Movies are fucking expensive. Seriously, finding a theater that will let you escape reality for less than $12 in this city is practically unheard of. It’s not just tickets: I recently paid $4.50 for a bottle of Dasani (102 degree heat wave, I was desperate okay?) at a theater in

Having recently traveled to Hermosa Beach in California, and consecutively attempted to hit up all of New York beaches, I feel like each has something to offer. These two coastlines couldn’t be more different, and that’s mostly because of the people who flock to them rather than the physical landscape

Well as the cheesy weatherman on TV say, it’s another “scorcher” out there. Sure you could go to the movies, maybe a museum to escape the heat, but why not take advantage of New York’s short but sweet beach season and get your ass over to Far Rockaway for some

The other day, something amazing happened. I wish it was that whoever stole my iPhone out of my purse turned out to really just be borrowing it to add more useful applications than “Cat Paint” and returned it to me all ready to go, but instead it was that I

I’m afraid of the beach. I know you didn’t ask, and its likely you don’t care – but it matters. And its irrational. My fear of the beach has no experiential basis. Sure, BP might have added to my phobia, but my fear remains source-less. But Best Coast is my cure. When

While my Leatherman is perfect for fixing eye glasses, opening bottles and cutting my friends’ hair in bars, the tool is completely useless for making fire hydrant sprinklers. I’m not ready to start carrying a giant wrench with me everywhere, so I’ll just keep depending on other people to open

Tonight, join the Lower East Side Girls Club to celebrate the fact that the neighborhood isn’t the haven of crack dens and rampant crime it used to be. Tex-Mex spot Marfa will offer up an open bar from 6-8 PM (cough, did you read that!? OPEN. BAR.) with appetizers and

I’m not sure if it’s because of all those terrible Brazilian restaurants in Midtown, but for some reason, whenever anyone mentions anything about going to a Brazilian restaurant, I’ll just assume it’s going to be incredibly meat-heavy, Pan-South American (as opposed to actually Brazilian), neon-lighted, and generally horrible.  UNTIL NOW.