Granted I’m behind the curve on this whole new fangled media front. And that’s because I know social networking code was programmed in the fires of hell. But couldn’t they have sent an Evite? Damn you, Mark Zuckerberg!

My friends and family seem to be running out of New York City at such a rate that I have to wonder which crucial Al Queada party list-serv I foolishly unsubscribed from. Just kidding! Dick Cheney, I know you read this blog. Roll on over in that wheelchair and post a comment already. [ . . . ] Continue »

Sometimes I forget that I’m colored. This may be a shock my tens of thousands* of readers, but it’s true. It may seem like I rag on white people in every other post, at least. Like here. And here. Or here. You get the idea.

* Only suckers trust site statistics provided by The Man. Independent audits place readership somewhere between 6 and 78,342.

It is truer to say that I usually don’t think about my ethnicity and skin tone until: 1) I see the police, 2) I see a colored baby and want to make one of my own, or 3) black or white people remind me that I’m neither. [ . . . ] Continue »

Every Douche up in Douche-ville liked holidays a lot. . . . But the Jana, who lived just south of Douche-ville, Did NOT!

Getting to know your apartment building neighbors is a perverse and excruciating city-specific experience that I will look back on with warmth and misplaced nostalgia when I am aged and living in seclusion in the country. So like, three years from now.

My urban neighbors are to my adult life what my best friends’ parents were to my adolescence: familiar looking strangers, about whose lives I know wildly inappropriate and intimate details. [ . . . ] Continue »

I wonder what I look like to a stranger. More specifically, I wonder what I look like from a birds-eye view, seven stories up. Apparently from this vantage point, there is something distinctive and remarkably distasteful about me. Otherwise, why would someone choose to throw a full, glass handle of vodka down at me from a rooftop?

The weekend before last I was nearly killed dead—yes, “killed dead”—when a stranger threw a full gigantic bottle of booze down at me from a rooftop. [ . . . ] Continue »