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Now that’s what I call “interesting.” Are you sick of this story? I’m not. I hope New York follows suit and fines the fuck out of these assholes.
Want to play a fun game? It’s called push your weight around as a citizen against a private company worth billions of dollars. To contact the Sanitation Department in NYC (responsible in this case), call 311 and request to speak to a sanitation specialist. (Be prepared to give details, such as the company name, contact info and locations of defacement.) You can also call or email Community Board 2 at 212-979-2272 and/or CB3 (email phone: 212-533-5300)
It is illegal in New York City to deface the street or sidewalk with advertisement or printed matter. Vanessa Gruen, director of special projects for the Municipal Art Society, once called it “corporate graffiti.”
Zynga fucked up, for sure. I’m not apologizing for them. I’ve never played and block all of their games on Facebook. A game I do love to play, though —- Moral Equivalency™.
It’s really fun. Try it. Pick up the phone.
And then maybe we lay this to rest and call the city to report on, I don’t know, say, real gunshots, or something…
The Village Voice presents Blondie with Gorevette Date: Tue, Aug 31, 2010 Showtime: 8:00 PM Doors open: 7:00 PM Ages: 16 & Over On sale now Ticket Prices*: $40.00
I was walking to my favorite local diner tonight when I was stopped by a group of teenagers outside the school a block away from my apartment.
“Will you please take a few minutes to help us out?” a teenage girl asked. I was a bit wary, given the prevalence of charity hustlers I tend to avoid eye contact with and mumble a bashful “sorry” to as I pass them on New York City streets. But it was 8 p.m., past charity hustling hours. She told me all they needed was for me to vote for their school on Facebook so they could win a $500,000 grant and they were camping out in the schoolyard to get as many votes as they can from the neighborhood. “The top five schools in the competition right now are private schools,” she lamented.
An adorable boy who couldn’t have been older than 14 led me over to a card table set up with a laptop among their makeshift campsite of pop-up tents.
“Are you really sleeping here and everything? All of you?” I asked, incredulously.
“Yep!” he replied, as he walked me through the voting process. “Our principal said we could!”
As soon as I was done (it really only took about a minute), I left to a chorus of “Yay!”s and “Thank you!”s. I felt like a hero and all it took was a few mouse clicks. You can be a hero to these kids too — with all the time they’re putting in to recruit votes (over 22,000 so far, though that only gets them the #36 spot), they deserve it!
Skin-tight, distressed boatneck top, with a low enough scoop to show off some of that tasty —- and Manly™ —- burger meat…
Obligatory skinny jeans and Chuck Taylors…
Without a moment’s hesitation, confidently, like he’s done a hundred times before:
“Three PBR’s.”
Bartender:
“We don’t have it.”
Hipster:
[Look of utter disappointment and confusion. Noticeably rattled. You can see the immediate calculation going on in his head…“Dare I be caught drinking something as bourgie as…a Budweiser?”He regroups, poised just enough to mumble…]
“Bud is, fine.”
His order placed, he shrugs off this initial misstep and falls back into the comfort of his group while the drinks are prepared.
The bartender returns.
Our hipster whips out the plastic.
Bartender:
“Cash only.”
Hipster:
“Uh, oh…okay.”
Back to the pack. Hands struggle down deep into tight, practically vacuum-sealed front pockets for some crumpled up greenbacks.
Just enough.
Phew.
Our hipster takes a cool sip from the unfamiliar bottle, his hand shaking a little, a bead of sweat emerging from his forehead. He turns back into the pack and starts to bop his head to what he’s pretty sure is The Stooges playing on the jukebox.
Finally saw my mug in the print edition of yesterday’s Times. I figured it was only going to run online, so that was unexpected.
I got my hands on a few copies to send to the family back home, obviously. I doubt I’ll ever be in the Sunday Times again, unless I get married to someone rich and powerful. Or, miraculously, I become rich and powerful myself.
