Carla Sosenko

Picture this: your cat-eye contacts are turning you half blind, you’re trying not to accidentally spit out your fake fangs, and you’re on your third double vodka and coke of the night. It’s Halloween, baby, and that means it’s time for a serious party. A spooky party. A Halloween party to remember.  And d'you know what you’ll need for that (other than the fake fangs, the witch hats and the vodka, that is)? It’s a properly banging Halloween playlist. And fear not, friends, we’ve got the playlist for you. From The Cramps (of ‘Wednesday’ fame) to Olivia Rodrigo’s ex-boyfriend bleeding her dry, we’ve got the ultimate Halloween soundtrack right here. Time to get freaky, people.  Written by Brent DiCrescenzo, Christopher Tarantino, Andy Kryza, Adam Feldman, Kate Wertheimer, Andrew Frisicano, Sophie Harris, Carla Sosenko, Nick Leftly, Ella Doyle, India Lawrence, Chiara Wilkinson and Georgia Evans. RECOMMENDED:🎉 The best party songs ever made🎸 The best classic rock songs🎤 The best karaoke songs🎶 The best ’80s songs

Over 33,000 nominations and 19,000 votes in five categories—once again, New York, you’ve outdone yourselves. Thanks for sharing with us your absolute favorite venues around the city that make New Yorkers’ lives better every day.And now it’s time to reveal the winners – the local venues who do it for you. Below are the five overall category winners – the restaurant, café, bar, shop and cultural venue that scooped the most votes in the whole city. To see who came out on top in your specific neighborhood, go ahead and see the winners. Until next year, thanks for spreading the love!Oh, and if you’re the traveling type, you’ll be pleased to hear that, as of this year, the Love Awards have gone global, meaning you can also check out locals’ favorite destinations in places like Paris, Lisbon, London, Chicago and LA.Love does make the world go round, after all.  

My conversation with Sarah Jessica Parker is awkward. Rather, it starts awkwardly, and I’m glad for that. We’ve met to talk about her return to TV in Divorce. If you need to assess her new show in relation to Sex and the City—the HBO megahit Parker is synonymous with—where Sex is brightness and candy colors, Divorce is all browns and greens (the title of the show should give away what it’s about, though it’s a comedy), with beautiful but muted clothes, fraught friendships and barbed dialogue. Sharon Horgan (Pulling, Catastrophe) is the creator and writer, and fans of the latter—about a couple who have a weeklong fling, then find themselves pregnant and eventually married—might see Divorce as Catastrophe 15 years down the road, when it’s hard to imagine how the twosome at the heart of things were ever in love (or even in like). It takes us a while to get to the show, though—one that Parker also executive produces—because talking to her is like talking to your most thoughtful, well-read friend. So we meander and touch on about a million other things first. But, oh, yeah, about that awkwardness: SJP and the women of Sex and the City were on the cover of Time Out New York once, she tells me as we head to Dream Downtown for the interview. This is confusing because I’m pretty sure the magazine has never shot her before. It was in the ramp-up to the first SATC movie, she says, in 2008, and the cover featured a stock photo of the women with their mouths taped shut. “Isn’t that inter

My conversation with Sarah Jessica Parker is awkward. Rather, it starts awkwardly, and I’m glad for that. We’ve met to talk about her return to TV in Divorce. If you need to assess her new show in relation to Sex and the City—the HBO megahit Parker is synonymous with—where Sex is brightness and candy colors, Divorce is all browns and greens (the title of the show should give away what it’s about, though it’s a comedy), with beautiful but muted clothes, fraught friendships and barbed dialogue. Sharon Horgan (Pulling, Catastrophe) is the creator and writer, and fans of the latter—about a couple who have a weeklong fling, then find themselves pregnant and eventually married—might see Divorce as Catastrophe 15 years down the road, when it’s hard to imagine how the twosome at the heart of things were ever in love (or even in like). It takes us a while to get to the show, though—one that Parker also executive produces—because talking to her is like talking to your most thoughtful, well-read friend. So we meander and touch on about a million other things first. But, oh, yeah, about that awkwardness: SJP and the women of Sex and the City were on the cover of Time Out New York once, she tells me as we head to Dream Downtown for the interview. This is confusing because I’m pretty sure the magazine has never shot her before. It was in the ramp-up to the first SATC movie, she says, in 2008, and the cover featured a stock photo of the women with their mouths taped shut. “Isn’t that intere

Are you your squad’s resident selfie taker? Do your brunch photos crush on Instagram? Do you find your subway serenity by scrolling through all the amazing shots that you’ve taken of New York? Well listen up, then! We’re on the hunt for some gorgeous words and pictures about your favorite neighborhood haunts. We want your beautiful photos and lyrical descriptions of the local places you love—restaurants, bars, stores, parks, museums—anywhere in NYC that you think is special and want to share. To take part in the competition, you’ll need to write a review and submit it (with a photo attached) to our site. You can submit as many as you like, and you can find some useful tips on how to write a Time Out review here. We’ll feature the best of the best online (and in print!), so you may actually be able to say you’re famous on the internet and really mean it. We’ll also pick one overall winner, who’ll receive a $200 restaurant voucher at one of Time Out New York’s favorite restaurants. (Start figuring out who you want to invite—or hoard all that food and drink for yourself, we won’t judge.) The deadline for entries is September 1, 2016. Winners will be chosen by our editorial team, so get snapping (and writing) and try to impress the pants off us. (And please remember to have a read of our terms and conditions.) Good luck—may the best Annie Leibowitz in training win!

We know what you’re thinking: New Jersey is all about fist-pumping beach-goers, big hair and Bruce Springsteen. And sure, those elements are part of its charm, but there are so many great things to do in NJ—and they have nothing to do with hair gel or fake tans. From New York attractions like art and cultural landmarks (yes, really!) to some of nature’s prettiest views at parks just as nice as our NYC parks and super-fun beer gardens and beer halls, NJ has something even a New Yorker would consider trekking to the ‘burbs for.

When I was growing up on Long Island in the 1980s, weekends meant coming into the city, and once there, I had two choices: record shopping on St. Mark’s with my dad or Strand with my mom. I almost always chose vinyl, but every now and then the books beckoned, and I’d find myself among Strand’s famed eight miles. (And by the by, it was never “the Strand”—that’s a dead giveaway of being one of the uninitiated.) There, among spiffy front tables touting the more-expensive new releases and dusty, musty aisles of used books, I’d get lost—sometimes pulling Nancy Drews, other times finding a place to perch and reading just a few pages of more grown-up titles like Crime and Punishment and Fear of Flying. Once, outside by the $1 shelves on the sidewalk, I ran into a schoolmate, he there with his mother too, as if the few cool parents in our suburb knew that though we could probably find what we wanted at a Borders on the Island, we probably wouldn’t have as much fun doing it. And I remember once flipping through the pages of a Mary Gaitskill book back home and stumbling on a scene that perfectly described a character who worked at a gritty NYC bookshop watching a rat skitter across her feet. I knew instantly—Strand! (I’m not sure how, pre-Internet, I confirmed that Gaitskill had worked there, but I did. I hardly needed confirmation—it couldn’t have been anywhere else.) Just back there a few weeks ago, I delighted that it hasn’t changed one bit. Truly, it is the least-changed place in N

When I walk into the Chelsea studio where we’re shooting the comedy powerhouse duo behind Broad City, I’m immediately greeted by half of it: Ilana Glazer. She shakes my hand and says, “Thank you for having us.” “Thank you…for having us,” I awkwardly stammer, and suddenly I’m Abbi in that episode in which she’s trying to flirt with Jeremy but instead ends up faking a call from her laundry guy and ranting about the stains on her underwear. I’m nervous, because even though they play bumbling and weird onscreen, Glazer and her counterpart, Abbi Jacobson, are actually stars. Maybe stars who seem just like us—their Broad City alter egos are youngish New Yorkers struggling to make a buck, get laid and have as much fun as possible at all times—but stars nonetheless. At the time of our interview, Comedy Central has just picked up two more seasons of their lovely little show that could, and news of a season-three Hillary Clinton cameo has set the blogosphere ablaze. I spent the night before watching the first episode of the new season (okay, watching it three times, because it’s fucking hilarious) and trying to prepare to not geek out in their presence.  Abbi Jacobson: We’ve done interviews leading up to the third season, but no one’s seen the episodes yet. You’re the first! That’s so cool! And you guys talk about Time Out New York in the first episode.Ilana Glazer: We truly, truly love Time Out. We truly love you guys! So, speaking of the third season, congrats on getting signed on th

Las Vegas may hold the title of Sin City, but for our money, NYC beats out that glitzy strip in the desert any day of the week. Drugs, food, booze, basically anything that sparks overindulging—we have it, in spades. Which is why we decided to take different writers from this adult amusement park—a chronic self-pleasurer, a shopaholic, a social media addict and a cocktail fiend—to see how long they could go without indulging in their (let’s be real, pretty innocuous) bad habits. In effect, we’re recreating “The Contest” episode of Seinfeld. Because seriously, what’s the deal with vices? [Canned laughter.] Photographs by David Williams

I like being alone in New York. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not some antisocial Greta Garbo; in fact, if anything, I’m overly social. But even when I lived with a boyfriend, we spent lots of time apart, and I’d look forward to those quiet times in our apartment when he was out doing whatever it is that jerks do. (Wait, hold on—that’s a different essay.) Anyway, I was happiest when it was just me, myself and a constant loop of Intervention.I think part of my penchant for solitude is that I live in New York, where even when you’re alone, you’re not alone. My favorite activity? Grabbing a book and going to a bar or coffee shop, someplace like Cobble Hill’s 61 Local, where there’s a constant blur of activity in the background. Moms with strollers to the left, CSA pickup to the right, gobs of people working (by themselves) on their laptops. I settle in, have a few beers and proceed with my never-ending quest to finish The Goldfinch. After a rough day at work or on a sleepy Saturday, there’s nothing like it.     Compare that to the lonely two months I spent living in L.A. when, no matter what I did, a David Lynch–level of isolation plagued me. There was no such thing as contented solitude, only loneliness, so that even an hour spent by myself made me twitchy. I wouldn’t go anywhere—not even the grocery store—without my roommate, someone I didn’t particularly like but preferred to the pervasive sense of L.A. nothingness. There was something about that city—all those hours spent in

We all know New York is the greatest city in the world, so it makes sense that everyone wants to live here. From transplants to native New Yorkers, from angry residents to friendly ones, we make up one of the most diverse places in the world. So how do you know if you’re the real deal? Easy—just take our quiz. RECOMMENDED: The New York guide to life

A coyote wanders into a bar. Nope, that’s not the start of a joke but, as you’ve probably heard, some real-life news from Long Island City, where a coyote was spotted atop a bar last night. All we can say is, this is a coyote after our own heart—we’d head for the nearest bar, too. Now the coyote is missing, which got us thinking: Where else would a nightlife-lovin’ coyote head in the nabe?

What's that they say? Location, location, location. The Hudson Hotel has that going for it in spades—it's walking distance from Central Park, the Time Warner Center, Lincoln Center and Times Square, but sits on unassuming 58th and 8th, out of the lion’s den. Take the escalator up from the ground floor and be transported into a soothing world of Philippe Starck–designed glamour, all wood and grandiose chandeliers. The rooms, sitting high stop the city deliver more of that study-like atmosphere, along with modest but comfortable amenities, including Malin + Goetz shower products in the bathroom and free WiFi. (The only exceptions to the style scheme are the brightly lit lime-green hallways and erratic splashes of the color, which feel distinctly Starck but also a bit stark.) The Hudson may not draw the NYC crowd on weekends it did in the early aughts, but the cool kids might be wise to return: Beer hall Hudson Common manages to balance the bookish design of the whole place with a down-to-earth and unpretentious vibe: Order a burger and truffle fries at the window, then grab a seat on a comfy leather chair or at a long wood communal table; and the Library Bar is perfect for reading by yourself or playing a game of pool. (If eating and drinking without ever leaving the hotel is what you’re into, Private Park, Hudson Bar and, weather permitting, Sky Terrace, have got you covered.) The Hudson also hosts periodic events and popups popular with locals and tourists alike, like a minig

The true test of whether a New York hotel is cool? Whether actual New Yorkers want to go there! The Roxy easily passes that test. Beyond being a place to stay in Tribeca—one that manages to be swanky but not pretentious or intimidating—it’s a place to go in Tribeca. At any given time, there are honest-to-goodness New Yorkers hanging in the lobby (or at least chic tourists who pass for them). And speaking of chic: Super-stylish celebs with rock-star cred stay there, too; The fashion darlings of the 2016 Costume Institute Gala, Haim, hung their hat at The Roxy after spending all night with their bestie Taylor Swift. Upon check-in, you’ll get a glass of sparkling rosé (yes, please!) and a questionnaire that asks for your choice of morning paper and pillow type. (Who knew there were multiple pillow types? And why hasn’t anyone ever asked us our preference before?!? Rude.) The inside of the hotel has one of those perimeter balcony setups that’s more reminiscent of a convention-center Marriott than a downtown boutique hotel, but for the most part, the Roxy does its Tribeca Grand past proud: Comfy eclectic couches dot the lounge, a pool table sits invitingly off to the side. Everything is brown and gold and white—nothing screams, everything calms. And most important, when you retire to your room and collapse into one of the most comfortable beds you’ve ever had the pleasure to sleep in, the windows and doors are amazingly soundproof, crucial because of the all-hours hubbub outside o

Wanna talk like a New Yorker? Then you gotta know the lingo, wise guy.  flying rat (n.): A pigeon. hun (n.): hundred. As in, “I’m going to a party up on a hun’sixteenth street.” New Yorkers are busy. We don’t have time for entire words. pie (n.): In the rest of the country, this may be mean apple, pecan or cherry. Here, pie means just one thing: pizza. Glorious, glorious pizza. schlep, oy, schvitz, etc. (var.): If it’s Yiddish, we say it. Your religion, ethnicity or state of origin doesn’t matter—all New Yorkers are a little bit Jewish. (Similarly: agita, muzzarell, prosciutt, etc., because all New Yorkers are also a little bit Italian.) Yooz (pronoun): A plural form of you. Sometimes takes the form: “yooz guys.” Schmear (n.): A lot of cream cheese. As in, “Can I getta a bagel with schmear?” northwest corner, southeast corner, etc. (n.): Manhattan’s nearly perfect grid system means that, when meeting friends, we get very specific. There’s no “I’ll come get you on the corner of 14th and Broadway,” because guess what? There are four corners there. Besides, who has time to wait on the wrong corner like a trifling fool? bodega(n.): This is where you buy your coffee in the morning. And your egg-and-cheese when you’re hungover. And also your munchies at 4am. And toilet paper and soap when you run out. Okay, this is where you do all of your shopping. bridge-and-tunnel (adj.): A seemingly benign grouping of nouns (“Oh, look, there’s a bridge, and hey, there’s a tunnel”), this is a s

New Yorkers are a proud bunch. Our city is the best! Well, except for the weather. At least lately. This weather can suck a big bag of…well, you know. New Yorkers are dealing with the dreary, windy, wet, sticky weather as only we can: grudgingly. Here, the top ten weather-related calamities the Big Apple has to contend with: 1. Wind-created umbrella inversion Seriously, why do we even bother? Be free, umbrella. Be freeeee! 2. Sideways rain We don’t even understand how this happens, but it does. A lot. 3. No cabs Not anywhere. Not at all. 4. Outdoor rain + subway-platform heat and humidity = frizz for all! “Your hair is inexplicable!” 5. The humiliation of having to wear ugly footwear Awesome outfit? Check. Cool purse? Check. Really ugly galoshes? Ugh, check. 6. Deceptively deep puddles "This looks pretty shallow, I'm sure if I step in it, I'll be fi-" 7. Soldiering on through important meetings while pretending your pants aren’t soaking wet Yeast infections for all! 8. Pop-up price-gouging umbrella vendors Where do they even come from? 9. Slippery fall-inducing surfaces everywhere you turn “I’m okay—no really, I am. No, I don’t need any help, thanks. Seriously, DON’T LOOK AT ME, YOU’RE MAKING IT WORSE!” 10. The smell of wet dog/wet socks/wet garbage everywhere Only this weather could make us yearn for the pervasive smell of hot pee in summer.

First things first: I don’t hate hugs. They’re not my favorite form of physical contact, but a hug is nicer than, say, a punch in the face. Particularly when under the influence of whiskey and surrounded by tall male friends who have torsos ripe for wrapping my arms around, I love the hell out of hugs. My problem with the now-ubiquitous form of affection is simply that it’s not very New York. Because once upon a time, we were a city of kissers. RECOMMENDED: See more New York rants A typical NYC greeting used to be one quick peck on the cheek. At my New York middle school, girls would walk each other to class then kiss each other goodbye, parroting their elegant mothers, as they parted ways for 42 traumatic minutes. It was cosmopolitan, grown-up and most of all—for a group that spent much of its day fighting for inches of concrete and subway pole—pleasantly devoid of too much bodily contact. The Brits have their two kisses; Spaniards do too. The mom of a friend I grew up with was Belgian, and we would kiss a dizzying three times. You know who hugs? Midwesterners. And now, it seems, New Yorkers. We hug all the time! It’s just so…quaint. New York, we are not quaint. If you want to add a quick hug right after a kiss, I won’t complain, but don’t skip the kiss. That’d make us no better than someone from Ohio! And hey, if you’re from Ohio and just moved here, welcome! We’re so happy to have you. But like Montell Jordan said, this is how we do it—with this being “kissing” and it bein

I recently had the rare opportunity to fly from New York to Tokyo for 48 hours. (Okay, okay, maybe it was more like 60 hours—makes the 14-hour flight seem a little less cray, right?) I was flying over to be a judge in the Time Out Love Tokyo Awards (and check out Time Out New York's own Love Award winners if you missed them!), which meant nonstop running around to some of the city's very best restaurants, bars, shops and cafés (my job is so hard).  Overall, Tokyo reminded me a lot of New York, only more spread out: lots of vibrant nabes with distinct personalities (Harajuku feels like Williamsburg, Ginza like Fifth Ave), a super-comprehensive subway system and a serious nightlife scene. (Every morning my natural alarm clock was people—still in their office clothes—stumbling down the street at 6 a.m. Good for you guys!) If you find yourself with some time to kill in Tokyo (try for more than 48 hours!), here's a list in no particular order of the places that left the biggest impression on this New Yorker.  The subway       Photograph: Shutterstock         This is your lifeline to the city. Main differences to NYC include how quiet the cars are, that you insert your card and it spits it back out as you enter and exit (like in the U.K.) and that it is HELLA confusing. The subways in Tokyo are owned by multiple companies, so you often have to transfer not just to another line but to another subway brand entirely, sometimes having to exit the station completely and walk a few blo

Hey there! did you just score the coveted spot by the doors? Mazel. It’s a great spot, isn’t it? You don’t have to touch the pole, you have a little more personal space—it’s pretty much the Business Class of the MTA. RECOMMENDED: See more New York rants Well, guess what: That space is yours for precisely one stop. One. If for some reason no one is trying to get on or off at the next station, then congrats to you, you’ve earned a one-stop reprieve. But so help me, if there is a single person trying to board or disembark and you decide to invoke squatters’ rights, claiming that space for all eternity just because you got there first, forcing everybody to maneuver around you, then you, my friend, are a terrible person. The arrogance of it! Just think: While your fellow straphangers are awkwardly removing their backpacks and contorting their bodies to fit into inhumanly small spaces, entering into awkward butt-to-butt and calf-to-calf unions with strangers, you stand with that smug look on your face, lording over a spot you erroneously think you own. I’m here to tell you that you don’t, and you need to move the hell in. Get to the center of that car and bond with your brothers and sisters in awfulness: the manspreaders, the full-body pole leaners and the people who think their shopping bag deserves a seat more than actual humans do (and who roll their eyes when anyone asks them to move it). I don’t care that you really, really like it by the doors. Life is tough, kid, and we have

Swastikas in Adam Yauch Park. David Bowie, Prince, Leonard Cohen and Sharon Jones. The most anxiety-inducing, Xanax-requiring election cycle in recent history. Orlando. With all due respect, 2016, don’t let the door hit you in the ass. All years have their ups and downs, sometimes simultaneously. Injustice is not, unfortunately, unique to this year. And to be fair, there was a lot about the past 12 months that was wonderful. It was the year a little show called Hamilton, which features a stellar cast of many colors and backgrounds, scored a record-breaking number of Tony noms. It was the year New York adopted a law requiring all single-occupancy restrooms to be gender-free, and our mayor vowed publicly that New York would remain a bastion of progressive ideals committed to protecting its citizens regardless of gender, sexual orientation, religion or race. So yes, there was light. But man, the dark—rife with Facebook defriendings, tense Thanksgiving meals and, for many of us, a steady clip of crying, raging, and eating and drinking our feelings—has felt particularly so. Simply put, we are fucking exhausted. Luckily, we’re also scrappy, and we don’t crumble easily.  New York is committed to making sure our city (and country) stays the amazing place it is its birthright to be. (Check out our activism feature if you’re looking for ways to get involved.) So a word to the wise, 2017: We are ready for you to be great. We are ready for you to be fair, peaceful and downright kick-ass.

As if we weren't already excited enough about the Roots Picnic: We just got an exclusive tip that Time Out New York cover star Alicia Keys will be playing a surprise set at tomorrow's show in Bryant Park. The two-day fest still has limited tickets left for tomorrow (today's show sold out), so get them fast. (If you'd don't get in, stay tuned for location details on Keys' upcoming surprise show in NYC on Oct. 9.) No word yet on what time Keys will take the stage, but we do know that she'll be joining headliners David Byrne, Nile Rodgers and Wu-Tang Clan (all backed by The Roots) for a few songs. Mr. Alicia Keys himself, Swizz Beatz, is also on tomorrow's bill. Day two of the fest is being dubbed a Love Letter to NY, and this sounds like a pretty damn perfect way to seal it with a kiss.    

I recently sat down with SJP ahead of the premiere of her new HBO series, Divorce, and in the course of our conversation (which included thoughts on feminism, the legacy of Sex and the City and books—she reads a mind-boggling amount—talk turned to politics.  Be on the lookout for the full interview soon. In the meantime, here’s an excerpt: CS: I’m Jewish, and years ago, I read a book that was like...“Interviews with Jewish Celebrities...” SJP: Abby [Abigail] Pogrebin’s book? [Editor's note: The book was Stars of David, by Abigail Pogrebin.] CS: And you… SJP: I identified as a cultural Jew.  CS: I remember you said something about how you and Matthew [Broderick] kind of had this, you said something like: "I think we’re kind of like past the point where like you know, any thing like the Holocaust could ever happen. Where Jews are going to be rounded up.... But I live with someone who disagrees." I definitely tend like toward the paranoid Jew. And I was curious, now, based on what’s happening in this country...I’d love to hear any thoughts you have on the election in general, if you would say the same thing now. [Editor's note: Parker's actual quote in the book is as follows: "I live with someone who can imagine that, I think. So I'm inclined to be able to imagine it myself. You often become the person you're married to or you live with; you just do. And I'm pretty influenced by his thinking often anyway. It wasn't so long ago that the Holocaust happened. It really did happen ve

While details of last night's explosion in Chelsea are still streaming in, a few things are clear: New Yorkers are resilient and unflappable. They're also really eager to help each other out. To that end, The Standard High Line is offering free rooms and dinner to people affected by the blast. They just posted the following message on their Instagram:         If that's you, head over to the High Line. We'll continue to post any updates we have, and if you've got news like this, please send it to tips@timeout.com. Hang tough and stay safe, New York.                 

It's been a summer of sharks, New York! Okay, so it's no "six sharks on the Jersey Shore," but still: Today at Beach 106th St. in Rockaway, there was a finned little fiend splashing around in the waves. (Side note: 106th is right near Caracas arepa bar. Next time you're there, make sure to grab an arepa and a michelada. They are delish.) It was just after the official 6 p.m. lifeguard whistle blow telling everyone to get out of the water, so no one was swimming at the time, but once the little guy was spotted, everybody gathered on the sand to watch. In the shark's defense, he just moseyed along minding his own, not really bothering anybody. (I'm using "he" here by default as I have no idea of the shark's gender—he was just so darn cute I can't bear to call him an "it.") Then everybody went back to what they were doing, because we are New Yorkers and excessively hard to impress. You can get a glimpse of Sharky (I named him) below!

I love Trader Joe's. I mean, I love it. There's no other place where I can simultaneously shop for healthy-eating days (lactose-free skim milk, precut beets, 99% fat-free Trader Jose's bean burritos) and bingey ones (cheese puffs I eat one giant bag at a time, chocolate-covered raisins I eat one plastic container at a time, mochi ice cream I eat one box at a time—you get the idea). The cheerful Hawaiian-shirt clad staffers who eagerly duck into the back to find out if there's any more Spindrift cucumber seltzer, free samples and coffee, and the fact that I can enter a raffle like I'm at a goddamn carnival just because I remembered to bring my recyclable bags make it one of the most pleasant-places on earth.  Except.  Something happens on the inside. For some reason, inside this utopia of reasonably priced foods and überorganized lines (it really does move fast, you guys!), something happens to people. Otherwise kind people. Generous people. People who want to feed their kids nutritious snacks and help the environment one hemp-based shopping bag at a time. People turn into assholes. Colossal ones. It's like out there is the real world and inside is the Upside Down and it looks like the regular world but it's not and everything is terrible and I STILL CAN'T FIND BARB. My local TJ's is the one in Cobble Hill. It's a nice one. High ceilings, two bathrooms. If there were ever a place to be aggro in this world it is not here, and yet, aggro people are. (Sorry, got Yoda-y for a seco

I hate talking on the phone. If a friend—even one I love dearly, one I would happily spend an entire day with—suggests a phone call, I quietly die inside. "Why???" I think, "when we could just text all night, or send each other long-form emails for hours?" I can’t tell you why I hate talking on the phone, but I can tell you that I didn’t always. In middle school, I’d spend all night with the thing practically attached to my head. By high school I had my own phone number and answering machine. (This was in the 1700s, when I was a teenager.) At some point, though, the idea of talking on the phone started to fill me with anxiety. I’ll grant you, it’s the anticipation that’s the worst. And there's almost always anticipation. Because I'm a notorious phone hater, my friends make a point to schedule phone time with me. As soon as they do, I am overcome with dread. Or, maybe I'll tell a phonie friend that I'm going to call him. I'll either buck up the courage to actually do it or flake. I try not to do the latter, but it happens—that's how much I hate it. My dislike of the phone is almost pathological. (And for the record, being a person who my friends feel like they have to schedule phone time with doesn't make me feel great.) Once I’m on the phone, though, those times that my friends do get through or I prove that I'm not the WORST FRIEND EVER, I realize that I’m happy to be talking to that person. But I’ll admit, mostly I’m just thinking about when I can stop talking to that perso