I want hood badges assigned. New York City residents, in the areas heavily invaded by cocktail fueled piss factories, given the authority to extract decency out their hides. Don't know how to act when released into the wild? Back you fucking go into captivity, dragged by your pubes if necessary.

Pardon me, I am an official street representative. I must insist you either reel in the retardation immediately, or I will be forced to flex my sanctioned neighborhood privileges. Herd you down the sidewalk crying, gagged and naked to the outskirts of Manhattan with high voltage cattle prods, your valuables donated to the Hood Badge Fund. Warning bitch slaps dished out all around to clue them in on the seriousness of the matter. Smarten up fucko's.

Wonderful offshoot cramp of Mayor Doomberg's anti-smoking crusade. Packs of morons huddled outside bars blocking the sidewalks for their nic fix. Nice obstacle course to traverse on the way home. Completely oblivious to the pedestrian traffic as they stumble around. Planted my shoulder into a couple dozen spines already. I'm an equal opportunity common sense instructor. An idiot with tits impeding my walk, is still an idiot, and deserves as much spanky shock therapy as idiots with dicks.

YEAR TWENTY TWO CONTINUATED AND SHEEIT: Never to be chased away again.

Eric, being a pussy, decided NYC was too tumultuous, and went back to Montana to complete his college education. Dan became one of eight roomates in a West Village basement apartment. He cited having to sign guests in and out of the dorms as the main reason. Believable actually since he was an executive class stoner, and breaking away from cozy opium den cots to escort his latest trim conquest outside was a major buzzkill, dude. Mike and I continued our Carlyle Court dwelling status, and entered the room lottery together.

The previous year our dorm faced the ivy blanketed courtyard of the three building complex. This go round we had street view. Oh dear.

Street view had the additional benefit of a balcony. Balcony = bomber's parapet. The onset of snowfall was greeted with snickering glee, dancing around like three year olds on yuletide crack. Tightly packed snowballs were launched at speeding taxis. The two floppy haired Cure listening skateboard kidlets who shared the apartment with us had a stash of plastic newspaper roll covers. Killed a bottle of Cuervo and plastered the block with makeshift water balloons. Busted out the backseat window of a Lexus while having a contest to see who could activate the most car alarms. Skittered around like a crab, snatching all the plastic evidence from the street, constantly freaking out at the sight of anything that resembled a cop car. Tossed small appliances from our perch to see how they shattered apart from a twelve story drop. Pieces parts dashing off in numerous trajectories.

One night a bum was sitting up against the brick across the street, humming away on his harmonica at three in the morning. Landed pop bottle missles all around him till message was received. Grumbled down the block about how he was gonna climb the walls and kick my ass. I exploded a final glass grenade behind him in response. Keep the trainyard hobo theme songs to yourself shitheel.

Also started working part time at Stinko's. I was bee-roke. Palming cans of tunafish into my trenchcoat pockets at D'Agostino's. Crashing events at NYU strictly to score free grub. "So when did you join The Future Accountants of America League?" Mouth full of heavily cream cheese slathered bagel, "M'oh. Uhum, juss de obber day". Ten pound sack of Chinatown rice keeping me fed for a month, flavored with whatever condiment packets I could steal out of Burger King and Taco Bell.

NYC Kinko's in the early Nineties was staffed with artists and otherwise interesting people just making due till hallelujah discovery day. Basically a medina of geeks and freaks. Praise Alternia the Nerdic goddess for steering my sails towards those sparkling spazz shores.

Instant cup o'noodles of drinking buddies was steeping for me. Most of my highly cherished aquaintances are a direct result of blasted Stinko's. Battlefield work atmosphere for mostly transplanted warriors, built an easy comaradarie. Retail, and in particular, printing shop retail on Madison Avenue, is a stressfest. Soon trips to self medication centers developed from casual beer bandaids to dedicated regular secondary homes replete with monogrammed barstools.

Coyote Ugly, Baramundi, 181, Mars Bar, The Village Idiot, 7B and Downtown Beirut were our favorite haunts. All of which would be unrecognisable to the current stream of wannabe wetnursed hipsters, fratjocks, and embryonic yuppie scum that feed the registers there now. Gentrification has crept speedily through the L.E.S., and Manhattan for that matter, like cocoa powder in milk. Had to smell like you belonged below Fourteenth Street after Midnight in order to keep your blood on the inside. It was a resplendent sketchy jungle in the early Nineties, and warzone like before that I understand.

The Village Idiot shutdown for a couple years and then changed locations to the west side. The original place was all about straight up cheap drinkin. Busted ass juke, crackles and pops in the middle of songs. Sparse bare light bulbs making it look like a Prohibition speakeasy. Beer and shots, period. Ask for something requiring a martini glass and you were tossed roughly out face first. It was beautifully disgusting.

Dowtown Beirut shutdown as well, more permenant like. Victims of the Eighties were most welcome. Punk and New Wave roared out the speakers. Rowdy customers would be literally hosed down from a high pressured spigot behind the bar. Bathroom doors unlocked to keep junkies from gearing up on the toilet. Made drunk blowjobs more exciting knowing the door could fly open at any minute, strongarmed by the bouncer, erection bobbing up and down as you are thrown out.

Coyote Ugly was the most tainted by success. Long before that candyland fluff of a movie infested screens nationwide, Coyote Ugly was a terrific spot to get loaded.

My crew had a tradition of going topless once enough Pabst was floating our livers. Something about your nipples blazing in a redneck bar was invigorating. The talented stream of hotties that bartended there approved. I was completely naked there on three seperate occasions. Once strictly to have my Hanes dangling from the rafters, on an agreement that I'd never pay for another Jagermeister as long as I lived if I did so. Arms latched over each other's shoulders as we belted out in unison with the entire bar David Allen Coe's "You Never Call Me By My Name". Any outsider that did not know the words instantly had beer poured on their head. I also loved the mistreatment of anyone who refused to heed the no necktie rule. Chopped off and set on fire. A BMW mistakenly parked outside in front of the bar had it's alarm go off when a hoodrat smashed the window to nab goodies. Most of the annoyed Coyote Ugly patrons each took turns pissing, hacking up loogies, and even ralphing in one case into the chump's vehicle. Christ, the amount of sex I had because of that place should just not be allowed. Shit, the amount of sex I had INSIDE that place should just not be allowed.

I decided to remain that summer in NYC after my second NYU year. Never looked back. I am a fucking New Yorker now ya mammislammers.