Strike One: First, they jumped a Liberian immigrant and beat him with a metal pipe. He did not get the chance to educate them on the distinction between "African" and "African-American."

Strike Two: They "demanded that a Hispanic man tell them how he had voted."

Strike Three: They got in the car and ran down Ronald Forte—a white guy wearing a hoodie. They thought he looked black.

Now all four of them have been sentenced to prison terms ranging from five to nine years.

Race-blind racists. MLK's dream is here.

15-year-old Alexa Longueira took her case to the people! She was walking on the sidewalk. She was texting. Then, out of nowhere, a GIANT FUCKING HOLE appeared in the ground below her - presumably, somewhere within the periphery of where she was holding her phone, incidentally - and she fell five feet into it. Via Gothamist:

Apparently DEP workers left the the open manhole to retrieve some orange cones-and it took a little too long for them to return. She told WCBS 2, "It was just really gross and it was shocking and scary. Because of their careless mistake I got hurt... Regardless of whether I'm texting or not if there was a cone there I'm gong to see a big orange cone. I walk that sidewalk every day, I don't expect a big hole there." So, if there was a big orange, she TOTALLY would have seen it while texting, instead of the manhole, right?

One can only hope! Because if orange cones won't save us from gigantic holes in the ground, what will? Funny you should ask. Alexa also expressed her fear of something pulling her under, into the sub-surface of the ground, into Staten Island's most inner-reaches!

"I thought it was something out of a movie, where something was gonna take me under."

Mind you, she was five feet underground. Anyway, it's pretty common knowledge that if you're pulled underground by something in New York, you might be in luck. Then again, it could be the mole people. Either way, if I were a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle or a moleperson, I probably would've thrown this one back out. The surface streets are dangerous enough; you don't need to be navigating the underground with a kid who can't see gigantic holes in the ground. Also, you can only talk about Twilight for so long. Seriously.

Video: S.I. Teen Discusses Fall Down Manhole While Texting [Gothamist]

MEDIA ADVISORY

Staten Island Organization calls for Boycott of Belmar New Jersey
if Mayor fails to visit Staten Island

Staten Island, New York- John "JE" Englebert President of the Staten Island Good Neighborhood Association is calling for a boycott of Belmar New Jersey by Staten Islanders. An apology is not good enough. The group wants the Mayor Kenneth Pringle who insulted Staten Island to spend 24 hours in the crown island jewel of New York. He would be treated to the local cuisine including a night at the Staten Island Hotel. The Staten Island Good Neighbor Association wants to take him on a tour of the place people love to dump on.

If he refuses the group plans a fundraiser to give for the candidate that runs against him in the next election and boycott ads will be placed in local newspapers across Staten Island. The groups website is http://www.statenislandgoodneighborhoodassociation.com

"JE" Englebert is a life-long resident of Staten Island. He is owner of New York City nightclubs including Suzie Wong and Prime. The Organization is a non political group that is dedicated to the health, safety and well being of Staten Island. It acts as a community watch dog organization for good government and civic activities for the people of Staten Island.

Some of what the mayor wrote [via Newsday]:

The more time we spend on the NJGuido site, the more we think of Guidos as a kind of rare bird: they flock to our shore towns during the warm months, and are as welcome as, oh, Canada Geese. They're always tanned to the color of coconut shells, and easily identified by their plumage: satin shirts and short skirts on the females; Armani Exchange T-shirts and artfully distressed jeans on the males. The females favor bold hair styles and colorful makeup; the males tend to strut and flex their pumped up muscles. The call of the Guido is bellowing, and frequently slurred, invariably starting with the sound, "Yo," followed all too often by some creative variation on an expletive beginning with the letter, "F."

As first reported in the Staten Island Advance (they have their own little newsletter! Cute!), if you're looking to create an event in Staten Island, Facebook will only let you pick New York, NY or Staten Island Junction, NJ, which is apparently a different place. Why anyone would want to create an event in Staten Island was not reported.

The perpetually outraged young Republicans dutifully sent a letter of complaint to Facebook CEO Mark Zuckerberg, and though he didn't respond to calls for comment, Facebook officials told the New York Post that they're working day and night to fix the issue and allow people to begin inviting everyone in their networks to meet up at some New Brighton parking lot to get wasted before piling into an Escalade and driving into the city to get more wasted.

Staten Island 'Slighted' By Facebook [NY Sun]
SI GETS SLAP IN THE FACEBOOK [NYP]

So the Staten Island Advance has stepped in—with a multiple-choice quiz!&#8212to help show that while the Shaolin may be chock full of cugines, it's also home to lovers of doo-wop!

You can test yourself to see how much of a true-blue Islander you are, and then use their handy-dandy confusing scoring system to find out where you fall. Me? I'm apparently an "Urban Aesthetic," which is certainly what I fancied myself back when I was cheerleading next to big-haired girls with abusive guido boyfriends at Wagner High School.

One afternoon at 2:00, which was exactly one hour after she'd said she'd arrive, a busty brunette in a skimpy red sundress burst through the doors of Gawker headquarters and sprinted towards me. It was Julia Allison, of course, coming to take me to a psychic in Staten Island. The kicky rhythm of her four-inch rope espadrilles on the hardwood floor was the loudest thing that had happened in the office all day, but it was quickly one-upped by her voice. "Aren't you SO EXCITED!" she asked-told me as she enfolded me in a candy-smelling embrace. And then she grabbed my hand and the next thing I knew I was beside her in that vaunted convertible Mercedes, speeding as quickly as it's possible to speed down a traffic-clogged street in Soho, accompanied by Whitney Houston ("I Wanna Dance With Somebody"). That's when reality began to blur, so I've had to reconstruct the next part of the afternoon by looking at my sent and received text messages.

To: Josh, 2:20 pm
Now she is getting gas and everyone is staring. It's like an Aerosmith video.

To: Doree, 2:49 pm
"I think this song would be better with the top down"

To: Josh, 3:03 pm
This is the fourth construction worker we've asked for directions

From: Josh, 3:04 pm
Are you even off Crosby street?

We really may as well not have been. For an hour, we had been driving around lower Manhattan, looking for the entrance to the Battery Park tunnel, or sort of half-looking while we talked about jobs, love, family, body image, eating disorders, workouts, boys, feminism and shopping. Basically it was a slumber party crossed with a Cosmo ed meeting on wheels that occasionally pulled over to ask the nearest cop or friendly-seeming fellow motorist whether we were headed in the right direction (we weren't). Also for a time we were very involved in singing along to "Pussy Control" by Prince. We missed the turnoff into the tunnel four separate times. The whole time, Julia treated traffic laws like traffic suggestions or traffic hints. One of the times we missed the turnoff, we made an illegal u-turn, cut across two lanes of traffic, and ended up behind a cop car. "I wonder if the cop saw that?" Julia mused, and then confessed that she'd never gotten a ticket.

At 3:49, we pulled up outside a smallish detached vinyl-sided colonial and got out of the car. Alexandra, the psychic, came to her front door to chide us for being late. I couldn't see her that well through the storm door, but I could tell that she was 40ish and blonde and wearing black leather and clutching a small white dog. The dog was wering a blue bandanna. In a slightly put-out tone, she instructed us to go out back and wait by the pool. "We should have called to say we'd be late, but shouldn't she have forseen it?" Julia said, winking like Jessica Rabbit.

The pool was about the size of a lawn chair but very refreshing to stick your feet in, which we did as we waited for Alexandra and Mr. Fluffy to prepare to receive us. Soon we were ushered into the basement, which was decorated in 80s lady (white leather sectional, recumbent bike, treadmill, pink dried flower wreath, tv set with videos including 'The Hand That Rocks The Cradle' resting on top). I peed in the pink, raspberry-and-lit-matches scented bathroom (ornamental soap shaped like butterflies, no t.p.) while Julia got comfortable in the white leather easy chair where you sit while Alexandra, who has a public access show called "Alexandra's Psychic Eye," tells your fortune.

First Alexandra put her hand over Julia's hands and then she asked Julia some very specific questions. At first, I thought the asking questions part was a copout that meant Alexandra was basically just an ad hoc therapist who talked about energy and past lives. But as the session progressed, I became more and more impressed with her psychic abilities. Julia, it turns out, was a man in many of her past lives. "So men are attracted to your feminine looks, but then they're confused by your masculine energy. You're like General Patton: in every situation you need to be in control." Julia then demonstrated this tendency by badgering Alexandra with a ton of rapid-fire questions about specific career stuff. Alexandra told her straight up that she wasn't going to get anywhere like that. "You need to be more gentle, more nurturing. Women are natural nurturers. Women have inner space," she explained. "You need to stop being General Patton and start being Mother Earth." Then she started talking about how Julia was going to have a cooking show, maybe after moving back to the Midwest where her roots lie, even though Julia hates cooking and doesn't want to go back to Chicago ever. She also advised Julia to change her name to Julie.

I was trying hard to pay attention, but Mr. Fluffy had taken an incredibly strong amorous interest in all of my limbs. I didn't want to interrupt the reading, but eventually I had to draw the line at being extremity-raped by a bichon frise. "You have a lot of dog energy!" Alexandra observed as she took Mr. Fluffy into her arms. "We talked about this, Mr. Fluffy!" she admonished him.

When it came to disciplining Julia, though, Alexandra was a bit sterner. "You need to be real. You're just not real," she told her at one point. She also didn't bullshit Julia about the long-term potential of her latest suitor, a young guy who got too rich too quickly off a website he started in college. "This guy's a player, a joke. I see it lasting another six weeks, max."

Then it was time for my reading. Alexandra won me over immediately when the first thing she said to me was "I'm getting a [first initial of the boy I have a crush on]. Who is [initial]?" but I recognize that she had a one in twenty-six chance of nailing that one. Well, whatever, she said that he really likes me and that I shouldn't be so afraid of him. Just for that I pretty much consider my $100 well-spent, even though, during my energy healing, Mr. Fluffy renewed his relationship with my left calf just as I was really successfully imagining pink light escaping through the crown of my head and reaching out and enfolding the people I love.

Later, in the car going home, Julia and I talked about the highlights of our readings. We were both pretty happy with Alexandra's prognostications, but Julia was disappointed that things weren't going to work out between her and the website dude. "I'm in the mood to fall in love, Emily! I want him to fall madly in love with me." "Well, maybe he will," I said. "She's not psychic." God, long day.

Authorities charged Ms. Lawson with third-degree assault, child endangerment, fourth-degree weapon possession, for the ammonia, and third-degree attempted assault — all misdemeanors.

Aiming For Neighbor, Mom Douses Son With Ammonia, Cops Say [SILive]

The actual goodbye may be instant. A woman storms out of the bedroom, leaving behind her startled boyfriend caught naked with her best friend. But it is not until much later, the scorned lover completely mentally expunges him as she shreds the photographs of them snapped during happier times.

Parting Is Such Sweet Sorrow [SILive]

Plan for Nascar Speedway Is Scrapped on Staten Island [NYT via Curbed]

• "Is it normal for girls to want to sleep with old men?"
  
• "Would you sleep with Xena warrior princess?"
  
• "I am really going to miss you. Would you give me your number?" (Uh, contrary to the video's "evidence" we have to believe that this stalkerish line has never, ever worked).

  Craving more "Affection?" Visit his MySpace. Or, like, don't. Here, we'll sum it up for you: "Girls tend to try to use me for sex. There's nothing more amusing than telling a girl no. "Wait... you mean you won't sleep with me? *confused*" Comfort, connection, and trust. :)"
  
  Earlier: One Year Later, 'The Game' Makes it to Staten Island

"Affection," as he is known in his professional world, is a PUA, or "pick-up artist" — which should not be confused with the term PUG, or "pick-up guru." The latter coveted designation is reserved only for a select few master flirts who consistently seduces "tens," an actual rating given only to the most stunning of women hovering supermodel status.

A Night In the Life of A Pick Up Artist [Staten Island Advance]

Feds won't green-light Brooklyn Grand Prix plans [NYDN]
Nascar's Plan for Staten Island Drawing Caution Flags [NYT]
ISC: Reports of Staten Island 'riot' overblown [NASCAR]

But today is different, because we're laughing at the expense of innocent children. We're laughing so hard, honestly, that we can't properly write this item. You see, a Staten Island bus driver allegedly organized a fight club amongst the middle school kids on his route, urging them to fight one another and use scissors as weapons. It may not seem funny, but:

• The driver called himself The Emperor
• The Emperor rallied kids with his "sick Jedi mind trick"
• The bus was called The Death Cheese (a "mini Death Star on wheels")
• The toughest fighters were nicknamed Darth, Sith Warrior, and Jabba, according to "sources"

What sources? Jar-Jar Binks? Amazing. We don't even want to publish this post, just because we don't want the Star Wars Fight Club to ever end.

Meet the Jabba the Nut [NYDN]