Reasons I Love This City: No. 1

From Gothamist:

A Brooklyn resident was arrested for plotting his wife's murder. The police are pretty sure Rockefeller Auguste was trying to kill his wife because he paid $5,000 to an undercover cop posing as a hit man. Captain James Coan explained, "He felt he had been wronged, and he wanted the 'hit man' he hired to follow his exact instructions - and gave him a samurai sword to be sure." According to the Daily News, Auguste "roughed up" his wife because he thought she was cheating, and when she "reported him for domestic abuse, and Auguste became enraged that she would turn on him." Auguste had requested that the "hit man" bring back her ring as proof she was dead. The wife has gone into hiding.

In related news:


Funnily enough, this is the second time I've tagged something "turning japanese."

Newegg Lets Me Cheat On My Taxes Again

Just got an email from the internet version of Best Buy, Newegg. Previously, and by that I mean for like six weeks, they'd been charging sales tax on all NY-based purchases, in accordance with a new state law that I assume means everyone has to pay sales tax on stuff they buy over the internet. If it's anything like the other state I lived in with a similar law, they ask you on your tax return if you bought anything. Newegg was applying the tax on their own, rather than leaving it up to the buyer to report (or not) the purchases on their tax return at the end of the year. The law went into effect June 1, and as of August 21, Newegg has decided to listen to their customers and ignore it:

As a result of recent changes in New York State tax law requiring certain out-of-state retailers to collect and remit sales taxes to the State of New York, we began collecting applicable sales tax for all orders shipped to New York addresses starting June 1, 2008.

After careful review and consideration, we are pleased to inform you that we have stopped collecting New York sales tax, effective August 21, 2008. This decision was driven by your direct and candid feedback and our continued commitment to you as our valued customers.

This is a win for tax cheaters everywhere. We need a shredded-receipt parade.

Joe Torre on Moving West

This blog is a about moving east. Well, technically north, but I'm a west coaster by childhood. A lot of what I've been getting used to, Joe Torre, a native New Yorker moving to LA to coach the Dodgers, has been doing in reverse. In his third post, he talks about getting used to driving, which when I first read it I found funny until I realized I spent my first two months here marveling at life on foot.

His best observation about life on the left, though, is one about pocket dogs:

Here's an interesting tidbit about LA culture. It's not just a TV cliché: People really DO carry pocket dogs around with them wherever they go. I have no idea where you'd put these little yip-yaps when you go to the restroom, or even why they're such a hot accessory; then again, I just moved from a town where people buy color-coordinated pepper spray cans. But I do know it's a real phenomenon; I learned about it first-hand when I found myself walking down Rodeo Drive with this little white Maltese or Pomeranian named Butch under my arm. The funniest (or saddest) part was that I didn't look one bit out of place. Hey, if that's all it takes to fit into LA, I'm in--at least the white fur will match my uniform. Maybe I can get a gray one for my away games.

At least some things are the same in NYC and LA.

Helpful Hint: Spotcrime New York

When I was apartment hunting, I spent a lot of time fretting over which areas were "good" or "bad," and since everyone I asked had differing opinions on what good and bad meant, I ended up visiting prospective neighborhoods at night and hoping for the best.

(What I eventually found was any area with an average rent within a few hundred bucks of what I was able to spend were well within my comfort zone. And this isn't very surprising, since I'd imagine anyone in any socioeconomic situation would feel about the same.)

However, toward the end of my apartment hunt, I found Spotcrime.com's New York section, which mashes up with Google Maps to list the crimes reported in an area. Just enter your zip code, and away you go. The site pulls its data from a number of blotters, one of which is Twitter-based, so take that for what it's worth. It's probably not the most accurate, but it's a good tool to have in your relocation utility belt.

For instance, in my neighborhood there's been a rash of muggings, probably because more yuppies and hipsters are heading eastward into Bushwick and are making for soft targets. This is why I walk around with a samurai sword at night.

No One Knows Who They Were Or What They Were Doing

The Druids ... were seen in a Brooklyn neighborhood called Cobble Hill earlier this week.

From a blog of a blog of a blog:

Last night I was walking on Court Street near Union Street with Stephanie (”Stiff”) and there were two ladies walking in front of us wearing long, flowing, huge robes with hoods (though the hoods weren’t up), not unlike the robes of a monk, wizard, or witch. They were carrying flashlights, and had an air of authority about them. Okay, what is that? Did Halloween come early? Does this have something to do with that Twilight book? Is there some sort of neighborhood watch I should know about? Until more information comes in, I’m going to call them the Cobble Hill Werewolf Patrol.

No word on whether or not they were in danger of being crushed by a dwarf.

First Great Tragedy

With the new apartment and all, I've been planning on throwing a housewarming party to break in the new digs. I was gonna theme it "Mint Julep Night," in honor of the party my friend and I put together on two hours' notice. My plan was to invite everyone over and pour mint juleps and mojitos using a recipe an old editor buddy and I figured out a couple summers ago.

However, when I went to check out the liquor store nearby, they didn't have the proper bourbon, Old Forrester, which is by far the first great tragedy of my New York experience.

What makes Forrester great is it's $15 a fifth but tastes as good as the higher-grade bourbons (pro tip: When you're at a bar, order bourbon rather than any whiskey - thanks to strict distillation requirements, even well bourbon is better than Jack), assuming you don't bother with Makers, which you shouldn't unless you have your name on a barrel anyway. And they don't have it within walking distance. Clearly this means I need to take my search to the metropolitan area. Mint Julep Night must go on.

My Bike Route

I mentioned buying a bike in an earlier post, and since I picked one up, I've been riding back and forth to work. I just keyed a rough estimate into Google Maps and found out it's about 12 miles roundtrip, including a stint over the Williamsburg Bridge, my little version of hell in fifth gear. Since I haven't been able to get a free weekend to ride around lately, I figured I'd share my Google Maps route with you and talk a bit about what it's like to commute via bike in New York.

First, my commute:



I cut off the start and end points because the internet is scary.

Anyway, the real meat of the trip begins at the Williamsburg Bridge. It's really long and steeper than it looks when you're in a car, but otherwise it's a model of bike-friendly engineering. On either side of the bridge there's a two-lane mini-road on which bikers and walkers can cross without having to deal with cars. All the bridges I've ridden over have something similar, but what's strange about all of them is they want walkers to walk on the left and bikers to bike on the right, meaning you're face to face with people coming on foot in the opposite direction. I guess it's a safety thing, but it's disorienting the first time you go over.

After that, it's a couple quick turns to the worst part of my trip: Houston street. Houston is the last major street before the avenues start, and it's a goddamn death trap. The road's poorly maintained, and since there are work crews out there every day, there's no shoulder escape route, since they have barriers up everywhere. This is the only street where people honk at me for being in the way. It's also the only street where I scream "fuck" at people.

From Houston it's pretty smooth sailing up Sixth, since it has a bike lane, which is absolutely awesome. It's on the left side of the street, so you don't have to tangle with buses randomly moving into the shoulder (buses LOVE to fuck with bikers otherwise - everyone in the MTA is a serial killer), and unless a rogue cab decides he absolutely needs to pick up someone on the left side of the road in rush hour traffic, the only drivers I have to contend with are delivery truck drivers, who at the very least are professionals and have made careers out of staying out of accidents.

From there I'm pretty much at work. It takes me about 40 minutes door to door, which is actually less than it takes me on the subway on bad days. There's also the added exercise benefit, and I know the Lower East Side like it's my job. Or at least my hobby.

To Contradict My Previous Post

To prepare for my girlfriend's arrival, I've been trying to get a read on stores in the neighborhood she'd like, since she's way more particular than I am with pretty much everything.

Anyway, I was walking down Grand after hitting up my new favorite bar in the world, and I saw a kickass produce place that was selling all varieties of fresh fruit and veggies for super cheap. Like, cheaper-than-Target cheap. You can get six artichokes for $1. That's of the I'm-so-crazy-come-on-down pricing model. This solves the Fresh Direct Produce Problem of '08, tosses some money into the small business economy in the area and lets me continue buying non-perishables at a low cost without incurring the wrath of the domestic partner.

I'm beginning to understand why people get so happy about walking a mile for groceries.

Helpful Hint: Freshdirect

Grocery shopping in New York is a serious pain in the ass if you don't have a car and remember what life was like before you had to pay $7 for a 12 ounce box of Lucky Charms.

Rather than actually shopping, what you're really doing is foraging. People have come up to me and recommended stores 15 blocks away because "they have really good cheese" or produce or rare Asian lettuce or whatever. In the hunter/gatherer sense, that 15-block trek probably should leave me feeling more fulfilled than walking into a Super Target and picking up a brick of non-organic sharp cheddar on my way to the cereal/dairy/clothing section, but as an evolved male of the '90s, I find myself missing that homogenized experience. This is my one complaint about life up here. Hidden culinary gems are best left to the professionals; I just want bananas, milk and the essentials to all live in the same place.

So this has left me with a couple options:
1) Eat out a lot more than I normally would. Check.
2) Find someone with a car who's willing to take me to the Target in Brooklyn once a week. What is this, college?
3) Freshdirect. Wha?

Freshdirect is an online grocery store that delivers the shit you buy to you. It's better-stocked than anything else I've found around here, the prices are almost on par with flyover country and they come to my door with my sundry provisions. They charge $5.75 to deliver, only $1.75 more than the cost of a round trip on the subway, and they'll show up at your door at a time you choose. They even sell toiletries and stuff in bulk. I don't have to leave the apartment to buy toothpaste or ice cream. Ice cream, Mandrake, children's ice cream!

I hear tell it's best not to buy produce from them, and the bananas I bought were a lovely shade of green, but everything else about Freshdirect was great. It's a wonderful way to take the stress out of a milk run, and it makes those places with the great cheese seem a lot more accessible when they're not part of a four-hour journey just to get some calories in me.

It's Finally Over

Been traveling all month, which has only compounded apartment stuff.

We last left off with a failed inspection. Since then, I've had two friends visit in two separate weeks, bought a bicycle and have been across the country twice.

On the apartment front, the building passed its second inspection with flying colors, despite the fact the inspector had to look at the place over two days because an apartment building nearby collapsed. Inspectors are like superheroes and emergency response technicians all rolled into one, because to hear the contractor tell it, the guy was out of my building so fast they only heard the crash of the collapse after he was out the door.

I moved in between the two days of inspection, which became a problem when I was still in bed as the inspector was entering the building on inspection day mk. II. Despite the fact my apartment had been deemed habitable, the guy hadn't yet verified that all the doors opened properly in other parts of the building, so people weren't technically supposed to be inside yet. Enter: Super banging on my door frantically while I crawl out of bed. I got out the front door just as the inspector was walking in, bug-eyed at the half-shaven dude slinking out the building he shouldn't have been inside.

Everything worked out, or they finally just bribed the dude, because I got a phone call that day and was cleared to live in my goddamn apartment, finally.

So that's about over. We're getting all moved in this week, and the place is pretty swank indeed. I think I about ran the gamut of the moving experience, less actually living on a buddy's couch in the questionable section of town while job hunting at the same time. But hey, I survived moving into a new building in a city full of ancient ones, and now I've got a base of operations for learning the rest of the city.

And while I still don't think of myself as a New Yorker yet, I will say how nice it felt to come home after traveling. Somehow, even a neighborhood in Brooklyn I barely know feels familiar after a 7-hour red eye. That's a step in the right direction.

Inspection: Failed

Just got word that the inspection for the apartment failed because the inspector discovered a few bathroom doors that opened the incorrect direction. I can only assume they opened up, rather than in or out, because what else could be incorrect about a bathroom door?

Anyway, two more weeks of temporary living until we get to go through this again. The landlady has been absolutely awesome about the situation, despite the fact she must be taking a bath. Sucks, but it could be worse: This could be Philadelphia.

Anonymous Sighting

Earlier this week, I ran into a guy in a familiar Guy Fawkes mask. He was wearing a tuxedo and top hat, holding balloons and a sign that read, "DO I LOOK LIKE A TERRORIST? XENU.COM." He drew a bit of a crowd and began ranting about scientology, then disappeared down the street before I thought fast enough to snap a picture. It was just weird; a total Fight Club moment.

Where Did June Go?

I admit, there's an apology in order. Unfortunately, when I started this little blog, I forgot a fun fact about myself: When I don't have any reason to go home (be it a significant other or a pet) I work 10-hour days, and the last thing I want to do when I get home is curl up in front of a laptop and talk about the high-stress world of apartment hunting in New York.

Here's my update, nearly a month in the making. Hopefully, this will help explain why it's taken me a month to get back here.

Very early in the month - just after my 100th street escapades, I found an ad on Craigslist advertising a two bedroom apartment in the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn. Williamsburg is in the northern part of Brooklyn, nestled between Greenpoint (a very good area), Bed-Stuy (used to be horrendous, now just not so good) and Bushwick (not great, but it's the next stop on the gentrification wagon), between one and five train stops to Manhattan. It used to be an artist mecca; now, a couple decades later, it's a mecca for people who want to be artists but have good enough jobs that they don't need to flee deeper into the urban jungle. It's also hipster central, but anyone who knows me knows I wasn't built for skinny jeans and annoying T-shirts. I imagine this will grow into a dissociative problem, but I keep telling myself that if he were to exist now, Patrick Bateman would be wearing APC jeans and prowling Bedford avenue, Williamsburg's main drag.

Anyway, the apartment itself is in one of Williamsburg's less hipster-riddled areas, closer to Bushwick than to Manhattan or Greenpoint, and there's about as many families as there are young people. It's about perfect for me, since when someone dressed like Rod Stewart, complete with the hair, white '80s suit and snakeskin shoes, walks down the street as seriously ironic as a heart attack, I have someone to laugh with. Yes, that actually happened.

I spent a Saturday morning checking out the place. What was really great is it's a new building, which means new appliances, floors and, most importantly, central air conditioning. I grew up in a place where you walked from your central-AC house to your overcharged AC car to your central AC work. I'm not sure I could function at peak efficiency in a house with rooms of varied temperature. I immediately fell in love with the building, if not the place's layout. It was a duplex with about 800 square feet - huge for NYC - but none of the rooms were really big enough to make anything work. Luckily, the couple showing the place showed me their one bedroom apartments, which were laid out a lot more to my liking: Three rooms, all big, without a lot of wasted space in the kitchen or bathroom. Before I left the place I'd pretty much made a decision to move in, but I still wanted to keep my options open and give my girlfriend a chance to look at the place before making a decision.

A week later, my girlfriend came up to visit, and she and I played tourist for a week, mostly eating tons and tons of food in a number of boroughs, both to check out the neighborhoods and expand our waistlines. She cruised around on the back of a broker's Vespa in Manhattan, looking at places on the West side. Most of what she found in our price range was about half the size of the place in Williamsburg, and when I took her out to look at the one bedroom, she liked it quite a bit, too. So down went the deposit along with my stress level.

The next week, my parents came into town and I entered week two playing tourist and eating too much. I actually saw a one-man show and caught a Yankee game, two things I haven't done in a couple years, and pretty much unwound, assured that at the end of the month, I'd have a roof over my head. Unfortunately, nothing in real estate is never sure.

It all starts with a crane falling on the Upper East Side. At the end of May, some weird act of God, uh, acted, and one of those 30-story cranes fell in Manhattan, killing the operator and injuring a number of pedestrians. Now, this alone is bad enough, but another crane fell not too long before this most recent one, which has the city in a tizzy and demanding more oversight from the Department of Buildings, which governs crane inspections. They, as all great bureaucracies do, have opted to respond to the problem by adding new layers of bureaucracy to all building inspections in the five boroughs. Including my apartment building. Go figure.

And so, July 1 has come and gone, and they've yet to perform the final inspection on my building, which means I can't sleep there yet. Luckily, my landlady, who, unlike the numerous management companies I've dealt with before moving to NYC, actually gives a damn about her tenants, has graciously put those of us who'd otherwise be homeless up in her other buildings for the cost of utilities until all this blows over.

Which brings me to now. I've got one bedroom in a three bedroom apartment so close to the new place I can hear the work crew taking down the scaffolding for the pending inspection for the time being. The talk is the DOB will inspect the new place tomorrow, but the super thinks it won't be until next week that we'll be able to move in. The moral of the story here: Don't bet on a new building, unless you've got a cool landlord or don't mind the Y.

Always Follow Sage Advice: 100th St

"Don't go north of 100th street," my friend told me. "When have I steered you wrong?"

Never. Still never. I decided to take a look at the upper west side this week, as I've finally gotten settled into my new place in what's sort of Hell's Kitchen. Most everything in the upper west side is ridiculously expensive, and everything else is rent controlled and therefore occupied by 70-year-olds paying $1,000 a month to live across the street from Central Park. So obviously, my options are a bit limited.

My plan was to look for stuff in the $2,000-2,300 range, a bit more than what I'd ideally pay, but anything less than that was either in the Bronx or Spanish Harlem. I found a few places in the 90s, but by the time I called, all but one was rented.

The one that wasn't didn't quite work out, either. As it turns out, the "tenant" had already moved to "England," and wanted me to FedEx "her" a check for $1,900, the first month's rent. Slight problem: I'm not retarded. Bitch was in "Nigeria"; between the awkward writing style and bizarre greeting, the whole deal reeked. So back to Craigslist I went.

This time, I found a place nestled just north of 100th, for $1,900 again. "What the hell," I thought. "What's the difference between 97th and 104th?" I called and made an appointment for the early evening, hopped on the No. 2 train and came out on 96th and Broadway.

As I walked around, I decided this was a place I could live. It's kinda residential, but there's a bunch of independent stores and restaurants all over the place. It was milling with people, too, which I like; deserted areas in a city with 8 million people concern me. The buildings are all brick and really clean. Great area.

I headed north to 97th, still good; 98th, still good; 99th, still good; 100th, oh my, what's that tall building? I moved a bit closer and looked up. It must've been 30 stories and was residential. It stuck out like a sore thumb. As I got closer, I saw a placard that read, "Managed by the New York Housing Ability." Oh, it's a project. No big deal - these weren't exactly the towers from The Wire. I kept on moving, making a note that this place might get vetoed by my girlfriend, regardless of what the place looked like.

As I walked up to the building's entrance, I found a deal-breaker of my own: Four young gentleman all wearing the same striking shade of red. They weren't exactly menacing, but all I could think was, "It's 6:30, and the bloods are already blocking up a corner?" I grew up in one of the middle-class areas in a dangerous city, and I lived for some time in a southern city with a hilariously high per capita violent crime rate. (We weren't St. Louis or Baltimore, but by God we tried!) I know the dudes sitting around a corner are pretty harmless, and I know if you're not part of a criminal enterprise, the criminal enterprise leaves you alone. But I also don't want to walk my dog at midnight, or stumble home drunk at 2:30, when I could see or bump into the wrong thing. Why put myself into that situation when I don't need to?

As it turns out, the woman I made the appointment with wasn't even at the damn apartment. I called her and got her voicemail, so I took it as a sign to head home. It was a nice night (every time it begins to sprinkle, everyone in the city runs for cover or busts out an umbrella - i don't get it), so I opted to walk the 50-ish blocks home. I've been taking a bit too much advantage of all the restaurants around my place now, and figured the hike couldn't hurt. I cut over to Central Park West (which I now know turns into 8th avenue at Columbus circle) and strolled home, counting doormen every block I went along.

Even though the area is picturesque, I'm not sure I could live there. Everything feels too uniform, even compared to the upper east side, which I walked through over the weekend with a buddy. The people all dressed the same - designer business casual for the girls, casual suits or business casual for the guys. I'm pretty sure my pseudo-socialist viewpoint and torn up shoes wouldn't go over with the doormen.

Sure beat north of 100th, though.

On The Pod

My stay at The Pod Hotel was pretty good. While the hostel-style, bunk-bed-with-a-shared-bathroom option was enticing, I instead chose to stay in a room with a double bed and private bath. I'd guess the entire room was about 100 square feet, and they managed to cram all the amenities you'd expect from a big boy hotel into the space - bed, AC, shower (they had a rainwater shower head, so the water shot down from above - this is the coolest thing ever), toilet, sink and TV - there's just less dead space between it all.

I did have one existential moment when the place reminded me of a prison cell, but then I remembered I had an LCD TV and WiFi. I'd definitely stay there again, but one week was definitely long enough to get The Pod experience.

From The Pod to the Pad

After a bit of drama getting a temporary place lined up (fun tip I only stumbled upon: most brokers and property owners only think 30 days out, so the rental market realllllly dries up in the last week of the month), I'm in my permanent temporary home, conveniently located near, well, everything.

I need to walk about 10 feet to run into 100 restaurants, but I'm far enough away from the avenue to not be bothered by the noise. What's really cool is I have a balcony about big enough for a book and me, which overlooks a courtyard area inside the apartment building. They also have laundry facilities onsite, and there's a couple grocery places nearby. I'm going to miss this place.

One thing I've discovered here is how alive cash is. I can nearly count on one hand the number of times I had actual paper money in my wallet where I used to live; everywhere took plastic. But here, I feel like I'm the only person that doesn't have a wad o' ones at any given time. The businesses don't make it easy, either; Most everywhere takes credit, but there's a 50-50 chance they'll demand a $10 (or more) minimum. I'm one of those people that puts everything on a credit card and pays it off at the end of the month, so I'm still getting over the fact my brilliant finance management plan may not survive the city. Moral of the story: Cash is king.

GypsyMaps Rox My Sox

GypsyMaps is a Google Maps mash-up that overlays the MTA subway and bus maps over the city. What's really cool is if you ask for directions, it'll tell you which lines to take, figure out how far you have to walk and even how long your commute will be. And it's pretty accurate, too. It says my old commute was about 20 minutes, door to door, which was about right.

I'm the Sherpa of Penn Station

Every time I travel hungover, I tell myself I'll never drink again. Sunday was no different. I planned on leaving my going away party on Saturday evening by midnight, but that went straight to hell when the host noticed I wasn't doing any shots and went to lengths to rectify that. By the end of my night, closer to 2:00 than 12:00, I had puked in three different zip codes and ended up spending even more throwing up into a trash can near by bed.

My plane was scheduled to leave at 10:00, which meant I needed to be up at 8:00, and when my alarm went off I was still hammered. Luckily I packed the day before, so I grabbed a soda and headed out the door with my parents and girlfriend.

The plane ride up wasn't too bad - I sipped club soda and slept off the rest of my drunk, grateful for the ibuprofen my girlfriend packed me when I wasn't looking. I landed in JFK on time and began the long journey into Manhattan.

This may be how your move to New York starts. If you're smart, you'll have drank more responsibly than I, and you'll have opted not to lug 70 pounds of luggage without wheels. But JFK is where most major American airlines go through. If you've never been, JFK is a great airport because each terminal is independent from the others, and there's a train service, named TRAIN, that runs between each of them and ends up either at the Jamaica station for the Long Island Rail Road, or the Howard Beach subway station. I planned on taking the LIRR into Penn Station to get to Manhattan, because the Howard Beach subway option takes about three times as long to get to the same place.

The problem is the TRAIN train that goes to Jamaica doesn't go to Howard Beach, and in my less than effervescent state I stumbled onto the Howard Beach TRAIN. I realized something was wrong when I was five miles out of JFK, so I had to get off at the stop before Howard Beach, turn around, and find a mini-station where both TRAIN trains ran.

I eventually made it to Jamaica station, paid my $5 to get through the turnstiles (the TRAIN costs $5 to ride - they just charge you at the end rather than the beginning), helped some Indian dude buy LIRR tickets, and cursed myself for the first time for bringing so much goddamn luggage onto a train. I had a military-style duffle bag, a travel bag, and a huge laptop bag slung over me, and the turnstiles that bar your entry to the station weren't really designed for someone carrying that much. So I had to manipulate myself like I was walking through a jungle gym with an extra 100 pounds to deal with.

Getting onto the LIRR train wasn't much better, but at least the cars are designed to accommodate people with luggage. I could sling my duffle bag up on a luggage rack and only have to deal with my laptop and travel bag for the 30-minute ride. This was the last part of my day I'd consider pleasant.

Once I got into Penn, I had to walk over to another train, which was about a quarter mile underground from where the LIRR stopped. From there I'd change to the shuttle at 42nd street to get over to Grand Central, and then jump on the 6 train to get to my hotel. This was hellish. Absolutely hellish.

The New York subway system is my second favorite mass transit system in the States. (Washington DC's gets the edge, just because they have LED signs in the stations to announce delays.) It's fast, clean, and cheap. But they're in no way designed for a dipshit with his life on his back, trying to squeeze through rapidly closing doors and not pin someone against a wall when he forgets which bag is slung over which shoulder. The stairs are just the perfect height to make each step a mini-squat exercise. And since the different trains' tracks tend to be at least a hundred yards and couple stairways away from each other, I probably walked a mile underground, just to change trains.

The underground stations are also hot. It was 70 here today, and the stations were probably all in the 90s. I had a light wool jacket on, in addition to shlepping all my crap around. By the time I was waiting for the 6 train, I was dripping with hangover sweat.

Moral of the story: Once you're in Manhattan, take a cab if you've got a lot of stuff.

However, now that I'm here, I'm just a ball of excitement. I'm still nursing the hangover, but I've already made some plans for tomorrow and eaten Italian food. I've even gotten a dose of multiculturalism. In the restaurant, the people eating to my right were British, and to my left were two beautiful French women.

This is awesome.

The Start of Something

Hi there. I'm bsguru. I make blogs, commit to them for a short amount of time, and then forget about them. This time around, I'm turning that weakness into a strength. I'm moving to New York City in a couple days, and since I haven't been able to find a guide or anything online, I've decided to chronicle my move, my culture shock, and most importantly (I think), my apartment hunt in the hopes that someone else will find it useful when he moves to the city. I figure this blog will end either when I find an apartment and get moved in or once I begin referring to myself as a New Yorker. If it keeps going after that, it probably means I'm making money off Google Ads and am milking you, dear Reader, for all you're worth.

A little about me: I'm a newly mid-20s white male who's never lived north of 40º latitude. I recently accepted a job offer from a startup based in midtown for substantially more money than I'm comfortable admitting to. (It's one bedroom in Manhattan money - two if I still didn't have a car payment.) I'm going to be editor in chief of a soon-to-be-wildly-popular website. I'm moving to New York at the end of this month.

I lucked out, because my employer is people-centric and has generously rented me a place in the city for a month, long enough for me to find a place of my own and begin paying for it. They claim it's nearly impossible to find a place in the city without being on the ground. I've been looking a bit at craigslist in my spare time, and I can confirm this. There's more neighborhoods - some of them have more than one name - than you can fucking count, and Google Maps hasn't been good enough to incorporate demographics and crime statistics into its bag of tricks.

What's more, all the neighborhoods sound the same: Brooklyn Heights, Crown Heights, Washington Heights, Stuyvesant Heights. Realtors on craigslist also like expanding the traditional borders of nicer neighborhoods that border less affluent ones. And to make matters even more confusing, the places that have historically been warzones, like Harlem, are now full of graduate students. All I've put together so far is Manhattan is really, really expensive.

Anyway, my plane leaves this Sunday, 10 hours after my goodbye party ends. It's a short trip up there, but the trip from JFK into Penn Station will be a fun story to share with you.