My Two Weeks Off
A bloggy blog
On October 31st at around 4:30 PM,1 I ended a nearly five year stint at [REDACTED]. I find most things nowadays end unceremoniously, like no one really has the time to take stock or reflect. This was no different. I put in my two weeks on the 20th, and spent the time in haze, feeling my brain squeezed like a sponge every day, my useless and arbitrary intellectual property extracted so that the show could go on. When I shut my laptop, I didn’t feel particularly proud or accomplished or content, just very tired.
And so, for the first time in years, I had two weeks to myself. Two weeks to recharge. I thought I’d document some activities here, and hope to find some meaning in my movements, or at the least, maybe find a good new restaurant.
10/31
Worked my last day of work, which meant my last time completing my Friday ritual of a pastry out paired with a coffee at home. This time it was a cinnamon sugar roule from Bien Cuit—unfortunately nothing special but the sugar felt good.
I then went Unc Mode at a Halloween party hosted by a friend of the blog. There, while conferring with a homie dressed as Creed at the 2001 Dallas Cowboys Thanksgiving Day Halftime Show (?), I started to feel underdressed. All the Gen Z homies had some high concept shit going on—a couple dressed as a Freudian slip, Luigi Mangione, or sometimes just a straight up meme that required them pulling up a tweet on their phone. Suddenly, while sipping a Corona, I became painfully aware that pushing 30 in my Yoshi onesie was not cutting it.
After the party, a friend of the blog and I wandered east, eventually going to some bar in East Village I don’t remember the name of. We were the only people in onesies in a sea of vaguely European looking men in sweaters. The vibe reminded us strongly of a bad college frat party. I went home and ate McDonald’s.
11/1
Went to a bar in East Village to watch Chelsea Tottenham. I thought about missing London, and whether the barrage of weddings and personal obligations would allow my annual London trip to take place in ‘26.
Went home and started feeling quite ill. After a couple of months of running on fumes, this was to be expected. Ate some pho. Watched every pitch of Game 7 of the World Series. Baseball is broken but the Dodgers are pretty tight.
11/2
Played basketball in a High School gym in Chelsea with a friend of the blog, as I do most Sundays. Pressed my advantage of being the only dude there not hungover from the Halloween festivities. Made a floater for the first time in ten years. Went 1-4 in the games, but not sustaining a major injury always feels like a win.
11/3
Hit a NyQuil and slept until 1 PM. Watched a bunch of Nobody Wants This on Netflix. It’s funny in a blandly inoffensive way, and makes for nice background noise while I scroll on my phone. Couldn’t tell you a single other thing that happened today. I think I made a really good cup of tea, but that’s about it. That and a painful massage.
11/4
Woke up today and I was 30. I celebrated by trying to give myself a heart attack on the Stairmaster. I ate a pile of Shake Shack and went to Jade Palace in Williamsburg for my annual tattoo.
I started getting tattooed on or around my birthday in 2019 in Honolulu. I think this ritual sums up a lot of what I like—something to ground me to the present, something artistic, something masochistic, something silly and stupid. I tell my Mom not to worry about my tattoos, because I only get them on my birthday. This unsurprisingly does not comfort her.
When I lived in Williamsburg I’d walk, today I take the train. I slug a Coke to get my blood sugar to its cruising altitude and contemplate why I do this to myself.
How a person chooses tattoos tells you a lot about them. There are flavors, but I’d put people roughly into one of two categories. One, people who give tattoos meaning proactively; and two, people who give tattoos meaning retroactively.
The proactive camp might come in with a grand, often convoluted idea. “Yeah the wave represents my father, and the surfboard is my mom, and the penguin is my cousin, and the wave should be in the shape of the state of Hawaii.” The extremes here are often represented on (trash but I still watch) tattoo reality shows like Ink Master, usually framed as clients with unreasonable expectations and limited tattoo knowledge.
However, the proactive folks can also come with quite reasonable ideas—a favorite flower or quote, a portrait of a pet, or just a fucking sick idea like a snarling yet lonely snow leopard, ideated after watching too much planet earth.2 My tattooer drew a leopard based on a Bert Grimm tiger (kind of wish I just got the tiger) and took a leisurely four hours to complete the tattoo, taking frequent breaks to flirt with another tattooer in the shop.3
The first few days, I was stoked. I felt new, tougher, stronger. Then it healed and I honestly stopped noticing it. And once I stopped noticing it, I also kind of stopped liking it! Putting the creative reins in my hands resulted in something that didn’t feel very me, too aggressive, too tough; a first tattoo trying to do the work of five.
A few months later, I walked into my beloved Queen Street Tattoo and discovered an entirely different way to get a tattoo, one that refreshingly stripped me of agency. This particular day, I grabbed a coconut water and walked into a tattoo shop that could be generously described as a hut, and less generously described as a shack. Seated in small waiting area, watching and listening to a father son duo from the Midwest get matching tattoos, I flipped through books full of flash designs.
This process made inherent sense to me, I could just choose from a list of options; ordering from a set menu instead of telling the chef what I’m in the mood for. I quickly landed on a swallow holding cherries, and a couple hours later, my pec was adorned with what’s still my favorite tattoo.
Since then, I’ve always gotten tattooed in the same way—eat something unhealthy, bring a gatorade and sour patch watermelon, flip through some flash, and put the first thing that fits my eye on a given day directly onto my skin. I like making decisions like this. I’m good at it. I think if I saw all the options for my life on a flash sheet, I’d choose correctly—not optimally, but correctly.
That’s all to say, I’m someone who ascribes meaning retroactively. The swallow that could symbolize being far from home for a long time, the friendly cow that makes me think of time spent in India, or the lizard that reminds me to just be a chill guy on a rock sometimes.
This time, I went with a dragon on my stomach. A spot I now know is classified as the male tramp stamp. As of now, there’s no meaning. Maybe in a few years there will be one, other than many friends of the blog telling me I look like a whore.
I headed down to North 5th and Driggs in Williamsburg to vote for mayor. I think my days of being a policy pragmatist are nearly over. I remember having a long discussion4 with some Zohran canvassers about some of the likely negative externalities of freezing the rent in NYC. I thought a lot about how I might attack the affordability crisis differently. Ultimately, I came to this conclusion—that I’m happy to vote for a candidate that I believe will push things in the right direction, even if their vision is flawed or doomed to fail. But even if the vision fails, how refreshing is it to cast a vote for someone with an actual vision, an actual tagline—something the Democratic party has lacked for years. While the pragmatist in me knows buses won’t be free, the optimist recognizes that even a small reduction in cost would have an outsized positive impact on lower-income New Yorkers.
The last couple weeks of the campaign really grossed me out, seeing Republican Senators and online agitators alike posting footage of 9/11, among other rampant displays of racism, ignorance, and fear-mongering. In that sense, it felt good to cast my vote. Given the money and hatred that eventually flowed into this campaign, you’d think those that deeply fear Mamdani’s policies, race, and religion, would have done better than nominate an incompetent sex pest to run against him. Sad!
After a quick pit stop and a change of clothes, I headed to dinner at Eyval. I recommend Eyval for really any occasion but for a birthday it’s particularly nice. Get too much of the bread and dips and a bunch of saffron martinis. Fight with your uncle over the bill only to realize he got to the restaurant fifteen minutes before to force the hostess to take your credit card off the reservation. Also, get confused when the waiter asks, “Who is [insert your sister’s name],” and realize your sister very generously and unnecessarily paid for the first round of said saffron martinis. The slice of cake has the candle go out midway to the table, which with my asthma, suits me just fine.5
Went to The Narrows for a nightcap. A pleasant end to a perfect day.
11/5
Woke up hungover.
Ate leftover sabzi from Eyval and watched a bunch of the Seth Cohen hot rabbi show.
Attempted to go to the Times Square Margaritaville for a drink, but was thwarted by a signal malfunction on the Q train. Then someone got hit by the Q train. I missed drinks at 8, and made it to the movie theater about 15 minutes into the first act of Good Fortune. All in all, a 2 hour subway trip.
The movie was surprisingly sweet. Aziz Ansari, after a lengthy hiatus from getting questionably #MeToo’d, reminded me that he actually can write and direct the shit out of a movie. His press junket has been interesting. Imagine spending years in the celebrity wilderness; writing, directing, and starring in a well-received film; only to tank your goodwill on the podcast circuit by doing a comedy show in Saudi Arabia. Bizarre shit!
Keanu Reaves is not particularly good at acting, but he is very good at being Keanu Reaves, and Keanu Reaves is quite charming. I don’t quite understand why Aziz didn’t just cast someone charming in the starring role, instead of himself. The Aziz-centric parts dragged, so much so that I was fantasizing what my beloved Riz Ahmed was up to.
Went to an Irish bar afterwards and had a Big Wave.
11/6
Woke up late, as is my right, and headed to MOMA in Midtown. A few years ago, my mom got me a membership as a birthday gift. I like a membership like this as a gift, it probably costs more money in the long-run, but breezing through the member’s entrance feels worth it. I also hate the feeling of trying to inhale the entire contents of a museum in a single day; it’s nicer to wander in once in a while and wander out when you get sick of it.
Started off in the Ruth Asawa special exhibit, which was absolutely not for me. That’s fine, I went downstairs and stumbled upon some works by Matisse. Every time I see a Matisse I flash back to some gallery (maybe the National Gallery?) in London, where I posted by a Matisse for a couple of minutes.
At that moment, a roommate of the blog came up to me, took one disdainful look and proclaimed, “Holy shit, Matisse is so ass.” I don’t know if I was ever the biggest Matisse fan, but now whenever I run into him, that’s the only comment I can hear.
I always enjoy seeing Edward Hopper in person. The painting above always makes me think of my sister, and how, when she was three or four, she wanted to be a gas station attendant for Halloween. These paintings, despite being over eighty years old, feel quite contemporary to me.
There’s a lot of great writing out there on Hopper and the themes of loneliness and isolation explored in his work. My uneducated mind wants to take it a step further—it’s about how lonely it is to find your place in the world. I always end up staring at a Hopper for a couple minutes, even if I’ve seen it several times.
I walked by some Warhol’s and shrugged. They look out of place not on the front of a shirt in a Uniqlo.
I sat down on a bench with a couple of tourists and looked at a Rothko. I again, sat for longer than I anticipated. The color fields always look better in person. I look at how large the canvas is and wonder the cost, wonder if really large art just always looks sick; it’s always felt like a cheat code to just make it huge, swallowing museum-goers in a field of red and orange.
I bought some merch and a couple prints at the store. A Nara ashtray, a Nara keychain, a Nara print, and a Hopper print. As of writing this I’ve yet to frame them. I of course used my member’s 10% discount.
I went to Nepenthes to Touch Clothes™️. The clothes were pretty bad honestly! Although my standards may have been too high after a recent trip to Sportivo in Madrid, which is high up on my favorite stores in the world list.
I continued walking downtown, popped into a Chick-Fil-A and ate a 12-piece meal with a Cherry Coke. I think COVID has collapsed the fast-food eat-in experience significantly. Most of the people there were waiting for delivery orders, almost certainly then shepherding some rapidly cooling chicken sandwich on an electric bike to a nearby high-rise, where a mid-level product manager was running a daily standup meeting. I like sitting down by myself and eating; now, working again, I would just swoop in for pick-up and scroll Twitter while I wait. This time, I got to sit and scroll. Felt a lot like luxury.
11/7
I woke up and made the trek to my old neighborhood. I bundled up and sat in a bright red rocking chair outside listening to a podcast. I was there to wait for a package that I (arguably if the good folks at Chase bank are reading this) erroneously sent to my old apartment. A bit of residual nostalgia maybe.
I tried to time my visit with the previous day’s attempted delivery. After a couple of hours, I had enough. I went to meet up with my sister and brother-in-law, who at the time thought I was “running an errand.” That term never fails to buy a couple hours, and no one ever cares to dig down into the errand itself.
I linked with them at Librae Bakery in East Village, and indulged in the lovely combination of chai and a tuna fish sandwich. We walked down to Chinatown to Magic Jewelry to get our auras read. For those unaware, an aura reading typically involves getting a photograph taken while you place your hands on sensors that measure the electromagnetic waves in your body. The device translates those waves into colors that appear in different places on the photo. You then get a reading based on the colors—like palm reading or tarot, a lot is up to interpretation.
I used to argue with my sister about these things. I remember astrology was a frequent topic; as I, the rationalist, couldn’t understand why someone would engage in something as arbitrary as astrology. In 2016, in Oakland, my sister took me to an aura reading like this one. And yes, it was kind of silly and vague and dramatic, but also communal and fun and allowed us to talk about our perceptions of ourselves and each other in ways we never were able to before. I, despite kind of thinking it was bullshit, remembered for years exactly what my photo looked like (all purple and white) and my reading (that I was super intense). This experience, while it absolutely did not eliminate my tendency to be a huge hater, shaped my view that it’s always better to default to deep engagement.6 Now we have awesome conversations about astrology all the time.
Anyways, now and forever I will associate shit like this with my sister. The readings at Magic Jewelry are excellent, they feel specific and are delivered somewhat forcefully. I was thrilled and honored to have almost the exact same aura composition as my brother-in-law. We were both told to get some sleep.
My historic aura readings:
Oakland, 2016
Colors: Purple and white
Meaning: Deep spirituality, wisdom, intensity
Plain english: You are an intense guy who is kind of up his own butt a lil bit
Brooklyn, 2023
Colors: Orange and yellow
Meaning: Intellect, creativity, joy, purpose
Plain english: You are getting really into latte art because your remote job is frankly not difficult
Manhattan, 2025
Colors: Red and orange
Meaning: Passion, enthusiasm, hard-work, good clothes
Plain english: You are grinding too hard but your hair looks really good
I got a delivery notification and ran back to Williamsburg to find no sign of my package. I’m still, at time of writing, in a dispute with FedEx :).
Later that evening, I ubered to my uncle’s in Jackson Heights. We ate some Indian food, drank some beer, and petted a dog. My cousin made a cake that was extremely tasty. Around this time last year I was hanging at the same house when she brought out a cake. I started looking around the room to see if it was for one of the people I didn’t know as well, but it was for me. I say I don’t like surprises but I think I do.
11/8
I meditated in the morning, as I often do before a day I think will be demanding. A year ago, after a generational crash-out and a series of panic attacks I invested an expensive meditation workshop that I went to after work every day for a week. Like most things, it was dumb as hell until I engaged more genuinely with it, then it was super helpful. I found the prescribed meditation amounts (roughly 45 minutes a day) to be completely unsustainable for my lifestyle, so I settle for hitting 30 minutes in the morning when I know I need to be a lil’ bit locked in.
I took the train back to Williamsburg to hang with my family. When they booked the hotel it was just a ten minute walk, now it’s about 30 minutes by train. We walked around my old neighborhood a little bit; now as a tourist not a resident, I can appreciate and not be annoyed by the buzz on the weekends, the vintage vendors that sell the same three variations of a leather racing jacket, frayed denim, and ringer tees.
We grabbed a coffee at Bakeri; I used to frequent the Greenpoint location when I’d dogsit Gus. I like the Greenpoint location more, the Williamsburg spot feels a bit too optimized for takeout and to-go. Sidebar, I’m really sick of paying $6 for a coffee and getting it in a paper cup! I want a large ceramic mug, dammit! Fuck “to-go” culture.
I waited outside Sephora for my mom to grab something. I’ve never been in there and I never will, it looks scary. I stared at the awning of the liquor store where I went shopping when I moved in 2021. My cousin, an experienced bartender, told me Amaro Nonino was a must. The price shocked me at check-out ($50), but I was too shy to put the bottle back. Now I occasionally have a finger of Nonino on a big rock after dinner as a treat.
We wrapped the day with slices at the Leo outpost just a block or two from my old place. It’s still my favorite slice in the area, despite L’Industrie being situated so close.
After a brief recess to sip a large Gatorade and hit the Peloton, myself and a roommate of the blog were off for dinner with my family. After some hiccups with traffic, we arrived at Nowon in Bushwick. The average age was maybe 24, but not in a bad way! There was energy, an unc might say. It was absolutely too loud, but the music choices (a bunch of old Kid Cudi cuts) made me feel like they knew I was there. The food was solid. I’d recommend the gochujang infused margarita pizza to anyone who goes. For someone like me who is dousing their shit in chili oil regardless, it was the rare slice that required no massaging to get to the proper spice level.
We walked the couple of blocks over to Selva for my 30th. On the way I had a weird flashback to my 9th birthday party. We went to see Goblet of Fire,7 and ten hooped in my driveway. I fell and skinned my knee. Ralph Fiennes was so scary I developed a very deep fear of Voldemort and would keep seeing his big white dome in my room.
Anyways, Selva is a fun place with lots of space and good merch. I’d recommend both for a night out or for throwing a private event. The DJ who was there when we got there told me he was waiting for a friend and asked to keep playing. I said sure. He asked me what kinds of music I like, I told him and he responded, “Man I have none of that.” He ended up playing the entire time, which was nice; but at the same time, I remain kind of upset I didn’t get to play my very ass Spotify mix that I used the DJ feature8 on to manually make transitions.
The night started with Family Hour™️, as various members of the Handsome extended family were precisely on-time. Soon after, some close friends of the blog arrived. Watching friends and family chop it up over negronis is one of the finer things in life.
Although the night never got quite as dancy as I’d hoped or anticipated, I was having too much fun talking shit to care. Among the greatest pleasures were two unexpected visits by childhood friends of the blog—one was literally my first friend (met at three or four) and my homie from growing up who I don’t see nearly enough. I think it’s sweet that those who’ve seen me at my worst—I once pushed my friend down a flight of stairs when he beat me in basketball,9 and my other homie oversaw various woman-induced crash-outs across the substantial public park network of Salt Lake City. So I was happy they could see me take a little step-up, as a washed corporate dude clinging onto old perceptions of being cool or swag by turning thirty in Bushwick.
I made merch, because merch is always fun and cool and how fun and cool it is obviously offsets the environmental and social implications of using vendors in Vietnam and Latvia to rush the order. I made a silly logo that I slapped on two hats and a t-shirt. I meant to bring stickers but I forgot. I charged a roommate of the blog with manning the merch tent, which we quickly abandoned in order to drink more negronis. If anyone did not get a piece I apologize, blame him!
My sister brought a cake which was perfect because she is perfect and has perfect taste. As she brought it out, and the homies began to belt a slightly off-key version of “Happy Birthday,” I thought, oh shit, I’m going to have to say something. Sure enough, after my asthma-addled ass blew out the thankfully small number of candles, I heard the dreaded words: SPEEEEECH.
In moments like this, I always default to saying the first thing that comes to mind. It’s the same strategy I take when writing a birthday card or sending a text I maybe shouldn’t; even if the words are suboptimal, the first thought guarantees that at minimum they are true. I got accused of preparing what I said, which I take as a compliment. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been thinking about it, perhaps latently or subconsciously throughout the day. I think the bottom-line was this: my perception of myself is that I’m a bit of a curmudgeon, a hater, a malcontent. I’ve maligned the cities I’ve lived in, the films I’ve seen, the expensive-mid food I’ve eaten. But I’ve always, without fail, been content with and grateful for the people in my life. No complaints there.
Later, we hit karaoke, the only approved afters of the blog. Standard activities commenced; pitchers of Asahi and peach Soon Hari were ordered, a roommate of the blog did his excellent Louis Armstrong impression, and I sang “Creep” to a generally lukewarm reception. All the while, my parents looked perplexed as they came to grips with how their son has been spending his time in the city. They looked a bit like me as I watch Planet Earth; amused, confused, and intrigued all at once.
At 2:00 AM, we were unceremoniously kicked out. It’s my firm belief that karaoke places should stay open until 4:00 at minimum.10 Myself and some stragglers headed to Three Dollar Bill for a nightcap. On the way, I ran into an ex of the blog on the street, waiting for pizza. Running into someone you used to date is always funny because what feels like a big deal in your head almost always results in a normal-ass conversation in real life; a reminder that you obviously got along well enough at some point.
The stragglers and I had beers at Three Dollar Bill. The lighting was diabolical, and the floors sticky, but it was nice. This night was cool and made me happy.
11/9
I woke up slightly earlier than I might have liked and headed to Greenpoint for brunch at my uncle’s. This brunch had all the essentials; bagels, pastries, and cousins.11 The pastries were from Radio Bakery, a spot I’ve still never been to because of the long lines and nut-forward menu.12
My parents stopped by my new apartment, and faithfully re-enacted the beginning of a queer eye episode, you know, the part where a sad man’s apartment is criticized.
My cousins convinced myself and a roommate of the blog to go out again, a rarity on a Sunday. We went back to Greenpoint, to play pool at the Greenpoint Ray’s, a faux-dive in a sea of faux-dives. We played some pool, unusually well. The pool table at Ray’s is squeezed in, guaranteeing that any action on the short side put the fernet shots of the adjacent booth in danger. I had a Guinness. I like Guinness because it feels more like having an appetizer than having a drink.
We bar-hopped a little bit. Some cousins of the blog wanted to dance, but alas, it was a Sunday.
11/10
I played Uncharted 4 on my Playstation, a frustrating experience that involved me looking up puzzle solutions more than I would like to admit.
I went to dinner at Liar Liar in Gowanus, another well-decorated wine bar with a burger on the menu. When I tell you this shit was absolute buns. It started with a martini that was an affront to life itself. If readers of the blog take one thing away from my twisted mind, please refrigerate your goddamn vermouth! This shit was rancid.13
Anyways, I split a borderline-too-cheesy Caesar and a steak frites with a friend of the blog. The steak, inexplicably, tasted like turkey. I for the first time in a while, irate, skipped dessert.14
I went home and complained to a roommate of the blog that this shit was ass. I, in a rare moment of self-awareness, asked him if I frequently say that shit is ass, if I’m a harsh critic. Apparently I do—all the time.
11/11
Make a wish :)
I woke up on the early side to go meet a childhood friend of the blog in Greenpoint. We met in pre-school, I think because we both liked dinosaurs. We haven’t lived in the same city since I was nine; in many ways, it’s a small miracle we are still in touch.
We grew up playing sports together. Most summer days, you’d find us in a spacious Cleveland backyard15 playing catch. Occasionally, we played a game called out/safe that my dad and I used to play. You’d throw some kind of ground ball to the fielder and start playing first base. Depending on how cleanly they fielded the ball, how good the throw was, and just their overall vibe; you’d yell OUT or SAFE!16 My backyard in Cleveland was lined with old oak trees, whose trunks sat on the other side of the fence between our yard and the neighbor’s. Many streets in Cleveland were lined with similar trees; sometimes the trees on opposite sides of the street were so grown the branches would touch somewhere around the yellow lines, turning every street into an archway. But today it was just catch, regular catch.
We were both decent baseball players, as far as seven year olds go. He was a naturally gifted athlete who I once, years later, taught how to play golf better than roughly 95% of the population in half an hour. And I, despite being a terrible hitter who was scared of the ball, was a highly competent fielder who pitched and played shortstop on our little league team.17 We played catch for what felt like hours (but I’m sure was only a few minutes) without the ball hitting the ground. He threw me a perfect ball. I caught it. Then, inexplicably, I loaded up and sailed one over his head.18 He shrugged, and jogged back to chase it down. I put my hands in my pockets and my head down. It was a bad throw. To my left, a crack rang out. I looked up and watched a massive oak tree keel over; crushing the fence and falling in our yard, directly where my friend was standing just a second earlier. When I find myself searching for some evidence of a god, or a higher power; I often think of that moment—the relief of seeing my friend emerge from the other side of the tangled branches, thankfully unscathed.
Anyways, we met at my old haunt Acre in Greenpoint. I mistakenly, mostly due to my inability to wake up before noon on a weekday, told him to meet there for lunch. Lunch wasn’t being served but we had a matcha and a pastry and spent an hour doing a download on life and family and love. The conversation was one that was probably a little annoying to overhear, but the woman next to us did chime in some lukewarm NYC dating takes at some point, so shout out to her.
Before his flight, we trekked up to Diamond Slice in Greenpoint. He had a truly diabolical looking chicken caesar slice, while I opted for the spicy slice. It was excellent! As it always is to see an old friend.
11/12
Drank some chai in bed and fired up Dispatch on PlayStation 5. I’ve always had a fondness for narrative video games that are basically just visual novels. The excellent Afterlife, where you escape hell by challenging Satan to a game of beer pong, is my favorite of the genre. Dispatch is unusually polished for a game like this, starring big name Aaron Paul as a superhero shift manager. I appreciated the art direction and sharp writing. Although the action video game parts (mostly just dialogue choices or quick time events) left something to be desired, it was a perfectly acceptable distraction.
Later, I had drinks with a friend of the blog at Bar Oliver in Chinatown. I like Bar Oliver because I like any bar with a deep respect for vermouth. When vermouth is good it’s awesome. If you don’t refrigerate vermouth you cannot be trusted in polite society! Iberian ham is also awesome. Tomato toast, ham, and vermouth while talking shit is ideal.
This particular friend of the blog missed my birthday, so I had a backlog of takes to get through. I was recapping a recent trip to Madrid and very reasonably stated that the Prado museum actually sucks. My reasoning: a man can only take so many portraits of royals and religious scenes in a similar style and color palate before he gets a slight headache and needs to drink a tiny Mahou in a plaza as soon as humanly possible. She did not agree with this take! Sorry! Love the Reina Sofia though <3
11/13
Had dinner plans but got anxious about starting a new job and cancelled. 😮💨😮💨😮💨😮💨😮💨
11/14
How quickly I arrived at my final Friday! I decided to spend it at another museum, The Whitney. I got on the train and lamented I hadn’t planned this excursion on a day when a cousin of the blog gainfully employed by The Whitney was working on-location.
My last time visiting, I accidentally entered the revolving doors at the same time as an old woman and profusely apologized while my friends laughed. I can’t see a set of revolving doors without feeling the shame or panic of that day. My old (very corporate job) had a free museum benefit. For the first time since leaving, I ponied up for the entrance fee—a whopping $30. I am a noted patron of the arts, but $30 to mill around some modern art and duck German tourists every two feet feels like a bad deal.
The permanent collection is always good, I seem to linger the same paintings I lingered at years ago. I, in a rare moment of open-mindedness, ended up thoroughly enjoying a special photography exhibit. For whatever reason, photography rarely hits for me in a museum context. Maybe I’m just used to seeing it on my phone. Ken Ohara’s Contacts, however, demanded my attention.
The resulting photos are lovely and rough and have this real sense of place I think I’ve been missing in other media.
I walked through and thought of all the TikTok videos I’d watched with a similar concept; hand a disposable off to a stranger and wait for the negatives. Shout out to Ken Ohara for having the goddamn vision. Even though this concept is played out by now, I never seem to scroll by.
The Whitney store is as terrible as the MOMA store is awesome. Small selection, no playful knick-knacks, and a Bode collaboration that truly offended my sensibilities.
But fear not, for awesome people there’s a significantly better consumptive option. Head to the rooftop cafe and order a hot chocolate. But not just any hot chocolate, a hot chocolate that is truly a hot chocolate; like, a literal cup of melted dark chocolate. With a chartreuse marshmallow on top. It’s pricey but close your eyes and swipe!
11/15
I prepped for my first day of work. Except instead of laying clothes out on the laundry chair in the corner of my room, I filled a suitcase. When I started my last job; I, at the behest of my parents, got a haircut and some new clothes. Those new clothes were mostly chinos and striped button-downs from Uniqlo, button-downs later commandeered by an ex of the blog because 2022 was the year of the boyfriend button-down.
My old job was in FiDi. On my first day of work I wore a sweater with a button-down underneath, thinking it would make me look like a young professional, camouflage for someone who’d never really had a job. I wore dress shoes. I didn’t look like myself.
Through waves of COVID, layoffs, and relocations, that job got pretty remote. As the years went on, I took more and more pride in dressing like myself. There was this image I had in my head—me walking into the bank lobby in a hoodie, or bright red boots, or ripped jeans—distinct in the sea of branded vests and blazers; a buoy. It made me feel good; to be late and non-conforming, my superficial attempt at agency.
This time, dressing for my first day was more straightforward. I interviewed in a pink cashmere sweater with both my earrings in. Confirmed no dress code. I packed my essentials: horse leather Kapital boots, soft sweaters, a denim jacket, and enough emergen-c to cure even the most sickly Victorian child.
I survived a brief anxiety spiral (what happens if you miss a flight that your work is paying for) and boarded a red-eye to Vienna. I watched The Accountant followed by The Accountant 2.19 It felt appropriate to get back in the flow for work, but it’s unclear how much shooting and murder I’ll be doing.
Because I was on Air Austria the beer was excellent. The schnitzel served with dinner was strange. Premium economy is extremely fire when someone else pays for it.
11/16
I landed in Vienna. Walked a long way to my new gate. I wanted to buy a keychain, a new and necessary tradition for me, but it was so early all the Hudson News type places were closed. I settled for a bag of chips and a sparkling water from the vending machine. I rode a bus out to the gate, a ritual that usually pisses me off but this time felt nice. I held onto a strap from the ceiling and watched the sunrise out the window. When a normally stupid moment feels beautiful it feels extra-beautiful.
I landed in Belgrade. Walking off the plane I felt part sleep-deprivation and part something else, this propulsive feeling I once felt getting off a plane in Hawaii in 2018, a feeling of being on the precipice of something—usually not spectacular or terrible, but at least interesting.
My driver asked me if I liked meat and alcohol. I, of course, said yes. He smiled, you’ll like Serbia, he said conclusively.
I checked into my hotel room. In my opinion, there are few finer things than a freshly made-up hotel room, especially for the cleanliness-challenged such as myself. I took a euphoric nap and dreamed of a spec script for The Accountant 3 where I might play the villain, using AI-features in QuickBooks to make Ben Affleck’s bean-counting obsolete.
I woke up and walked around. A mix of classic and brutalist architecture, a country in flux. I walked by the General Staff Building, bombed by NATO and left partially destroyed as a sort of grim monument. I’d later learn there are plans to build a Trump Hotel in its place.
There were lovely looking apartment buildings, covered in graffiti; kebab shops and a Zara. At sit-down restaurants many leather-clad customers smoked cigarettes inside. I went to the National Museum of Serbia; it was free, and it ripped. Maybe the best museum I’ve been to this year.
I went and got a gyro and a Coke. As most gyros are, it was awesome. I went back to my room and tried to meditate. Got ready for bed. When I wake up, I’ll be back on the clock.
I think I’ll wish I did more with this time, but also, I don’t know how many more times in my life I’ll get to sleep in.
Note: I went to Serbia for work, but still live in New York. You can contact me at clinicallyhandsome@substack.com.
Time theft :)
My first tattoo
They are now married :P
argument
I used to live in abject terror of the test the pulmonologist used to give me where you’d have to blow out the candles on a simulated cake
I know this is very basic for most people, but I’m kind of an idiot
Very poorly done movie imo but maybe that’s for another blog
Still in beta at time of writing
Sore losing and attempted murder was something I had to grow out of!
Should probably be 24 hours if we are being honst
:)
The official bakery of the blog is La Bicyclette in Williamsburg
Maybe take this review with a grain of salt as I was in a really bad mood this night
Liar Liar was rated 3.4 on my Beli
Massive, drafty houses that cost less than my apartment
Getting the runner called safe after a sick play was one of the worst feelings in the world
When you are small, hitting the strike zone is enough to pitch. My last start, in eighth grade, I got touched up for 5 runs in an inning. Never had the velocity!
Baker Mayfield ass throw
https://letterboxd.com/therealtinyboi/