After six stressful hours of packing and several trips to the post office, I’m ready to leave New York for the summer. Well, I’m physically ready. As for being mentally prepared to leave the bright lights, big parks and my Brooklyn address… who knows? I can say this morning, as I walked down Broadway through SoHo, I thought, “God I love living here. Only a fool would leave.” But two weeks ago, as I ate home cooked meals on a regular basis, I also thought, “God I love living here. Only a fool would leave.” Apparently the quarter life crisis continues.

I think my personal issue lies with me wanting to experience everything in life. And though it keeps me moving, every month I’m focused on something completely different, and end up moving around to a bunch of random places, instead of down one straight line. While walking through the financial district yesterday with a friend, we spoke in length about our current and future career goals. As for working for someone else, we both agreed that we could be highly successful working and moving up the ranks of a major company, but probably wouldn’t have the happiness found in doing what you love. As it goes with many (not all) of the jobs I’ve held, they are great jobs for someone who wants a job. I want to climb cliffs, build skyscrapers and eat lavish dinners with friends… so if there’s a position open for a career that does exactly that, maybe I’ll stick around for a while. Until then, I’ll be jumping around, place to place, wondering what the hell I’m doing with my life, but having a marvelous time doing it.

I hope I don’t regret moving after a couple weeks,

Daniel Dickey

“I’ve recently moved from my soap box sized apartment on Bedford Ave, to a Bushwick castle boasting three ‘only for show’ fireplaces and a bathroom with a deep porcelain tub and crown molding. Am I almost at the point of being asked to join the cast of The Real Housewives of New York? No, but I do feel like quite the supreme socialite when I use the new dimmers in my bedroom along with the sound track to Fantasia, to set the mood for the lady cougar that’s growling in my bed.”

I just found this in my phone. It’s almost a year old and with seductive run on sentences like, “No, but I do feel like quite the supreme socialite when I use the new dimmers in my bedroom along with the sound track to Fantasia, to set the mood for the lady cougar that’s growling in my bed.” I can’t believe I didn’t post it prior. I’m not sure what I was thinking when I wrote that sentence. Obviously the only girl in my room was myself. Well, I’m not really a girl, but the wig I often wore at that time in my life might have made you think otherwise.

It’s a beautiful day. The New York sky is big and blue with a couple fat, white clouds in the distance. All of the buds have begun to bloom on the trees in my backyard, my neighbor is painting a new mural on his fence, and the pot plants on my roof are sprouting up quicker than usual. I know a good Brooklyn summer, and this my friends, has all the makings of awesome. I’m still living in the apartment that a year ago I wrote about with such praise and pleasure. And despite its esteem, if I don’t get out of it today, I’ll never get to soak up this sunshine.

Off to the gym,

Daniel Dickey

There’s no point in lying, especially to you. For the past couple weeks I’ve doubted my undying love for New York City. I found myself continually questioning whether I’ve had my fill of the grit, grunge and people vomiting in the subway. Was the big apple consumed down to its core, and was I starting to hunger for other fruits, mainly bananas? No. Well, not since I got out of the subway yesterday and saw the streets busy with that summer funk. Girls were in summer dresses, guys had on hipster shorts and the bums were down to only eight layers of clothes. It’s what I’ve lived here for for the past three years. It’s what everyone lives here for. Well, the two months before Christmas are just as great. But other than Christmas magic and summer funk, the only things that bring New Yorkers happiness is brunch and fresh bagels. Since brunch is just once a week and good bagels only last a couple of minutes, we hold those months dear.

Now here’s my dilemma, I’m still thinking about subletting my room for the summer (the shocked crowd lets out a confused sigh). It’s sort of a… I love you, but I’m not in love with you, situation. I love New York (not that show… I hate that show), but after traveling around, it’s really made me realize that every city, big or small, busy or quite, has its own charm and appeal. No, it doesn’t have the Brooklyn Bridge and a beautiful lady in a green dress holding a torch, but it might have a great cafe, friendly neighbors that will teach you another language and a million new places for you to explore. See what I’m saying? Who doesn’t love exploring? I’m getting older, going balder and my knees hurt after climbing too many stairs… if I’m ever going to do it, the time is now. But where?

I’m either back packing around South and Central America for three and a half months or I’m going to fly to Florida and finish school. Both have their own appeal. I’d love to go spear fishing in Costa Rice and binge drink in Bolivia… but it would also be nice to take classes, live at home and drive around Fort Lauderdale bumping Rick Ross and Ray LaMontagne (depends on the day). In three weeks I’ll be doing one of them. In three weeks and one day, I’ll be happy I did.

Thanks for sticking around,

Daniel Dickey

Anytime I step onto a subway car, I know there’s an opportunity to see 30 year old men selling candy to support their crack addiction, outrageously loud middle schoolers cursing, jumping around and using phrases like, but not limited too, “Oh no that nigga didn’t”, “Yo son that old fool smells like carrots”, and my personal favorite “You hear Jeezie just got pregnant? Isn’t she 12? Na fool, she’s 13… she’s a adult now”. What you don’t expect to see is a tranny pulling down her red cheer-leading shorts, while a drunk, white man slaps her dick around and tells her/him to shake it like a bad girl should.

Oh New York How I Love Thee,

Daniel Dickey

Chromeo is so dope.

I had to work the always dreaded Sunday brunch shift this morning at my wonderful job. Thankfully the weather was beyond beautiful and we stayed busy throughout the afternoon. Around 2:30pm I had a lovely little man-couple seat themselves in my section. One was a older, eccentric man, with white hair and a scarf (it’s August) and the other was a tiny Asian. I wasn’t sure if he was a boy or a man. He looked like one of the little Asians that do gymnastics and can fit into a cereal box. After their fourth round of drinks the Asian skipped his way to the bathroom. Noticing this, I walked over and began folding his napkin.

• Old Gay Man: You know if I wasn’t on a date with that little Asian I’d be taking you out right now
• Me: Yeah. I’m straight.
• Old Gay Man: So is little Yao Ming… doesn’t mean I’m not going to fuck him later.
• Me: Has anyone ever told you you don’t come on strong enough? You should be more forward when trying to get waiters to jerk you off.
• Old Gay Man: (pointing at a extreme exclusive VIP rooftop venue across the street) Have you ever been to the SoHo House? I’m a member.
• Me: (pointing at a ghetto taco truck surrounded by alley cats) No, but I’ve been to that taco truck. I’m a member.
• Old Gay Man: Ohhh you’re funny, that’s what I like about you.
• Me: I like that you’re wearing a Hawaiian shirt and boots. You looked like a confused detective.
• Old Gay Man: I detect you’re going to give me your number.
• Me: I’ll give you that guys number (I point to a man letting his dog eat food out of his mouth).
• Old Gay Man: You ever gone to dinner and had a man buy a $500 bottle of wine?
• Me: Nope. But I did go to lunch once and had a girl by me a $4 bottle of apple juice. It was terrible. I spit it on the floor.
• Old Gay Man: Cut the shit, you’ve been flirting with me the whole time.
• Me: If by flirting you mean talking, then yes, I have been talking to you. I’m a waiter. I talk to people, say something funny, recommend the chicken dish, laugh when you think you said something funny, and then you give me money and leave.
• Old Gay Man: What did you come to New York for?
• Me: To find an older rich man that could get me into the SoHo House.
• Old Gay Man: I’m serious… what did you come here for? What is it you really want to do?
• Me: Isn’t it obvious? I came here to serve Mexican food in front of an apple store. I’m living the good life right now. All the kids back home would kill to have it this good. I’m like the Kayne West of chips and salsa.
• Old Gay Man: I have some serious connections.
• Me: You also have a serious problems. I assume they go hand in hand.
• Old Gay Man: How about hand in lap?
• Me: Well played. That was actually pretty witty.
• Old Gay Man: See, I could teach you a thing or two.
• Me: And I could teach you something… like appropriate conversations with your wait staff.
• Old Gay Man: I’m going to take you to dinner tonight.
• Me: I’m going to throw up on your scarf.
• Me: You’re going to regret not going out with me.
• Me: Nope.
• Old Gay Man: You will.
• Me: I won’t.
• Old Gay Man: I know people.
• Me: And I know people. I know a guy name Jack. I know a girl named Jill. I know they went up a hill.
• Old Gay Man: (The Asian walks up to the table and sits down) Two more margaritas?
• Asian Man Boy: I thought we were going to go to the Soho House?
• Old Gay Man: After one more drink.
• Me: (I look at the Gayasian) Oh, wow, you guys are members of the Soho House?
• Asian Man Boy: Yes. (Looking at his shitty lover) It’s where we went on our first date. (The old gay bastard smiles) Remember you bought that expensive bottle of wine?
• Me: (Grinning like a gangster) Oh how romantic! (I roll me eyes) Let me go get you boys the margaritas.

This happened at 3:20pm this afternoon. I still don’t regret not giving him my number… I think.

Daniel Dickey

After two years in the awe-inspiring New York City I’m once again (I think I tried this at the 6 month and 1 year mark in New York) attempting to assess and evaluate my goals and personal purpose in New York, and in life.

I know my overall aspirations haven’t swayed much since I first boarded a plane in Miami Beach many moons ago, but I’m am alert to the fact that in the past year I’ve truly begun to get a deeper grasp on life. By life I mean… I’m going bald and I’m not as rich and successful as I planned to be. I’m also severely malnourished and haven’t bought a new pair of black shoes in 19 and a 1/2 months. New York really is the city of dreams… well, if your dream is to work at a job you can’t stand and pay overpriced rent in an apartment that you share with a lesbian and a family of cat size rats. Thankfully, that was my dream all along!

The question really is what do I want to be and what can/will I do to obtain it? At the moment these are all things I would like to do before I die.

• Screen writer
• Stand up comic
• FBI agent
• Playwright
• Dog trainer (I’d only train them to eat foreigners)
• Restaurant owner
• Olympic gold medalist
• Movie producer
• Pilot
• Home flipper
• Movie director
• Broadcast journalist
• Body builder
• MMA fighter
• Host of American Idol
• Host of The Tonight Show
• Owner of WalMart’s biggest competitor… PaulMart (I plan to change my name to Paul before the grand opening)
• Vampire (obviously this isn’t a profession… I would just like to be on for a day. I think it would be fun.)
• Actor
• Published author
• Pole dancer (it pays well)
• King (I don’t care of what country, as long as I get a crown)

Here’s to figuring out life during my third year in New York,

Daniel Dickey

So they say you should never assume. I assume it’s because there’s a high possibility your assumption is completely wrong. If and when your assumption is totally wrong you’re going to feel like a complete douche bag and/or little bitch. Example:

I am on the L train. It’s late Wednesday night and I just worked a double. My cheap Keds look-a-like shoes have holes in the bottom and my feet are pounding. There’s construction going on and I know if I don’t get a seat I’ll be standing up for another 30 minutes… that is not an option. As soon as the dirty subway doors open, I rush past the drunk bum with a bike and the Asian couple making out, to get the last seat on the first car. I think to myself.

• Me: I run this shit… bitch!

I begin reading my recently purchased (by recently purchased I mean ’stolen from my roommate’) book, Sarah Silverman’s The Bedwetter. I could careless how long the train takes as I have a funny book in hand and my iPhone is shuffling between The National’s albums. Everything is gravyyyyy, until I decide to look up and see a pregnant women leaning against the door. She looks tired, out of breath, and is holding her back in discomfort. I think to myself.

• Me: Really? What the shit! I know she’s pregnant, but serious, my feet are killing me. (I see the bum on the bike start rubbing his belly like he’s hungry, while simultaneously pointing to her stomach) I should give her this seat. Dammit. I have to work another double tomorrow, I need the rest. (I see her rub her stomach like she’s in pain. I continue having a debate in my head, but end up doing what I think is right. I get up and look at her).
• Me: Hey ma’am, you can have the seat.
• Pregnant Lady: (not expecting my act of generosity) Really?
• Me: Yeah you need it more than me.
• Pregnant Lady: (as she walks to the seat) Well that’s kind of you. I was really gassy–
• Me: You don’t have to explain. I’m sure at your stage of pregnancy just standing up for a couple minutes hurts.
• Pregnant Lady: Bitch I ain’t pregnant!
• Me: Huh?
• Pregnant Lady: (looking at bike riding bum) This little twerp just called me pregnant! (The bum blinks his eyes a couple times and begins licking the tires on his bike) Punk bitch, get your shit straight. I’m thick and I’m proud. (She throws her hands up) Say something, bitch. I dare you. I’ll straight up fart on your faggot ass.

I didn’t say anything. I was scared of her. I didn’t want to get farted on. What I earlier saw as a tender pregnant woman in pain, was now a fat, ghetto bitch, with a gold tooth (could have been a popcorn kernel) and tattoo that read, “I’ll kill a nigga for a Kit Kat” on her left thigh. I put my head down and pretended to continue reading my book, as the train conductor got on the intercom and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, due to construction, trains will be operating at much slower speeds than normal. We apologize for the inconvenience.” Laughing like a maniac and barking at children, the bum started trying to ride his bike around the train. I couldn’t concentrate on the book and wanted to see if the woman was still grilling me. I looked up to see the gassy ghetto woman sound asleep in my seat. The train came to a halt under the East River. I sighed to myself. My feet hurt.

Never Giving Up My Seat Again,

Daniel Dickey

Since moving to New York I’ve found elation in the ever present opportunities to read. I guess I’ve always had the freedom to find a good book and get frisky, but with a car, the national geographic channel and girls willing to get naked for me, reading some pretty prose was on the bottom of my to-do-list. In the big city I ride the subway, don’t own a TV, and can hardly convince myself to get naked for me, let alone a girl hot enough to get me semi-erect. Therefore I spend my most of my time in transition reading. No I haven’t read Twilight or any other tween scream novel–yet. I say yet, because five years ago I never thought I’d be wearing skinny jeans in Williamsburg, Brooklyn–you never know.

I seem to find the most enjoyment in memoirs, humor essays, and well written opinion pieces. In my opinion, the most important thing is that the author’s voice is conveyed in a comedic light. Anyone too serious about anything needs to masturbate and buy a dog. There’s just no need not to be smiling. I’ve read some big name authors who couldn’t hold my attention more than a flat butt and backnee and read some no names who had my literature libido dancing like a black girl a prom. I love reading words that covey a message in such a way, whether it comedic, moving, or whatever, that it forces me to stop and reread it, in hopes of gaining the same satisfaction the second time around. And, like my awkward attempts at sex, I’m always happily surprised when it’s even better the second go. If there’s one thing that keeps me connected to finishing my bachelors degree, it’s the opportunity to major in English and maybe read some more notable novels while making my mother’s heart hump her chest knowing the first person to climb out her vag got his college degree.

Wishing I read more as a child,

Daniel Dickey

People in New York are fucking insane and I love it.

I had just swiped my monthly metro card and was heading into the entrance for Manhattan bound trains as I pulled out my book and pressed play on my iPod. Not more than ten seconds into the song I noticed a wide bodied, bug eyed, beast of a woman, talking to her hand. She was wearing a University of Miami sweatshirt and though I didn’t understand why at the time, it caused me to take an interest in the conversation she was having with her hand. I muted my iPod, but kept the headphones in my ears in my attempts to be inconspicuous. She was about 30 feet in front of me and her speech was muffled by an MTA announcement, but I could clearly see she was now only speaking to a single finger, who was being addressed as Marvin, and if I heard correctly he was a bagel maker. I heard something like,

• Crazy Bum Lady: Marvin! I’ve told you already, if you don’t make 500 bagels by midnight we’re going to lose all the fuel.

Take a second to think about that. It’s easy to read that statement and think, ‘oh that lady is crazy’…which she is. But think about the level on craziness you must be at in order to say, ‘Marvin! I’ve told you already, if you don’t make 500 bagels by midnight we’re going to lose all the fuel’ to your FINGER. I couldn’t help but laugh when I heard this, and when I did, both her and Marvin glared in my direction. I quickly looked at my feet, but I felt/smelt her coming my way.

• Crazy Bum Lady: Hey you! Give me a dollar.
• Me: I’m sorry, I don’t have a dollar.
• Crazy Bum Lady: (to Marvin) Oh the guy with the fancy shoes doesn’t have a dollar. (to me) I’m late to work and you won’t give me a dollar to get on the subway!
• Me: You’re already past the turnstile. You don’t have to pay to go anywhere else.
• Crazy Bum Lady: (to Marvin) Fancy pants is going to tell me what I need to pay for. (to me) I’m a lady, treat me as such. And if you don’t I’ll scratch you.
• Me: I’d rather you not scratch me. (I pretend to talk to my finger) Marvin why is this lady talking to us?
• Crazy Bum Lady: (to Marvin) What was that? What’s he doing? How do you know him?
• Me: (to my finger) You never told me you knew this lady. Did she come into our bagel shop? (to her) I’m sorry I didn’t know you were a friend of Marvin.
• Crazy Bum Lady: (to Marvin) How do you know him?! Answer me! (to me) Why don’t you piss off you rat bastard (she actually said rat bastard) before I bite you with my foot.
• Me: Ok that sounds good. You have a great day too!

As I walked away…

• Me: Too bad you’re not going to be able to make 500 bagels by midnight!!

I started laughing to myself. Dumb move, this crazy fuck came running at me like a rhino, as she growled like a dog. I burst into a full sprint as she chased after me. Some middle schoolers started cheering and laughing as she barked away. This old bum woman was chasing through the subway! How did this happen?

I knew if she caught me she might kill me, but I couldn’t help but laugh as I ran away from her. It was hilarious. I was running out of space and was considering jumping into the tracks if it meant saying away from this human herpes soar. I had about 30 feet left when I heard the kids quite down. I turned to see why and I saw that she had stopped chasing me and was eating part of a falafel she found in the trash. The middle schoolers were totally entertained as they watched her eat the soggy pita bread falafel. I too began watching her chomp away at the dirty sandwich.

After she licked all of the sauce off of the floor, she got up and walked back the way she came. I was relieved that she totally forgot about about killing me, but was worried that one of the middle schoolers might remind her. I looked across the tracks and saw most of them were too busy gagging to remind her to try to kill me again. What a relief. I hit play on my iPod and opened my book just as the subway pulled up. I was going to be late to work, but I didn’t mind. As I stepped onto the subway I saw a man dressed up as a robot playing the hermonica…another adventure was on its way.

Making bagels,

Daniel Dickey