Enjoy, friends!

A tragedy

My phone was stolen out of my lap yesterday as I tried to learn the map on the train back from Manhattan.  I’ve been beside myself ever since for letting this happen.  “A tragedy,” I called it.

But actually…

I read this morning about the Utøya massacre.  This is an actual tragedy.  Losing my phone was a costly mistake, sure, but my misfortune doesn’t compare to the bigger things happening out there.

Here’s a first-hand account of the slaying.

The Lair

My new place in Clinton Hill, BK.  3-bed, 2-bath, a bittuvah backyard and three teachers from around the US.  Just ask for the address and you will receive.

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DJ3000

Derek Jeter is to the MLB and its fans what I hope Derrick Rose will be to the UNIVERSE!

They dedicate themselves — both on and off the field — to their craft as much as anyone in their respective games.  It’s this dedication that makes legends like Joe Torre say things like this; it’s this character that makes people aspire to be like Lou Gehrig, The Pride of the Yankees.  I hope, I wish Rose can emulate what Jeter has done for most of my life.

The Voice of the Devil

There’s something sinister about Tom Waits’ singing.

The way it scratches, the way it sounds like filthand it’s ability to stay true to its snarling all the way through.  Critic Daniel Durchholz as sounding “like it was soaked in a vat of bourbon, left hanging in the smokehouse for a few months, and then taken outside and run over with a car.”

Compare this….

With this (by “DoMaJe,” made up of five Baltimore teenagers: Ivan Ashford, Markel Steele, Cameron Brown, Tariq Al-Sabir, and Avery Bargasse.)

As opposed to the youthful version by DoMaJe, Waits’ version feels to me like something that only comes out at night.  It’s a wretched, transfixing thing that makes me feel like it hates me.

Here and there

Lovers’ names, carved in walls
Overlap, start to merge
Some of them underneath
Maybe they appear
In graveyards
Maybe they fade away
Weathered and overgrown
Time has told
Meaningful hidden words
Suddenly appear, from the murk
Maybe they’re telling us
That the end
Never was
Never will
The words have gone
But the meaning will never disappear
From the wall

 

No Jets No Mets, but Nets!

My school (Achievement First Endeavor) in Brooklyn is located two blocks from where the Brooklyn Nets will play if this lockout ever ends.  “Barclays Center,” I’ll call it.

I know it’s an already established franchise, but I like to think I’ll be in the driver’s seat of this bandwagon. I’ve got really high hopes for this endeavor; not far from its Newark, NJ fans, backed by a native celeb, in a sports-crazy area, led by a fantabulous former Illini baller and owned by Russia’s 2nd richest man, Mikhail Prokhorov, who continues to shit on the Knicks.  Can someone say, “Championship!?”