Kill, Kill, Kill. The fat man.
West Indian Day in Brooklyn lends itself to a nice bike ride across the B bridge, but the real motivation is to begin filming a piece on a friend's eating habits... 6-pack in 6 weeks.
What better way to kick it off than 4 rotis and some jerk chicken?
I feel a slight connection with the crowd from my ventures down to Dominica, but that goes as fast as the sorrel juice and the camera battery. So, I'll have to forget some beautiful "before" shots of Said Subject enjoying his last real meal to the tune of ass-cheek clapping. I was, however, able to set a workout sesh with the City Gym Boys.
I am a bit lost as to where I locked my bike, so I ask the first guy around. Careful not to pick a white person because I don't want to seem like I was scared of the rest of the crowd. "Hey man, which way is the Grand Army Plaza?" Pause. Stoically, "I couldn't tell you." With his arms still crossed and no turn of the head to look in either direction, I notice his merchandise: DVDs with titles spanning such interesting topics as How the CIA Wants the Black Man Dead and The Black Holocaust: It ain't no lie.
I go it alone.
The ride from Carrol Gardens to Williamsburgh is navigated using only The Force and a bright LED that illumates everything within 7 inches and for one twohundreth of a second at a time.
Hassidic Jews are single handidly keeping the minivan craze alive.
What better way to kick it off than 4 rotis and some jerk chicken?
I feel a slight connection with the crowd from my ventures down to Dominica, but that goes as fast as the sorrel juice and the camera battery. So, I'll have to forget some beautiful "before" shots of Said Subject enjoying his last real meal to the tune of ass-cheek clapping. I was, however, able to set a workout sesh with the City Gym Boys.
I am a bit lost as to where I locked my bike, so I ask the first guy around. Careful not to pick a white person because I don't want to seem like I was scared of the rest of the crowd. "Hey man, which way is the Grand Army Plaza?" Pause. Stoically, "I couldn't tell you." With his arms still crossed and no turn of the head to look in either direction, I notice his merchandise: DVDs with titles spanning such interesting topics as How the CIA Wants the Black Man Dead and The Black Holocaust: It ain't no lie.
I go it alone.
The ride from Carrol Gardens to Williamsburgh is navigated using only The Force and a bright LED that illumates everything within 7 inches and for one twohundreth of a second at a time.
Hassidic Jews are single handidly keeping the minivan craze alive.
posted by euroskip at 12:29 AM
1 Comments:
and lo and behold did I too find the long route, along flatbush avenue and then to the library, when we should've just stick with franklin and ended up in the heart of it (the heart where we saw a group of 4 heavyset women beat the shit out of another woman by banging her head against a telephone pole). we went along the color gradient of eastern parkway, from the paler section to the decidedly darker one and in the middle of all this, I spy not one roundeye, but four! and they be me workmates . . . nice, mon.
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