The Bloggy Blogface!

An alphabetical review - A: Annandale, Virginia. Don't ask. B: Buzzfeed. I get bored sometimes. C: Chris Bosh Brazzers gif. You'll thank me later. Or not. D: Dispatch.com. I'm super interested in Columbus news, okay? E: ETSU. Who doesn't want to check out colleges in eastern Tennessee? F: Fark.com. My morning news consumption. G: Grantland.com. Sports! Culture! Stuff! H: Hipster. Was just curious, you know. Just...curious. I: Isderrickrosebackyet.com. Was funny. He's back, so now it's not. J: jobs.columbia.edu. I have big dreams, you know. K: Kielbasa-sized fingers. Don't act like you don't have them. L: LinkedIn.com. A place where I can feign importance. M: Metaphor. I got it confused with allegory. N: NY1.com. News, depression. O: Orlando Craigslist. Because why not. P: Push reel mower. I've been thinking about lawns lately. Q: A URL for a political quiz. I guess I'm 60% Libertarian? R: Reddit.com. Yes, I have ...

   I've been coming across quite a lot of stories about people feeling the urgent need to honor their sense of privilege through various - and mostly idiotic - methods. Like the someone attacking crying about a coach for bullying because their son was on the losing end of a lopsided high school football game . Or maybe this story about parents suing a school because their precious snowflake went from getting A's in 8th grade math to D's in an honors (read: advanced) math class the very next year. These stories take me back to the good old days, when parents really didn't give a shit about their kids. Well, I guess that's not entirely true. They cared. Just not enough to sue. Getting my ass beat in a football game builds character, they would have told me. Makes you humble. Going from A's to D's in the same subject at the next grade level meant I just had to stop fucking around and actually work . Not like my parents were going to help me with my homew...

It's Tuesday morning, and he refuses to wear pants. In part because he doesn't know where they are. In part because they may or may not have a hole in the crotch. He didn't check as they were flung off in the haste rage that ended his night. This one's curled up on the bathroom floor, the top of her head resting snug against the cool ceramic toilet. All through the night, she was coughing, maybe crying - he couldn't tell. Someone made coffee. He yanks a mug from the cupboard, reaches for some sweetener. He cringes for a bit as the cold barstool connects with his wafer-thin boxers. The coffee's a cheap hazelnut mix he didn't buy, but enjoys anyway. The kitchen immediately overlooks the living room, where the usual accessories are strewn about - boxers, bra, condom wrapper. Must have gone at it right there, on the couch. That's alright with him, sucking on his shitty coffee.  The sequence of events leading up to right now seem fuzzy, as usual. There may...

The booze scene in this town is, if anything, fairly entertaining. More important, it's very cheap, compared to what I've been used to the last few years in New York. But that's not to say it's not without moments of abject misery. JERKS. Don't get me wrong, booze laws here aren't as downright ridiculous as some other states - hello, Utah - they're just enforced sort of differently. And by differently, I mean cops. Lots of them. All over. There's always a story about them - checkpoints, arrests, hanging around bars just waiting for some drunkard to follow and yank over within minutes. Sure, that's their job to do such. And it keeps everyone around drunkards safe. Thanks, cops! But Jesus tapdancing Christ, they are all over the place. And the stories about their conquests are even more daunting. Some folks vehemently refuse to drive downtown if they're going to drink, because they're never going to make it back home without seeing th...

So the 2013 MTV Video Music Awards occurred over forty days ago now, and the world is still crapping the bed over a particular event that went down that evening. I guess I'll chime in with this: Great. Now with that out of the way, I suppose the rest of this will make me look like a hypocrite for talking about it. I'm only doing this because I feel oddly compelled to, just like everyone capable of typing something has for almost a month and a half. Practically anyone with internet access has chimed in with their two cents. Recently, Sinead O'Connor tried to, and now she's apparently engaged in a TwitBook (Twitter+Facebook) pillow fight with Miley. Because hey, when you're a celebrity and have access to people who can get you things like other celebrities cellphone numbers or email addresses to achieve something that might accomplish more privately - the most logical thing to do of course is pen an "open letter" for everyone on the internet to rea...

"We don't sell alcohol on Sundays..." "We do in Georgia." The small plastic clip locking the two cooler doors fell to the floor as I walked past this exchange between a kind, informative gas station cashier and some dude wanting a Coors tallboy for his ride Sunday evening. We're just outside Greenville, South Carolina, filling up and hopefully avoiding any talk with the locals. Roughly an hour away from our destination, I'm not drunk enough and wondering just how a three hour driving distance somehow turned into an almost ten hour production. Our adventure took us right through downtown Atlanta and its seventy-lane highway that wasn't scary as hell at all. Luckily, I was in the back seat - too consumed with imbibing and keeping my eyes peeled on the fabric directly in front of me, instead of that sucker in the passenger side. The rapid braking and glow of red lights became more and more frequent the further we drove to some suburb twenty minut...