HUGE batch of photos collected from Flickr over the last week. Clean trains, abandonment, and babes galore.

Well, we’ve done it again. This week’s episode consists of two different perspectives on working out, one united front on home improvement, fat chicks with pretty faces, and a special guest mix from DJ WWJDJ, aka DJ What Would Jesus DJ. As always you can listen here or you can subscribe in iTunes! Read More

This was a great, great podcast. I bought a new microphone so the sound quality is tits! We discussed death, my ill birthday gift from Big Jus, and topped it off with an interview with good friend and talented musician James Maple of Graverobbers. If you haven’t listened to the podcast yet start here…you will be hooked! Read More

Photos don’t really do this car justice, but when you see one of these on the road you can’t help but look and ask your friend, “What the fuck was that?” Read More

[Show as slideshow]

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For those of you that have never been on Thought Catalog, please, go right now: Http://thoughtcatalog.com

1. Chelsea Fagan *cue any Blacksploitation actress’s “OH GIIIIIRLLLL”*. This bitch, I swear, its like she knows me. Like she is reading the tweets I think but don’t post about how embarrassingly drunk I am after 2 whiskey ginger ales, because I was too busy nail polish shopping instead of getting food. She is mindbogglingly hilarious with a built in hairflip and judging expression at the end of each of her sentences.

2.There is always new content. I don’t know about you, but my prime blog-reading time is while I’m eating my burrito bowl alone thinking about all the not-boyfriends that have wronged me, and when Im sitting on the toilet wishing I laid off the extra-hot hot sauce. Somehow, the Thought Catalog Gnome (it’s definitely a gnome) manages to get 4 new posts up in that 15 minute timespan. Maybe if I read the internet at 2 am I would be less impressed, but that 1-3pm window is Thought Catalog gold. I think it even updates faster than the posts from the pro-ana chicks I follow on tumblr.

3. They  just had a party with an open bar. Come on man, I live in New York, the only people having open bar parties are the ones that put “professional go-go dancer” on their Linked In profile.

4. Their layout. None of this fancy ass .gif background crap that freezes my computer, no weight loss and/or Mod Cloth bullshit. Simple, clean, and great on mobile. What more could a girl that is still wearing a black turtle neck to mourn Steve Jobs ask for?

xoxo

keat

I’m a big vinyl advocate. I think it’s fucking cool, and it makes me feel totally awesome about spending money on music, that, if my house went up in flames, would literally melt. My first project at the label I work for was putting together the Holy Grail of vinyl spreadsheets; complete with the most cost effective combinations of companies for single color, swirl, split color, double gatefold, single sleeve, you name it, I can have it made. I have a nice little collection that I’ve built up from not entirely sober impulse purchases at “punk” shows. I also have a record player.

But, I have a confession to make. I don’t have a needle for my record player, and somehow have justified buying MORE vinyl instead of a needle. The needle has become my alt-girl version of going to the gym: something I’ve been putting off for months now without any good reason.

I just moved into a new place and I keep telling myself that I’ll buy a needle this week, well I guess technically last week…. but I promise it will happen! Yet, I have this strange feeling I’ll end up with those vintage speakers my Mom’s supposed to ship me from storage before I actually take a spin of The Weakerthans Left and Leaving.

Oh, the joys of #BrooklynGirlProblems

I live in Brooklyn, and I happen to go to bars in Williamsburg a lot. Why you ask? Because there is always at least one babe there. He may only be straight on the weekends, but hey, I’ll take what I can get.

In all of my Williamsburg bar… moping (hipsters, we don’t “hop”, we nonchalantly smoke a cigarette and act like we really hate being out), I have crossed the same people a good number of times. Some are cool, one looks like the creature from Splice (and she has a boyfriend. How does she have a boyfriend and I don’t?), and one is THAT GUY.

If you have ever gone out in Williamsburg, especially if you’re a girl that is even remotely cute, you’ve met That Guy. You know him, he’s the one that always dresses in seersucker, like he is going to the Hamptons, even in winter. The one with the pocket square permanently fused to his chest. Yea, that one. He’s like 40 years old, 5’7 (sucks to be you), Indian or Middle Eastern, and always has this real shitty beard. He’s the one that will come up to you in the middle of the street and plié his legs like he’s chim-chim-cheroo’ trying to woo you, or like he knows you and start talking about his waterfront apartment. As if I’m really going to get over the fact that you look like you deserve a smack 24/7 just because you have a really nice apartment and cocaine hand delivered to you by a Colombian child that rode a burro bareback from Bogota to Brooklyn.

***I just want to clarify, That Guy is an actual guy. Not a type, but an actual character that I often call the Cancer of Williamsburg.  He just won’t go away****

The first time I met That Guy, I was just minding my own business, eating a falafel and staring at butts in skinny jeans, when he decided to lecture me on the *~most exquisite vegan restaurants*~ and something about how I shouldn’t be eating that fried crap. The second time I ran into That Guy, I just made a jab at his masculinity and after a few twists of the knife, he left me alone. Then, this week, I watch him lurk around the front of a Bedford Ave bar, and waltz up to me like we’ve been friends for years. That is when I christened him “That Guy”, somehow he managed to reappear the next night and when I scoffed at him and told him he should really be taking advantage of that $400K penthouse, he pulled a Rich Boy Problems, stomped his feet and told me I was “twisting his life….TWISTING IT!” It was real funny, and I’m still pretty smug about it.

I am sure there is a That Guy in your area, and all your girlfriends are huddled around your macbook pointing at the screen wailing “ITS JERRY! AHAHAHA JERRY IS TOTALLY THAT GUY!“. In which case, don’t forget to leave your house without an extra shot of snark and someone sober enough to remember what he says to you when you insult his pink suit.

xoxo

keat

Many thanks to The Consumerist for this amazing photo of alt-yuppies.

Let’s just be honest with ourselves for a second. Sriracha is the GOD of hot sauce. The Bill Gates, the Steve Jobs, the Bill Murray of hot sauce. Cholula doesn’t even stand a chance, and Tobasco is that Basic Bitch Kreayshawn talks about in that Gucci Gucci song. I know the bottle says it’s made in Rosemead, CA, but I have managed to convince myself that there is a compound somewhere in Thailand with dozens of small children sacrificing their lives to magically transform chili peppers, one by one, into a sugary, spicy paste. Sriracha’s radioactive red color compliments the color it turns your face when you’ve used too much on your french fries. Really, you could not ask for anything more from a condiment.

But, one must beware. There are impostors. You know, that bottle that looks like Sriracha until you get up real close and see it’s more like ketchup with a few chili flakes in it. I don’t know where restaurants (or my friends in Greenpoint) get this stuff. I feel like it’s a black market sauce,  found only at the local Family Dollar meant to trick you and leave you stuck with a 1lb, 1oz bottle of congealed red goo.

Usually I find Faux-racha at dumpling shops that can feed a family of 4 for under $8. I guess it’s the price you have to pay for cheap eats in NYC, but honestly, I don’t know if it’s worth it.

Next time, before you smother your omlette, just remember to take a good look at your bottle of Srirach’ before ruining a perfectly good meal.

Until next time,

keat

I’ve got to say, I’m pretty excited about being a contributor to Thats The Hookup. After growing up as the Queen of the Shop Rats, and feeling ultimately enlightened by TTHU, and all the other offensive bullshit Big Jus, Joe, Kerry, Etan, Kenji, Evoker and Skript shoveled into my brain, it kind of rules that I get to now be the one shoveling offensive bullshit into other people’s minds with them.

Logging in to WordPress just now was like stepping into a really dirty Narnia, and I am 100% ok with that. Bring on the Turkish Delight. (+2 nerd points for you if you got that)

xoxo

keat