nyu cribs

I met a girl on the street and asked her for a smoke. We chatted for a bit and then she invited me up to her apartment for a nightcap, like in the movies.
“Sorry, this place is such a shit hole. I hate it.”

“It looks nice to me,” I said, “In fact, it’s sort of great.” True, it was on the small side, not big enough to, say, raise a litter of pelicans in, or hold a jujitsu competition. But she was only 20 years old, and it was in the West Village – and how many 20 year-olds have their own apartments in the West Village?

nyusecretsgraphic1A lot, apparently. According to Collegeprowler.com, 49% of the NYU student population lives off campus. That’s 10,000 undergrads, taking up prime New York real estate, driving rental prices up ever higher. Nobody can afford to live in Manhattan, not even people who have sold their children’s kidneys – but NYU pipsqueaks can? The Ying and the Yang of the universe, all thrown off.


The girl was a studio art major who hated studio art. Painting was boring. But it didn’t matter. She had interned at Gagosian for the year, which put her light years ahead of her peer group.
“All the other interns there, they’re like, 24. And it was funny, everybody else just kind of assumed that I was like, 24, too, you know? They were all going to go to a bar and they were like, Calla, are you coming? And I was like, sorry, guys, my birthday’s not until September? And they were just, like, stunned. Because they’re all, like, 24.”

“Don’t you have a fake ID?” I asked. She peered at me disdainfully.
“Well, yeah. I have two. I just didn’t want to hang out with them. For them, New York is all like, wow, this is amazing. But after four years, its just like I’ve done everything. I’m leaving next year. I’m over it. ”

She leaned back, a frown half-formed on her lips. She was thinking about how awesome she was. I took a big sip of wine. It tasted like ABG (Already Been Gargled) Listerine, but I wanted to drink quickly. I was over it.

how to sneak into…

Bobst Library

1. Go to the member services desk. IMG_0989

2. Say you want to see the ‘Taniment Labor Archives’, which are open to the public.

3. Affect a casual, breezy attitude when they tell you they are going to call up and make sure you are actually there.

4. Go to the Taniment Labor Archives on the tenth floor, get a ‘Reader’s card’, and browse Marxism and Labor Unions for ten minutes.

5. Wander the library at will.

The Kimmel Student Center (cafeteria, classrooms, etc.)

IMG_09881. Go to the visitor center.

2. Sign up for a tour of the school.

3. Return the next day for the tour, receive a purple sticker.

4. Sit through five minutes of the ‘welcome video’ before realizing that five more minutes will cause you to vomit and die.

5. Go to the security desk at Kimmel and show him your sticker. He will open the gates for you.

Silver Center

1. Wait for the before-class rush.

2. Have a piece, any piece, of I.D. ready.

3. Walk in such a way that another student is between you and the security desk.

4. Keeping your head down, flash your I.D., keeping your hand in constant motion.

5. Walk swiftly upstairs without turning your head. Pray that the loud exclamation you heard from downstairs is not directed at you.

Goddard Center

1. Impossible. Cannot be penetrated.

my neighborhood, my nyu

it would be a shame if all the NYU students in this picture suddenly died

it would be a shame if all the NYU students in this picture died suddenly

I believe in free will, and self-determination, and all that, but there are some things you can’t choose. People born in Finland like vodka; people born on horse ranches like horses; and people raised in Greenwich Village hate NYU. That’s it. Destiny. Hating NYU comes as naturally to me as drinking water, or hating Republicans. Actually, NYU is Republican – there is something distinctly neo-liberal about the institution, maybe its rapacious appetite for historic Village land, or the way it doles out bonuses to administrators while adjuncts and students go deeper and deeper into debt.

Not that I have much sympathy for the students, either. They think they’re more New York than I am, when really they’re just tourists, as Fran Lebowitz puts it (in the highly entertaining anti-NYU tirade below). But for the next week or so, as I add NYU to the list of colleges covered, I will try to put aside my simplistic, knee-jerk disdain for the school. Such a raw bitterness can only get in the way of my researches; and only researching will lead me to a more refined, cutting cruelty.

king of the freshmen/ goodbye dartmouth

I hope some freshmen show up.

I hope some freshmen show up.

I sat in the student center, watching basketball, drinking beer from a Starbucks cup. The night loomed ahead, a mountain of gloom, not so much seen as felt. The student center closed at two and the bus didn’t leave until the 6:30. Those hours would be the hardest.

At halftime, OKC up by 20, I made one last attempt to meet people. My discerning eye picked out a likely candidate. A boy was sitting alone and eating a large plate of ice cream. He reminded me of me.

“What’s up?” I said, seating myself at his table.

“Nothing,” he said. “What’s up with you?”

“Going out tonight?”

Geoff and I made the rounds. At Theta we picked up a couple of girls and brought them with us when we left. At Kappa I made my move. Glossing my pinkie in spittle, I attacked Jean’s runny mascara. She stood stock-still, eyes looking anywhere but my face.

“There,” I said, standing back and examining my handiwork. “Much better.”

“Oh my god,” I added. “Whoops.”

A platoon of other girls moved in and fixed her face. They didn’t erase my mark, though. When you have put spit on someone’s face, you have made a bond with them. They feel it even when the saliva has dried.

An hour later, we were back in the student center. I piled salad on a platter and walked quickly out the back, phone pressed to my ear but no one on the line. In the hall, they were waiting for me – my 7 freshmen. Donald the gay guy, met the night before, winking at me and making vulgar motions with his lips. Sarah, friend of Jean, already at an understanding with Geoff, staring nonetheless. Jean herself, bearing up patiently, waiting while I flirted. I couldn’t help it. That’s what half a molly does to me.


Walking a little slower than the group, Jean and I negotiated the terms of our evening.

“Can I come over?” I said. “I had a host here, but we got sick of each other and I vacated the place. And my bus doesn’t leave for four hours.”

“Yes…” she said, finally. “But don’t murder me.”

“Got it,” I said. “No murdering.”

“And don’t eat me, either,” she stipulated.

“You drive a hard bargain.” I frowned, grew thoughtful. “Fine. But I’m going to get hungry again. Do you have any snacks at your place?”

She had pistachios and salted caramels. I would have preferred something more substantial, like a finger, but when the gnawing in my stomach grew too strong, I kissed her goodbye and found an open Dunkin’ Donuts. I ate til I was sick; I got powdered sugar all over the hotel’s furniture. In the window, the bus appeared, grey in dawn’s grey light. I ran out and flagged it down.

“To New York?” asked the driver.

“Like music to my ears,” I said. Goodbye, Dartmouth, and thank you, freshmen. Hold on to that innocence. Don’t rush any fraternities.

aren't my freshmen handsome?!

aren’t they handsome?!

racism (!!?) at dartmouth (!??!)

I am a narcissist

I am a narcissist

My host at Dartmouth is not the going-out type. Riotous living holds no appeal for him; he spent last night practicing Chinese with a friend. I did not spend last night practicing Chinese. Nor any of the nights before it. Maybe this is why my host knows Chinese (and Russian, and French) and I don’t.

Last night, what I did was drink two restless, solitary beers in his dorm room. Ivy Leaguers sort of intimidate me and I had to be ready. I also rolled a joint with the last of the weed. It wasn’t for personal use – it was for the boy manning the door at the frat party I was going to. If he refused to let me in, I would bribe him.


Mykki Blanco + the Generationals = my Friday night

First, though, I would check out Mykki Blanco at the Sanger Underground. I found Mykki on stage, wearing a bra and a fisherman’s hat, crowded by Dartmouth’s future Brooklynites. Short hair, dyed hair, holey clothes – here they were, the alternative crowd, the kids who protested and caused all the trouble.

Teasingly, I asked a girl in Roy Lichtenstein tights what sorority she belonged to. This was the deadliest insult she knew. Hitherto flirtatious, she moved away after that, leaving me alone with the student paid to man the door.
Now, this student was very smart, and very nice – he shared a spliff with me on the walk to the frat – but I’ve been coming to expect a ridiculous naivete among Dartmouth boys. We met a guy on the street, and my new friend offered him some pot, chatted him up. But the guy was black, and my companion couldn’t just talk to him. He had to turn up the ghetto.

“I went abroad last semester, to Panama,” said the black student.
“OH WORD,” said the white student. “MY BOY went to Panama, HE SAID IT WAS ILL.”
“Yeah, it was fun.”
Soon, we were talking only to each other. My white brother, subtly excluded by the shifting geography of our conversation, stood behind my left shoulder. He was still piping in his ghetto addenda, though
“I’m a math major.”


here is an unrelated picture of an air mattress

here is an unrelated picture of an air mattress“WHAT! WHAT!”

Finally, the black guy had had enough. By way of making an exit – he was on his way to see his girlfriend – he gave us an amazing, approximately two-minute freestyle. I was high, and I don’t remember the words, but the ending went something like this:

African on campus, I’m holding up like Atlas,
but bros and those not in the know expecting constant blackness
Making me an actor, jive-talk like Richard Prior,
but I sneak in, fuck their women and then be out, Macgyver.

He left, and the white kid and I walked on. I walked slightly behind him, letting the silence linger for a bit; I wanted him to dwell on his sins. But he didn’t get the message. The very next minute he was telling me he was from Atlanta, ’the best city in America’.
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“Because,” he said thoughtfully. “Racial integration is so much better there.”

Y’all should listen to my Smith song by the way. Officially deemed ‘not-problematic’ by an actual Smith student.

smith song

This the smith anthem so put your damn hands up.

- gorgeous marlo

Take your labels off my body mister
cuz  I just got my Smith acceptance letter
Don’t you know its one the seven sisters and i’m beatin
gender norms and social forms until my fist hurt yeah
you could call me ‘they’ i don’t go by she -
though i get yo’ confusion over this fem body ye
im a fucking hottie super model
hetnorm homonorm I’m winning winning at ‘em all
so discourse on me boy
but this smile’s just a decoy
im suckin on yo lady’s tits and pleasin her with my toys
I deconstruct that pussy, and the way she squirts is proving
what my professor said in class sexuality is fluid
you ever do it like ths? I was straight until this year
he ever screw you like this? he was stuck in first gear
What you think of Amherst? Fuck those prep school jocks,
I’m never going back, this is the boycott.

So code all you boy but ima reclaim
 this woman you call bitch just called out my name
so you could do macho but ima do me
we’ll see who gets more intersectionality

world politics lecture notes ($3.99)

The full notes for world politics are now available for $3.99. Click on the link below the sample.

Putnam’s main point: Social capital is ‘generalized reciprocity’ -
- individuals are more likely to expect other ppl. in their society to ‘cooperate’, ‘do the right thing’, ‘not cheat’
G. Recip. is important b/c it facilitates cooperation – > improves polit. performance, econ. outcomes -
Yet… G. Recip. is not the only way to ensure coop. – there are other ways to ensure group coop. (think prisoner’s dilemma, or policing to ensure people don’t cheat) – yet these are less preferable solutions, b/c they are inefficient….

Link to payment options.


smartphone programming lecture notes ($3.99)

The full notes for Smartphone programming are now available for $3.99. Click on the link below the sample.

- UI thread,
+ but if you do e.thing from the UI, then every time  have a location update, you’re just going to be blocked.

-  new activity: Map Displayer
+ a lot of code inside it
(binding between existing fragments, i.e. start frag, which initiates services
+ Polyline should be rendered
+ Broadcast send on a special intent, with a grade A filter

– any activity can be set to listen for Grade A intents (i.e. I register for, say, Andrew’s service, want to hear when anything happens there – so when it has a location update, I send it a call back)…

link to Payment Options

i peed next to Cornel West


Famed proctologist Cornel West giving the keynote address

Cornel West, speaking at 4:15 at the Cook Auditorium, was the hot event of the day. When we arrived, six of us packed into the professor’s Subaru, the auditorium was already filled. Students  lapped at the door, like bubbles at the bathtub drain. We were about to jump ship when a hitherto-locked door suddenly opened from inside. I pushed my way to a seat between two professors on a stair in the aisle. Overjoyed, I forgot to check whether the girl I had been flirting with all afternoon had found a spot to sit, too. She hadn’t. I waved trying to get her attention.

“Take mine, take mine,” I mouthed. “I’ll stand!” The last I saw of her, her golden hair was waving as she sashayed out of the auditorium. She, and her phone number, gone forever.

BUT THIS WAS NO TIME TO THINK OF MYSELF. ‘We were,’ said the introducing professor, ‘only pretending, if we thought the social relations of our country were fair.”

The student protestors who had disrupted the prospective student show? “They were the ni88ers and fa88ots that stepped out of line.” *snap*snap*snap* went the auditorium.

“They had forgotten their place. And everybody knows that at Dartmouth, place is everything.”

That got a huge rip-roaring round of applause. He went on like this – people who introduce other people always love to talk – but finally West got up and the place seemed fit to burst. This was it. The revolution was going to pop off.

“My young brothers and sisters,” he said, his beard dripping with feeling. “The time has come for us to Socratically disengage from the white-supremacist culture we live in. I’m a white supremacist – I know it – but everyday I do Socratic work to get the beast out from within me. And you my brothers and sisters – everyday you must do Socratic work to get the white-supremacist beast from out of you!”

I don’t know what he meant by ‘Socratic’ but he certainly used the word a lot. He spoke for hours. I left for a while, and when I came back, a weariness had fallen over the auditorium and half the seats were empty. He was still up there, preaching the good word, telling us to Socratically-critique the violent society – earning the $25000 he was being paid – but it didn’t seem like anything was really happening, so I went back to the student center and hung around, stealing snacks from the pub trivia event. I was hoping the blond girl would show up.

Here he is, addressing the revolutionaries at a Marriot Hotel conference. And no, I didn’t pee next to him.

US News and World Report’s top ten evil colleges

Stickin' it to the man

Stickin’ it to the man

I came to Dartmouth at an interesting time. Just like at Smith, the kids are in the midst of their most recent Spring Controversy. My host here has a theory: kids are happy in the fall, when they have just returned to school and are seeing their friends again. In the winter, though, anger crusts up, perceived slights freeze over, and in the spring, the hate crystals melt and what do you get? Protest.

For the last couple of years, Andrew Lohse has been at the center of the spring storms, first for doing too much coke off the wrong surfaces, then for getting Rolling Stone in to write an article about hazing. This year, someone else took the spotlight: a group called Real Talk Dartmouth invaded an annual show for prospective students. While students were up on stage, singing and dancing for the benefit of prospies, RTD rushed in and yelled: ‘Dartmouth supports racism! Dartmouth supports sexism! Dartmouth supports homophobia!’ Like any protest group worth its salt, they left the issues vague. Better to leave them to the imagination of the audience.

Since then, the protestors have been bodily threatened on Dartmouth’s anonymous online forum; and the college canceled classes yesterday in order to hold workshops to ‘foster dialogue’. At Beta Delta yesterday, Jeremiah assured me that his frat took these issues very seriously. Wednesday was a special day for his frat, he said, yet in light of the recent events they had ‘canceled many important fraternity rituals’, and held a ‘intra-frat forum’ to discuss these issues.

He seemed in complete earnest and I believed him. These frat boys did care, bless their Abercrombie hearts. Yet it was not hard to see why people might feel alienated. Twenty-two white boys, and their white dates, were sitting on the patio that evening. They were playing drinking games, passing around a bottle of rum, and above all, listening to classic rock. They sang the chorus together, dueled each other in air guitar- and I’ll be damned if they didn’t sway in unison during the sax solo. It was extremely weird, a (to use Smith-speak) choral discourse of heteronormativity. White male-ness is the heart and soul of these frats. God help the queer protestor of color who tries to take it away from them.