I’m not sure if this is a personal confession, new realization or a petty admittance of falling for community based marketing that has weighed down my virgin soul with shame, guilt and cheap beer bottled in impressive branding (I don’t really have a soul, but for the point of the rambling, please assume I do).

About a year or so ago, Duane Reade began its initial build-out of a retail space on Bedford Avenue between N 3rd and N 4th. It’s a high traffic, highly populated area that hasn’t fully succumbed to the price per a square foot that Manhattan businesses are willing to pay. An ingenious move on Duane Reade’s part… except for two key issues. Like, KEY issues.

1. The location is in the heart of Williamsburg, Brooklyn. The vegan loving, carbon cutting, self-sustaining, fuck capitalism in American and plant an herb garden in organic pots, Williamsburg, Brooklyn.
2. The location is RIGHT across the street from King’s Pharmacy.

Though most of Williamsburg, at times myself included, is just fancy Zara shoes, an art school attitude and a desire to ramble on about why bands like Beirut and Caribou will continue to be dominant in Pitchfork’s rankings of whatever/who cares music; they also HATE, HATE, HATE the man. By ‘the man’ I mean corporate suits, structured 401k plans, company cars and logos that are present and recognizable in 220 countries (though I don’t think anyone knows of Duane Reade in the Middle East… yet). I’m not really all that hipster and would totally shop at a big name, big discount chain without regret, if I was in a shithole like Times Square or the Vegas strip. But I do have an issue when your corporate company comes into my community and sets up shop across the street from a local pharmacy that’s been in the neighborhood for some time. Don’t get me wrong, King’s Pharmacy is a company; they are there to make money and would probably, like most, consider a stock offering if Goldman Ball-Sachs presented one. But still, whenever I walk to the gym on Bedford, I can’t help but think of Meg Ryan in You Got Mail, when Tom Hanks and his team of blah blah corporate jets build their bookstore down the street from her little, local, community loving book shop. Yes, that might have been the best suited location for a Duane Reade, yes your highly efficient team of contractors assured you they could have it open before the new HSBC bank next door, and yes it made sense as a company looking at an Excel printout of possible income generated in a young neighborhood… but when you first viewed the space in person, like on day one, did you at some point glance across the street and think, “well, we’re pretty much fucking those guys. Like yeah, really fucking them. They are sooo fucked.” Probably not.

If it was always my choice and I didn’t have to worry about appeasing others I would never eat at a corporate chain (maybe Olive Garden, and only once). When out, I’ll drink a beer from the Brooklyn Brewery before anything else (obviously PBR doesn’t count), because it’s local (I also drink that because I’m a drunk, but that’s a whole other blog). And I would never shop at the Duane Reade on Bedford Avenue… well, so I, the defender of local justice, thought.

See when the store opened, they unveiled a giant walk-in refrigerator with a mega selection of beer. It’s in perfect sight from the street and stocked with some local favorites. Most of all, it’s way cheaper than all the corner stores that carry great beer. But that didn’t faze me, maybe others, but not me. I walked in, looked at the 100+ selections and mentally spit on the door as I walked out. All was gravy and I was still an active soldier for the mom and pop store, until I walked past it three days ago and saw something different, something odd, something… are those taps? Yes, at closer inspection they had 10 taps filled with beers I and many other Billyburgers would absolutely love to drink. Brooklyn Chocolate with 10% alcohol, an IPA from a country I never heard of and three different winter ales. Around the taps were dozens of 64oz glass growlers, sporting the logo Brew York City. The two guys behind the counter were in Brew York City shirts. There was nothing associating them with Duane Reade, so much so, that I asked if they were just renting the space from the store. The Brew Yorker hesitantly replied, “no this is Duane Reade’s company. It’s the first store they’ve ever done it in” before I could cut him off, he threw in, “it’s only $8 to fill a growler.” WAIT ONE MINUTE, 64ozs of whatever, for $8, damn it, I felt a white flag go up over my head. Had the soldier for David crumbled to Goliath’s offer of great beer at an even better price? I ran out of there as quick as I could. Don’t succumb Danny. Don’t succumb.

Two days later, it was still eating me up. Should I write the owners of King’s Pharmacy and explain to them why I think it would beneficial to set up one of their own growler stations? No, that’s not their thing. Maybe I could just go grab some beer at the Millennium Market and forget that I even saw the thing? Wasn’t happening. Who was I kidding? I witnessed hop brewed happiness and wouldn’t feel complete until I had it once again.

Last night I got off the Bedford stop on L train, head buried in a oversized hoodie, and filled up a growler with Brooklyn Chocolate. I got back on the train, hiding my vice under my jacket, and got off a couple stops later. Once home I immediately drank it… it didn’t taste like happiness… it tasted like blood. It was like a blood diamond; well, like a beer diamond. And I was shamed… at least for the first glass. By my fourth cup I was raving to my roommates about how great it was and why I’d be there every day trying new beers. I updated my Twitter several times with tweets like, “Duane Reade I wish you were a girl so I could marry you” and “Duane Reade my lips… I LOVE YOU.” Even now, as I get ready to go to the gym, I know my glass growler is tucked away in my gym bag, ready… waiting to be filled on my way back. My hoodie will still be pulled low in shame, but not as low as before, because after I depart with my brew, I will head out of Duane Reade, past their current toilet paper sale and into King’s Pharmacy, to buy some more expensive priced toilet paper from mom and pop! I may be a sucker to beer, but not to toilet paper. By wiping my tush with King’s Pharmacy toilet paper, I wipe my ass with you… Duane Reade.

Filling My Growler,

Daniel Dickey

Yesterday I text my roommate to tell her she received a letter in the mail. She tells me to open it and see what it is. I open it…

If you’re having trouble reading the note it says, “I love you Tara. Love, Hugs, Mommy.” If you spent anytime studying during finals week at any college in America then you know those amazing little pills are time released Adderall. I just can’t help but find it hilarious that that note accompanied the Adderall. If only real drug dealers worked the same way…

A scene: Crackhead purchases $5 worth of crack. Crackhead heads to his favorite dumpster. Crackhead smokes crack out of a old coffee mug. Crackhead eats banana peel he finds in garbage. Crackhead sees note (he’s a crackhead so he can’t read, but for the purpose of the scene) the note reads, “I love you crackhead. Love, Hugs, Mommy.”

That’s one good dealer.

Blogging From Williamsburg, Brooklyn.

Daniel Dickey

This Wednesday will be exactly 10 months since I moved to New York. I still clearly remember my early attempts at finding an apartment. Going from ghetto to ghetto, avoiding gun shots, rats the size of small cars, and strung out homeless women the size of football players, all while trying to find apartment in my budget. Though the apartments next to Biggie Smalls old house had large bedrooms, I didn’t feel I would survive long enough to sleep in one. Thankfully, two days before my south Williamsburg sublet was over I found a little kingdom right smack in the middle of hipsters paradise. If you’ve never been to Williamsburg, Brooklyn and aren’t quite sure what a hipster is, imagine the jeans of Panic at the Disco, the tattoos of Travis Barker, the shirts that are in your dad’s closet from the 70s, the glasses of Lady Gaga, and a not give a fuck, go with the flow attitude similar to Kurt Cobain. Though I haven’t got a sleeve of tattoos on my arm yet, my jeans do have a little less wiener room, my shirts have a little more funk, and I’ve been considering getting some Lady Gaga shades (That’s a huge lie, but for the sense of this blog, lets pretend that I’d be willing to wear glasses similar to her). With my lease being up at the end of August I have to start looking for another place to live. Though my current location is in the very heart of Williamsburg, I’ve out grown the bedroom walls that I can touch at the same time and the bathroom that even a Jack Russel Terrier would have trouble moving around in comfortably. So the question is where will I end up next?

Williamsburg is still the most probable answer since it’s the most gangster place in the world…even more gangster than Compton…Compton sucks cack. I think I would enjoy living in Manhattan, but it’s a very different lifestyle. The bars in DA BURG are hip and mellow, boasting $3 beer and free pizza. They’re filled with cut off jeans, unkempt hair, and the funkiest youth of New York. With Manhattan living comes an older, postgraduate educated, wallstreetesque, suits in bars type crowd. Not to be misconstrued I look damn good in a suit, but I tend to only wear them at Bar Mitzvahs and at Mel Gibson’s funeral (Hasn’t happened yet, but I’ll be prepared with a pressed suit for the celebration). Drinks in Manhattan start at $7 and if I even thought of wearing my favorite I Love Puppies shirt in Mid Town I’d stick out like Megan Fox’s thumb as a hand model (Google it). Though I would love living next to Central Park. If I could wake up, have a picnic and play frisbee everyday…O.M.G. I often go there and hang for hours on end, reading, writing, throwing rocks at ducks. It’s a paradise in the high rise jungle of Manhattan.

I know I can rule out Queens (Brooklyn’s gay sister), The Bronx (Stupidddd), and Staten Island (Really? Is that a joke?). So it’s either Brooklyn or Manhattan…either way I’ll rock out and steal my neighbors mail. Also my place is completely wrecked after my party a couple days ago…I guess the landlord will be keeping that security deposit. Like my hipster brothers would say, Ah fuck it.

House hunting,

Daniel Dickey

Cassie, you silly silly little Mexican! What were you thinking taking pictures of your pierced breast? I know! You have an album coming out and want to sell more than 40 records. Dumb move. Anyone in show biz can tell you it takes a full porn tape and multiple trips to rehab for heroin before you become a real A-list celebrity. BUT we defiantly don’t mind checking out your little almost famous mango’s. Enjoy.

And better.

If you happened to be wondering her response to all of this,

Her Twitter – IT SEEMS THAT SOMEONE HAS HACKED INTO MY COMPUTER. THATS REAL FOUL AND EVIL. NOW STOP ACTING LIKE YOU HAVENT SEEN A TITTY BEFORE.

Her Blog – The recent personal pictures that have been leaked on the internet of me were hacked and stolen out of my computer. These photos were obviously never intended for the world to see and it’ sad that people would really take time to steal and post them, it’s just evil. At the end of the day breasts are breasts, mine weren’t the first you’ve seen and they won’t be the last people need to grow up, lets move on. Thank you.

You’re very right Cassie. I have seen many titties before you and plan to see many titties after you… titties that are much cooler than yours. Your titties are just okay titties. They are not awww snap titties.

Sitting in my Brooklyn apartment, hungry, drawing on my wall, not sure when I last showered, and still shitting last nights liquor, I am very grateful I grew up in a suburban middle class neighborhood. Though my family wasn’t the cookie cutter all American type, both of my parents worked hard to provide a comfortable life for my siblings and I. I didn’t have to worry about drive-bys, crackheads trying to jerk me off behind a Walmart, and being forced to eat my cereal with water because we couldn’t buy milk this week.

In a gated community you have other things to worry about, like learning cools tricks with your bike, playing Pogs, and of course violent video games on Nintendo 64 (This is speaking of when I was in Middle School, today it would be Nintendo Wii). This of course this was taken for granted in my tween and teenage years, but as a poor, struggling 20 something I sure wish I had some Pogs and my Nintendo 64.

Living on your own isn’t all it’s cut out to be. If you had terribly strict dick munching parents then maybe living on your own is a big importance. But for me living rent free in a nice house with a tub and a toaster seems pretty ideal (You heard me. I do not have a toaster and my shower is the size of a Mormons vagina).

Yes you can walk around naked in your own house, but why can’t I do that in my Mom’s house? It’s not like she’s never seen a wiener. If anything I think she’d be proud to see the handsome wiener her son likes to strut around. I guess it’s also nice being able to have sex wherever I want in my house, but seeing as I have been dating my girlfriend for almost 2 and 1/2 years, we have sex in the same place…nowhere. I’m always tired and she’s always constipated. Love really is a magical thing. It’s like rain, just instead of droplets of water, it’s like droplets of magic. Little droplets of magic just falling from the sky. It’s so magical.

I’ve also found food to be a major concern while surviving in my own dwellings. Whatever food I do have must be guarded at all hours, due to overweight unactivated roommates trying to jack my cookies. Therefore I am left with a single meal a day (Two meals if it’s a holiday, and if I go to the local homeless shelter). That meal tends to be a can of tuna with whatever I can find to mix it with (Note: Don’t mix tuna with Landry detergent. Though it smells great, I have found it to be quite toxic and has almost killed me several times). I did buy a couple boxes of Captain Crunch, but unfortunately the milk expired 11 days ago. I tried smelling it and I threw up in my mouth. I assume I’ll cover my nose as I eat the Captain Crunch and 11 day old milk for dinner.

Living on your own sucks, inless you’re rich. I’m looking to knock up a rich girl in the coming months to help with my financial issues. Are you rich? Wanna have a baby? Cool.

I’m actually getting so frustrated that I’m not in at one of my parent’s houses (They’re divorced) in Florida watching HGTV that I am ending this post and going to sleep.

22 pounds skinnier than I was last year,

Daniel Dickey

It’s 2:16am on a cold New York night. My overly expensive Brooklyn apartment smells of burnt napkins (I set them aflame to help calm the air, as my girlfriend has server diarrhea and some very toxic gas. Even her burps smell of dead fish and horse urine. (Pause) Did I mention I love her)? My roommate and longtime foe, Jt, is cooking a can of my soup, in a pot that I know will sit dirty on the stove until I clean it. Has he ever cleaned a dish…I can only wonder. We have all slept most of the day after along night of parting, which ended in a drunken consumption of a couple dozen White Castle burgers and fries at 5:17am (These also happened to be breakfast the following morning).

I find myself sitting here frustrated that all the savings I have enjoyed by stealing toilet paper from local hotels instead of purchasing it from hippie health food stores, have amounted to nothing because I was forced to buy a bulk pack a couple of minutes ago for my “wipe happy” girlfriend. If there will ever be a sour point in our relationship, it will surely arise from her lack of proper toilet paper procedures. For years we have debated what way one should wipe when cleansing fecal matter from thy anus. She believes the wiping motion should go front to back(makes sense because she has a vagina). I know it should go back to front (I just lift up my handsome hairless balls and everything is in the clear). I also preplan how many squares of hotel toliet paper will be needed for each bowl movement, while she on the other hand is just like her father, carelessly wiping with no sense of how much anal tissues are being wasted in the process. Oh how does one love?

I took a pause between paragraphs. It’s now 3:04am and the burnt napkins could no longer fight the awful odor blasting from the bathroom and into my nostriles. A shirt dowsed in fabric softener has been fastened on my face with ropes and small twine. This is my last defense. I hope I’ll make it. In the pause I also decided to use the dirty pot to make some soup, like my previously stated lifelong enemy and pedophilia fascinated friend, Jt. I warmed up some Chicken, Cheese, and Broccoli, with Hearty Potato Chunks. 10-12 mouthfuls into consumption I realized Chicken, Cheese, Broccoli, and Hearty Potato Chunks are all equally the least desirable things to be eating as I fiercely fight off my girlfriends invading flatulence. I put the pot back on the stove and will blame the mess on the evilness that is Jt.

I find myself drifting and am not quite sure if I am getting tired or if the fabric softener I stole from that dirty Mexican laundry mat on South 2nd Street is just a pastel colored brand of ammonia. If all is right I should survive the night to tell my story once again. Till next time.

Keeping it Gangster

Daniel Dickey

Check me’s out!

I’m MCing a club in Brooklyn this Friday (Despite the stern warnings from the local authorities about not posting my future plans and/or whereabouts, due to the large amounts of death threats) I want YOU to come check me out. I’ll be getting really jiggy while I’m sippen on a bottle of brandy and carrot juice.

The Fresh Prince of Brooklyn

Daniel Dickey