America’s Next Top Graphic Artist

If any of my readers are graphic artists, professional or amateur, and care to take the time to submit a title graphic for this blog, I would really appreciate it.

I try to pretend that I know what I’m doing with my Serif Photo Plus application, but have been unable to create a graphic to which I can get married.

I’m shooting for something that resembles the professionality and sleekness of this title graphic: http://www.tynansangels.com/

Being that the title of my blog is rather tacky and low-brow, I would like a graphic that offsets this by being simple, sleek and classy… something that dignifies the tackiness of the title… if that makes any sense.

Bonus points may be awarded to graphics that subtly and tastefully include my name, [redacted].

You get the jist, right? I don’t know, just send me your ideas.

Feel free to disregard everything I’ve said and create whatever the hell you want.

Let the games begin,
Ryan

UPDATE: Thanks to Tynan of BetterThanYourBoyfriend.com and TynansAngels.com for the new theme and header graphic. Much appreciated sir, it looks great.

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New York City Blackout

Yes, I realize this happened a long time ago.

When the big NYC Blackout occurred, I remember that the first thing I thought was, “If I don’t come out of this with a great story, I’m pathetic.”

Well, not only did I get a story, I got some pictures too.

I was working for a pair of Oscar-winning movie-making-mogul brothers at the time. My office in Tribeca shut down around the time of the blackout, maybe two or three in the afternoon, I don’t remember. The local bar was unloading all of its beer for half price so I stayed there drowning myself in half-price love until around six o’clock. Knowing that I would never see this good of a deal again, I drank as many bottles of Budweiser as I possibly could, as fast as I possibly could. I got totally seriously hammered and decided I should probably start walking back to my apartment in Queens.

Yep, I had to walk from Tribeca to Astoria(for the non-New Yorkers, that’s really fucking far). I think it was pretty hot that day, too. Again, my memory of this day isn’t so sharp. Good times.

I stopped by a deli which was selling its cooler goods for basically nothing. I grabbed a 6-pack of Coors tall-boys to throw in my bag for the walk home to Queens.

After a couple hours of walking and rubbernecking, I finally got to the Queensboro Bridge.

This is the sea of people at the foot of the bridge, Manhattan side going to Queens.

I stood there for a while looking around and taking in the scene when I saw a lot of black smoke and what looked to be an apartment fire.

I’m really awesome when I’m drunk so I made a bee-line straight for the fire.

I saw the huge red brick wall that is at least four or five stories tall. It supports an overpass that runs right by the apartment building(pictured below). So what should I do? Climb the wall of course.

Drunk people should climb walls to get very close to fire.

I scaled the wall with my bag over my shoulder. I still had two beers left. No way in hell I was leaving those behind. I got scared a couple times on the way up because the finger-holds between the bricks got really small, and it was a long way down by that point. People were cheering for me. People tend to do that a lot.

Public Service Announcement: Never begin to climb anything which you are not certain that you can summit. Getting stuck sucks.

After a pretty shaky climb I finally threw my leg over the top of the wall and sat on the overpass to catch my breath. I repeatedly flexed and relaxed my fingers, as my fingers were very angry with me.

That’s when I saw where the fire was.

(Click to enlarge)

Oh fucking sweet!

I challenge anyone to tell me the last time they were completely alone in a pitch black NYC with a burning car twenty feet away. You can’t. I am the only person this has ever happened to.

This is a real life car on real life fire and I was the only one there to see it… for about two minutes.

Then the NYPD and the FDNY ruined my party.

They had the sense to stay a block away from the burning car while they repeatedly instructed me over the PA on the fire engine to “leave immediately”. I was a little too busy messing with the settings on my crappy camera to take them seriously.

I realized they were serious when I looked up and saw a fleet of New York’s Finest sprinting towards me with black steel batons shouting things that I would rather not repeat on record.

I got the fuck out of dodge and started to climb back down the wall, but not before I got this picture of New York’s Bravest putting out the fire.

(Click to enlarge)

I guaran-fucking-tee you that there is no way I would have made it down that wall without the adrenaline that came from running from the cops. I slipped off the wall with about 10 feet to go and somehow landed solid on my feet. A lot of people below were watching me come down the wall, and it drew a lot of attention. They were cheering again, I’m used to it. There were several gasps when I slipped, and several relieved sighs when I landed.

I immediately blended into the crowd and made my way home.

Several people went to great lengths to follow me into the crowd crossing the bridge. I guess there’s really nothing better to do during a blackout. A few people who were trailing behind me while I was trying to make myself lost in the crowd congratulated me or asked me questions about what I was doing on the wall.

I only responded with, “I got lost.”

All Eyes on Me

This is me doing a wicked 540-back-flip three stories in the air with eight wheels attached to my feet… no net, just a plywood landing ramp(left).

I do shit like this all the time so I’m totally braver than you.

(Click picture to enlarge)

Whatever Floats Your Boat

As this blog gains popularity, it seems to be climbing the search engine ladder.

These are some interesting search terms with which people have found my smashing ass blog.

___

Google: Awesome Shit.
I can’t argue with this one.

Google: Alligator Rings Doorbell.
What?

MSN Search: Finest Niggas Phone Numbers.
Can’t argue with this one either, though the cultural reference is highly inaccurate.

MSN Search: Malaysia Fucking.
Hmm… ok, I guess I could be into it. Wait… ok, yeah.

And my personal favorite-

MSN Search: Dicks Sticking Out of Shorts.
Uh, no thanks, but whatever floats your boat.

Hang Tight

I’m percolating some new shit.

Oh, and if you haven’t caught on yet, I constantly revise my old posts. If I haven’t written anything new in a while, it’s probably because I’ve been doing re-writes. If there’s a post you haven’t read in a while, read it again because there may some new material tucked in somewhere.

Also, I often write when I’m very drunk. If anyone sees any typos or any other glaring errors, no matter how small, please send me an e-mail and let me know.

Happy Friday everyone.

Immigration problem? Gee, I haven’t noticed.

My air mattress sprung a big ass leak last night.

I live in a primarily Dominican neighborhood in NYC and I am, on many levels, your average American white guy who speaks very little Spanish.

That being said:

I walked into a hardware store in my neighborhood today and was greeted by a pleasent and eager fellow.

Fellow: Que pasa, boss?

Me: I need an adhesive patch.

Fellow: Que?

Me: I’m looking for an adhesive patch. I have an air mattress and it has a hole in it. I need to fix it. Like, something you’d fix a bike tire with. Do you have something like that?

Fellow: Si, si, no problemo, amigo!

The gentleman disappeared into the back of the store, came out a few seconds later and met me at the cash register.

He handed me a plastic bag containing an electical powerstrip, smiled and asked,

“Es eso?” (Will that be all?)

I gave him a look that probably read something like…

–I mean you can’t be serious, dude. What part of “adhesive patch” sounds like “three-prong/eight-outlet AC adapter”? I’m a fairly tolerant individual, but this is fucking ridiculous.–

After my eyes burned a hole through this poor sap’s soul, he called for an English speaking manager.

The manager comes over, greets me and asks,

Manager: “What can I do for you?”

Me: “Hello, I need an adhesive patch to fix my air mattress.”

The manager turns to the fellow I originally spoke with and says,

Manager to fellow: “Tenemos un patcho?” (Do we have a patch?)

Fellow: “Oh! UN PATCHO!”

Yes, you idiot. Try to get your brain to think outside of that tiny box. Take off the “o” and we’re talking about the same thing, genius.

I mean, what the hell is going on here? Let’s just suppose that for some reason I took a job in a hardware store in The Dominican Republic, okay? Let’s also suppose that I speak relatively no Spanish.

If a native approached me in the store and asked for “un patcho”, I would know that the customer wanted “a patch” of some sort. How would I know this? Because I’m not retarded.

I can almost understand being served the chicken soup instead of the chicken sandwich which I actually ordered, but c’mon.
(sigh)

Airport Secrets

*This is a granite-rough-draft of a post that I want to publish within the next week. I just jotted down some thoughts. I will revise this and bring it up to standard. Maybe it will be interesting to compare the draft with the final product.

I hate flying because I like to smoke and drink.

I always arrive early and check into my gate with plenty of time to spare. Now what?

Hit the bar, of course.

My problem? I’m a smoker.

Not only do I love to smoke cigarettes, I need to smoke cigarettes… especially when I’m drinking. Unfortunately, most airports that I frequent are not conducive to my needs. They have banned smoking on the entire premises.

I cannot drink without smoking, and I cannot deal with the airline’s arbitrary bullshit unless I drink. Consequently, they have put me in one hell of a bind. I will go out on a limb here and guess that I am not alone in this respect.

Fear no more, smokers, for I have a secret that I have chosen to disclose to you.

This is the secret of the “Family Restroom”. Every airport has several of them, and they are completely private. There is at least one in every major terminal, but you have to know where to find them. Look for the non-descript door located near the general restrooms. It is a one-holer-bathroom with a lockable door that is almost always available.

Whether you use this information to have your sex or smoke your pot:

Just make sure you’re prepared for the shame that comes with leaving a smoke and sex filled “Family” restroom, when there is a family waiting right outside as you leave.