A truly brave human being saw something while riding the M train through Brooklyn, and decided to say something to Gothamist (with NSFW video): A depraved man decided to whip his dick out and masturbate on the train. He didn't do a very good job of concealing himself, either. The aspiring exhibitionist, however, is a little shy: he brings the show to a halt when the train reaches a stop. Gothamist has turned the video over to the NYPD.
It is in the face of death that we all learn what we are truly made of. If you were, for example, a pig being taken to slaughter, would you attempt to jump from the truck as it speeds down the highway, the driver salivating just at the thought of you being turned into bacon? Or would you embrace death, letting those final moments of life wash over you and calm you before your throat is slit? One brave pig dared to jump.
Williamsburg, Brooklyn is one of the most famously gentrified neighborhoods in the country, having completed its transition from industrial wasteland/ ethnic enclave to "place where financiers live in glass towers and joke about the 'hipsters' who can no longer afford to live there." But a few years ago, well— Williamsburg was wild, back then.
Mariah Carey's expert blend of blasé drama queeniness is on full display in the YouTube above. In it, she is wheeled out of the hospital after being treated for the dislocated shoulder and cracked rib she suffered after taking a tumble on the set of her "#Beautiful" remix video. "Well, that was fun," says a be-slinged Mimi, who is of course wearing a gown and full makeup. She then describes the experience as "harrowing" in the same inconvenienced-and-loving-it tone. Then she mumbles something about going back to the video set and professionals, thanks someone while grasping his or her hand like a weird old lady during the "Peace be with you" part of mass, and air kisses someone else. She may be doped up. She may be a living Humane Society cash-register donation bank with those sad puppy eyes.
Esquire and ESPN Magazine writer Chris Jones—winner of both a National Magazine Award (though not as many as he believes he deserves) and a Gawker Least Important Writers award—has long been known as that guy. That guy who, despite having one of the more enviable writing jobs in journalism, would wail about not winning an award. That guy who would launch soul-pained howls against the merest online insult. That guy whose Twitter bio said "I'm also a big fan of The Three B's: bacon, books, and bourbon"—until now.
Yesterday afternoon, at the Van Siclen Avenue train stop in Brooklyn, a mother, momentarily distracted, turned away from her baby's stroller; just then, a "sudden gust of wind" blew the stroller and its nine month-old passenger onto the train tracks below. A train was coming! Someone... anyone... please!
For humans, puddles are an afterthought. On the other hand, for penguins and their stubby legs, it's a body of water too shallow and narrow to swim across, yet still not assuredly leap-able. Decisions, decisions. Oh wait, it's a puddle.
Yesterday the New York Times had an anthrax scare at its headquarters. White powder in an envelope! The lobby was closed. People were barred from the main elevators. Who knows how many grammatical errors were made by scared and distracted reporters? Turned out the white powder was "some kind of pebbles." You know what? All this irrational anthrax fear is going to have to stop. Think about it: A lone nut was able to effectively seal off the entire New York Times building—and get an entire floor evacuated—by filling up an envelope with some fish tank pebbles or something. The same thing happened to the Times a month after 9/11, and they evacuated the entire newsroom. Also, "since then, there have been several other cases of suspicious materials being sent to The Times. None turned out to be harmful." It doesn't take much extrapolation to figure out that you could cost the NYT millions of dollars over the course of a year with just a box of safety envelopes and two scoops of baking soda. (And the Times can't afford it!) And really, is anthrax still a thing? It takes an incredibly sophisticated scientist to produce weapons-grade anthrax, and we haven't had any real anthrax attacks since that one rash we had several years back. It's basically the skyscraper equivalent of being made to remove your shoes when you go on planes. One single dude ruined it for everyone. So our suggestion: If you receive some powder in the mail, calmly call the cops. Don't shut down the building. Don't evacuate everyone. A decent actuary will tell you that, hey, in the long run your odds are extremely good. And that's what the New York Times stands for: facts, statistics, and a life chained to a desk. Back to work! [We reserve the right to change our minds when we receive anthrax here.]
Though she hardly needs an introduction on these pages, we'll give her one anyway because she is being kind (and ballsy) enough to throw herself to the wolves. An Editor-at-Large for Star magazine, a columnist for Time Out New York, and a frequent guest on various news programs such as Fox News' Red Eye, Julia is also famous for having dated one Jakob Lodwick, a College Humor millionaire. They even had a website that chronicled their life together! Sadly, Jakob has moved on to other pastures, but Julia remains strong and feisty! So feisty in fact that she's going to answer your questions on this very weblog. She'll be logging on at 2pm EST and hanging around in this post, so please come by and ask her things. Be as kind and respectful as possible, of course. We don't want to scare her off.