I don’t live here in an ironic hipster way. I don’t live here because I romanticize the ghetto. I don’t live here because I love the Yankees. I live here for purely circumstantial reasons; my lease was up, I couldn’t afford my old place by myself, this place opened up, and it was affordable for the space I was getting.

There are things I like about living here. I have a giant apartment and my own bathroom, despite having a roommate. Groceries are cheaper (though organic and healthy alternatives are few). I have access to certain types of “exotic” groceries that are hard to find in Manhattan (need any type of Goya product – you’ve got it!). It’s a great place to get authentic Mexican food (as in, brush up on your Spanish, because there’s no English spoken here). On the other hand, don’t expect to find many wine bars, upscale coffee shops, or independent movie theaters. (There isn’t even that last bastion of civilization in the neighborhood, Starbucks.)

Here are a couple of other observations I have about the Bronx:

• Embossed leather jackets don’t go out of style. There must be an “Embossed Leathers ‘R Us” store somewhere that I just haven’t run into yet. Adults wear them, little boys wear them; usually they have street signs or sayings on them.
• When you wear your pants below your butt, it makes you walk like a protractor. This is the one fashion trend I simply CANNOT STAND. It’s not even the low-slung, Marky Mark look, where you see the Calvin Klein label peek-a-booing over the top. It’s the, “your butt cheeks are in my face and your belt is below your penis” look. Every time I see guys wearing their jeans like this, I want to grab their pants and pull them up to their armpits, Clint Eastwood-style.
• It’s helpful to know Spanish. Like I said before, many of the most authentic (and most delicious!) restaurants have staff that speak limited English. Many people here will assume you know at least a little Spanish, even if you don’t look like you would. Just the other day I was in the grocery store, and a woman asked me, in full-on Spanish, if I knew where the liquid creamer was. Fortunately I knew enough to tell her it was in the “leche” aisle.
• You might gain weight if you move here. There is a lot of fried and soul food (chicken, pork rinds, etc.) and I’m pretty sure the “butter” they give me with my toast at the local dinner is really Crisco.
• There is more culture up here than you realize. The Bronx Museum, which has some decent exhibits, is only a few blocks away from me, and if you want to see the best in Art Deco architecture, just walk up and down the Grand Concourse.
• You get more bang for your buck. I know more people that have lived in Staten Island than in the Bronx, for pete’s sake. Why is that? My commute to midtown is only a half hour, and did I mention I have TWO bathrooms in my apt??

Of course, you still need to be careful; there are sketchy areas and more people walking pitbull puppies than I can count, but there’s much more the Boogie Down has to offer—the least of which is being able to say that you live in such a fun, upbeat-sounding borough.

But according to this cartoon, I still have a good 25 or so years until I become mysteriously attracted to the curly perm, track suit and big sunglasses.

Every self-respecting Korean does some version of the body scrub at home. We’ve been using scratchy wash cloths to bathe way before it ever became the norm. When I was younger, my mother used to take those cloths and rub me raw. I would wince in pain as she went over every limb, and the dead skin would create a nasty grey ring around the perimeter of the tub. I haven’t had a rubdown like that since I was probably eight years old, so I decided it was time. And anyway, now that Korean spa treatments have become more mainstream—and this was in Tribeca, for goodness’ sake—I was sure the treatment would be less punishment and more restorative. And besides, they had a preview video of what the body scrub was like, and it looked so pleasing and relaxing.

Hmm, not so much. First of all, the video shows, my friend and I are convinced, the watered-down version they reserve for spa reviewers and non-Asians. We would get the “authentic” version because, as card-carrying members of the race, we could take take, and, in fact, probably prefer, it. If it isn’t rough, it isn’t the real thing.

So here’s what we got. Instead of the dim lighting, we got harsh medical lighting. The girl in the video is wearing a nice little paper bra to cover her hoo-has. We got a little hand towel that stayed on for maybe the first few minutes, but mysteriously disappeared, which meant we our little Korean ahjoomahs (that’s Korean for middle-aged ladies) were being flashed by our high beams for the majority of our body scrub session. (And I’ll be darned if it didn’t get a little chilly in there.)

Also, the scrub down Miss Thing in the video got was a soothing rub compared to what we got. Essentially, while lying naked and vulnerable, the tiny Korean ladies grab your limbs, and brusquely start to slough the dead skin off you like a redneck skinning a coon for supper. Resisting only prolongs the pain. It is futile. The best thing to do is remain still and go limp, as if you were an invalid being bathed by Nurse Ratched. If you’re lucky you might have a wash cloth draped across your eyes; if you’re unlucky, the wash cloth falls off, and you peek ever so slightly, and get grossed out by the rolls of dead skin coming off your body like maggots who are done with their feast. Not only is the scrubbing hard, they are take A LOT of time scrubbing those areas that you didn’t think were reserved for anyone except your mother or your spouse.

After you are rubbed raw and pretty sure you are bleeding (if not externally, then internally), here comes the massage. Ok, I thought. This is it, the worst part is over. Not so. Instead of getting a relaxing, gentle massage, my ahjoomah proceeds to put me in figure-four leglocks and “cry uncle” arm locks that make me think I’ve just entered a Mexican wrestling ring. I know that she is trying to get all the knots out, but with the tension in my body, it’s going to be a challenge. And it’s a challenge she’s up for. After she wrassles me into submission, there’s some Swedish-massage like kneading with her hands and elbows that feel like she’s giving me a noogie from a bully.

After that’s done, finally, it’s time for the relaxing hair washing. We’re close to the finish line. And, the hair washing is nice. They also wash your face, and slather cucumber (albeit cold and slimy cucumber) all over your face, sort of like the dead-flesh mask that Leatherface wears. Still, compared to what I’ve been through, cold cucumber is the least of my concerns. Plus, now I’m getting a nice head massage that … wait a second, that also turned painful, as it feels like she’s treating my head like a fresh grapefruit from which she’s trying to extract all the pulp.

At the very end, my ahjoomah asks me to stand up so she can rinse me off. To which I think, ok, fine, she’s already seen my boobs for the last 2 hours, so it really doesn’t matter that she’s hosing me off like a prison inmate. Except she’s telling me to take off my underwear, the black paper granny panties that have been the ONLY thing from protecting me from being as naked as the day I was born in front of this woman. Uh oh. Very uncomfortably I take off the panties, and after I think she’s done I start to pull them up, only to be scolded, “No, that’s for the trash!”

Um, ok. She’s toweling me off now, and wishes me well and says that I’m beautiful, which would normally be a compliment I would gladly accept, except for the fact that I’m feeling as molested as an altar boy right now. (Meanwhile, on the other side of the curtain – did I mention my friend and I were in the same giant room, separated by essentially a shower curtain? – I hear my friend’s ahjoomah telling her several times, “you got the nice body.”)

The end result, however, is baby-smooth skin. And while it may seem that I’m not recommending this treatment, it’s actually quite the opposite. I think it’s a good experience for anyone who believes in the mantra beauty is pain. And I happen to know many people who enjoy these type of body scrubs, and have no problems with having a little Asian lady rub up all in your crevices to get rid of those layers of dirt on your body. That’s how it’s done in Korea and Queens, after all.

I think I’ll wait a little while before booking my next treatment, though.

Wait. Not so fast. Then I happened upon my New Year’s Resolutions post from 2008. And I realized that they were pretty much the EXACT SAME ONES I HAVE FOR 2011. This is sad. Have I really evolved so little as a human being? Have I been so undisciplined that I’ve remained mired in a three-year swamp of the same bad habits?

Well, I would write out my 2011 resolutions, but you may as well just read them here. At least 50% of the list from 2008 is carryover to this year. I’ll let you guess which one. I will say, however, that I’m substituting “read more” with “write more” —more blogging, narrative fiction, screenwriting, whatever—so that I replenish my quickly evaporating well of creative juices, which is being depleted by the amount of hours I spend at my decidedly uncreative job. (And incidentally, I think I’ll replace “try more new restaurants” with “find a new place to work.”)

And let’s hope that this blog becomes more frequently populated so that in 2015 I won’t stumble upon this post and become depressed by how little my life has changed.

Right now I feel a bit like George Clooney from the movie “Up in the Air.” He basically spends his life in airports traveling for his job. While I do not travel for my job (except occasionally out to New Jersey, which doesn’t really count) I have been in airports more than usual over the past few months, and I have to say, I sort of see the allure of having a job where you travel a lot. Airports have a little bit of everything you need–food, books, drink–and if you’re one of those gold-member-level frequent fliers (as Clooney was) you get those nice lounges where they probably shower you with chocolate, champagne and secret strippers. And I love staying in hotels-there’s something great about sleeping in a comfy bed, taking leisurely showers in a bathroom that isn’t yours (and probably much nicer than yours), leaving for a few hours, and then coming back to see that your bed is nicely made and your towels are fresh.

But my one complaint about traveling has always been this–why, oh why, don’t airports (and hotels, for that matter) offer free WiFi? I get that the carriers have to make money by forcing me to pay 10 bucks for like 30 minutes of airtime, but that’s ridiculous. The only time I can ever get free WiFi in the terminals is if I’m flying JetBlue. Right now I’m pilfering it from some nearby Continental President’s Club area, where I’m sure the CEOs are too busy stuffing dollars in some flight-attendant-cum-bikini-dancer’s g-string to check their email.

I’ve resisted switching to the data plan cell phone, but this lack of public WiFi has really made me want to make the switch (that, and the fact that the Droid phones seem so cool). But my contract isn’t up for renewal until late summer, so until then I’m stuck with paying through the nose for WiFi for the 15 minutes that I normally want to check email before boarding a flight. Damn, it’s all conspiracy theory to get us to continue paying for Internet–and to entice me to get a web-enabled phone.

But as I continued to think about the matter I gradually gained a big of satisfaction from being considered an extremist. Was not Jesus an extremist in love—’Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, pray for them that despitefully use you.’ Was not Amos an extremist for justice—’Let justice roll down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream.’ Was not Paul an extremist for the gospel of Jesus Christ—’I bear in my body the marks of the Lord Jesus.’ Was not Martin Luther an extremist—’Here I stand; I can do none other so help me God.’ Was not John Bunyan an extremist—’I will stay in jail to the end of my days before I make a butchery of my conscience.’ Was not Abraham Lincoln an extremist—’We hold these truths to be self-evident that all men are created equal.’ So the question is not whether we will be extremists but what kind of extremist will we be. Will we be extremists for hate or will we be extremists for love? Will we be extremists for the preservation of injustice—or will we be extremists for the cause of justice? In that dramatic scene on Calvary’s hill three men were crucified. We must never forget that all three were crucified for the same crime—the crime of extremism. Two were extremists for immorality, and thus fell below their enviroment. The other, Jesus Christ, was an extremist for love, truth, and goodness, and thereby rose above His environment. So, after all, maybe the South, the nation, and the world are in dire need of creative extremists.

Happy MLK Day, everyone.

On election night, I was watching the returns at a friends place, and then had to trudge back to the Bronx. Well, the 4 train wasn’t working due to a “police investigation” somewhere around 138th St. I had to go crosstown to take the D, but of course the bus was packed since the 4 was down. Then when I get to the D, it takes me 15 minutes to realize I was on the downtown, not uptown, platform. I had left the Upper East Side around 11:30, and didn’t get home until 2 am.

Of course, by the time I got on the correct train, I was highly annoyed. Who cares if we just made history with our new president, I was cursing the MTA under my breath and plus, I had to go to work in the morning! But my sour mood was suddenly brightened when the doors opened and I stepped onto the train. I was greeted by cheers and loud applause. It was as if I had just stepped onto a stage to accept an Oscar. It was a communal celebration of the acknowledgment that eight years of economic, political, and social frustration were coming to a close, and we were a people hopeful that with our new president would come a bright spot in what had been a bleak time in the U.S. At the next stop, as the next wave of confused riders got on board, I joined in the applause.

And that, folks, is one of the reasons why I love New York.

Every year I say that I’m not really gonna get into Halloween, but then I always end up in the midst of some sort of craziness. Often, I find myself having to mosh-pit my way down the sidewalk on 6th Ave as I fight the crowds watching the parade in the West Village. I also say that I’m too old to dress up, but then end up feeling like the boring douche bag when everyone and their grandmother is dressed up as a zombie, Harry Potter, or a beer wench.  

My night started with a 20-minute bout of claustrophobia (I had to crowd-surf just to go half a block to the IFC theater to watch scary animated shorts) and ended with a 2 am trip to a fried chicken joint in Koreatown to eat away my buzz from a friend’s house party. All in all, it was a thoroughly enjoyable evening and it made me realize that you’re never too old to enjoy Halloween.

It also made me realize that Halloween is the only holiday that enables you to walk around half-naked without getting arrested. This applies to both men and women: I saw at least one man dressed up as Borat in his neon green swim suit, and women, of course, always just like to stick the word “sexy” in front of their Halloween costume in order to make it shorter and tighter. They can’t just be a cop; they have to be “sexy” cop. Or “sexy” kitten. Or “sexy” schoolgirl. I wonder if this can work for any costume, no matter how unsexy it is. Maybe next year I should wear a black trash bag and be “sexy” California raisin. Or wear a tight sheet with a string hanging down and be “sexy” tampon. 

Anyway, I saw some very creative costumes this year. Here are some of my favorites:

 Sarah Palin: Yes, not extremely original—I expected to see a lot of Sarah Ps—but every time I saw one I was really impressed with how well these gals got the Sarah Palin look down. They were all very convincing, just as convincing as Tina Fey, in most cases. 

 Karate Kid in the shower (in the movie, Ralph Macchio wears a shower curtain to sneak into a Halloween party): This was my friend’s costume, and I was impressed with his craftsmanship.

Juno: All this required was a striped shirt, a hoodie, and a fake pregnant belly. Yet everyone got this right away.

Shawn Johnson/Michael Phelps: Again, friends of mine, but even if they weren’t I’d still like their costumes.

Super Mario Bros. mushroom: I only saw a photo of this costume, but thought it was clever nonetheless. 

Kung Fu Panda: This consisted of a rotund guy with white face make-up and black rings around his eyes, wearing a straw hat. Definitely not cuddly, but clever. 

Anyway, take a look at the presidential pumpkins above. I did the far inferior John McCain pumpkin, but I was semi-impressed with my first attempt at using a stencil to carve a pumpkin.

So where, praytell, are the “best of times” you ask? Well, you may scoff at my list below, but here’s where I see shiny happy things:

• You can go to Iceland for dirt cheap right now. I saw one advertised airfare for a roundtrip for $300-some odd. C’mon, when are you EVER going to go to Iceland again? Plus, it’s one of the few places where the U.S. dollar is stronger. 
• Poor people like me might actually be able to invest right now. Other than my 401K, which is in all ultraconservative bonds or something, I don’t play the market at all. I was actually just contemplating buying $100 bucks worth of dollar stocks or something, just to see what happens. And if everything still tanks, all I’ll have lost is a hundred bucks. How often would someone like me be able to exercise any control–even one or two shares worth–over some CEO who makes more in an hour than I’ll probably make in a lifetime?
• If I want to be Sarah Palin for Halloween, all I’ll have to do is put my hair up in an updo, get some Tina Fey glasses, and talk in an Alaska-by-way-of-the-midwest accent. Cheapest Halloween costume ever.