Glorious hair is ushering in the end times.

I spent one summer in Abilene, Texas between my junior and senior years of college. Each day I worked at a bakery from 5 am to noon. After work I would run the perimeter of campus in the midday sun, fall asleep on my living room floor for an hour or two and then attend rehearsals for The Tempest until 11 pm. On the Fourth of July I took my truck out on the Loop to fill up with gas, and at a convenience store I came across the local crowd preparing for the community fireworks display.

Never before had I seen such a rich and varied display of mullets, and I had lived almost my entire life in rural Texas. Long singular streams, practically rat-tails. Short explosive curls. Demure waves appearing from beneath the backwards-turned baseball cap. Men and women. In all the hues that one can buy in a box at the grocery store. It's not my intention to label all West Texans as the mullet-sporting type, but, on this day at the early evening hour, they were out in force buying 12-packs and bags of ice for their coolers and Smarties for their little ones. Perhaps mullet wearers acutely feel the call of fireworks and tailgating. Perhaps the extended locks of hair act as highly-evolved antennae for patriotism. Of such things, I do not have knowledge. I am not an initiate. In grad school I did try to simultaneously sport a fauxhawk and faux mullet (fauxlet). But both were half-hearted attempts, even by faux standards.

Mixed bathing is ushering in the end times.

Bathers from Wenceslaus Bible

Pool gives students a mixed choice.
And with this, the gates of hell opened wide.

The Destroyer of Bed-Stuy is ushering in the end times.

CONTENT ADVISORY: Please be advised that this video is of a very graphic nature. You should not view it if you are pregnant, think you may be pregnant, have liver disease, are in the advanced stages of HIV, or are a pre-op transsexual.

This frightening footage was provided to me by Woman as evidence that indeed the Apocalypse is upon us. It is worth noting that the disturbing attack occurred on the one-year anniversary of this very blog.

Dear readers, keep wearing those clean undies because you never know when it's going to happen.

My heart goes out to the families of all the individuals lost during Tuesday's noon massacre. A neighborhood-wide block party will be held this Saturday from 10:00 am to 4:00 pm to raise money in order to provide assistance with the funeral costs. There will be streetball, a "Walk It Out" contest, food vendors, choirs from various local churches, alcohol from various local liquor stores, curious but intimidated hipsters watching from 2nd-story apartment windows, grown men on tiny bikes, appearances by some of your favorite loiterers, a mobile police unit, and a 15% discount off all merchandise at Fat Albert's.

Happy Birthdays are ushering in the end times.

Our Lady of the Apocalypse

Exposed brick walls are ushering in the end times.

I became unemployed on August 3. Since then, with the exception of my week-long trip back to Texas/Kansas, I have been trolling for apartments here in "New City" (coined by my three-year-old niece). I'm tired. I'm discouraged. And my pits are sweaty. I can't handle another complicated train ride out to _____ Heights (fill in the blank with all the options) only to find that the apartment's bedrooms are railroad, something omitted in the ad. Thank you, but I'll pass on roommates sneaking through my bedroom for a midnight bathroom run. Or that as of now there aren't floors or walls. Or that the apartment doesn't have heat, and the current tenants had to deal with leaking holes in the ceiling and no hot water for three months. I've even resorted to walking up and down, around and about neighborhoods we actually like (and just might be able to afford), calling the numbers listed on For Rent signs and stopping at apartment buildings to see if they have availability. My six hour stroll through Woodside and Sunnyside in Queens may have shaped my calves but added nothing productive to the hunt.

See, last year we did a stink job of finding a place. We entered into the apartment search with two non-negotiable criteria: a neighborhood in which Little V felt safe, and three bedrooms roughly the same size.

We failed meeting both. Little V can't make it to our place in Bed Sty without receiving the special attention that only strangers know how to lavish on young women. And Little V beds each night in a storage closet with a window. Funny thing is, it was Little V and I who decided on the place. We saw the exposed brick walls, and our bodies went limp.*

We're really trying to be smarter this time around but know very well that we will not find the ideal. I had to inform my incredulous mother a few times that almost nothing we can afford will have air-conditioning. "Nothing?" "No. Put air-conditioning out of your head. Banish it!" In the end it will come down to what we're willing to give up. Quality neighborhood? Closets? Convenient subway? Late-night chicken joint?

"I've Been in the New City Real Estate Trenches" List

1) Want fictional neighborhoods? Craigslist has them. East Williamsburg - the less threatening name for Bushwick and/or Bed Sty. Upper West Side/Washington Heights. What? Where did Harlem and Morningside Heights disappear to? And Bushiburg?!?

2) Blocks from the train. How about 30. Close to all transportation. Close to nothing. In addition, a 7 minute walk to the subway is never 7 minutes. And that 15 minute commute into Manhattan? Dump that in the same rubbage bin where you abandoned Santa Clause, the Tooth Fairy, and the American Dream.

3) Up-and-coming neighborhood. You will be part of the initial wave in the gentrification process, so prepare to deal without a Starbucks until the second round of white settlers move in.

4) Brokers! Brokers! Brokers!

"Look at this view." I'm staring at the back of a warehouse wall. "You can see the Empire State Building from here!" Leaning. Leaning further out. Straining to see around the bulky, elevated subway platform. Leaning. Leaning... "And the garden's right below." The weed patch and chain-link fence.

"The neighborhood has everything." Not true. "Grocery stores." Shady bodegas that only sell Doritos, soda, and liquor. "The most beautiful park." Yes. Half-a-mile away. "Restaurants." Pizza and Chinese you order through a hole in the protective glass window separating the customers from the employees.

"Do you all have jobs? Look at this. Brand new! No one's used this stove top. No one's used the oven. You will be the first. You'll be the first to turn on the gas, place your head into its womb and end it all! Look at these ceilings! You could store a giraffe in here! A giraffe and it's mother! Is everyone employed? Why would you want a living room? You each have beautiful bedrooms. 1, 2, 3 beautiful bedrooms. You just eat in there. Close the door. It's your own. Yes, the bathroom's small, but all you need to do is get in and get out. Do you want a closet? I'll build you a closet. Oh, you want a door? I'll build you a door. I will make it out of dirt and spit. It will be ready by tomorrow. How many of you are there? Does everyone have a job?"

5) A liquor store must always been accompanied by a church and vice versa.

6) And, most importantly, if you're walking down the street on your way to an open house and you think to yourself, "Now, this is a cute block," don't worry - your apartment will not be on this block. It will be on the next block over. The one with the dilapidated row of disgruntled brownstones and apartment complexes with dime bags on the ground in front and entry doors with the street number spray-painted on them. (The same applies for apartment buildings. The cuter the building is, the more likely it will not be the one where your future hovel will be found.)

*Regarding those exposed brick walls, the mortar slowly and continually crumbles off onto our appliances, window sills, and floor. Even after we demanded that a second coat of shiny something be applied, the Great Shedding continues. At night I can listen to the tiny cement bits say goodbye to their loved ones and jump from the brick ledges, fatally landing on boxes and plastic bags far below.