![I went to college in New York, a fact that I tend to omit from most train-yard burn-barrel conversation. Boxcar dwellers don’t look kindly upon the formally educated, and if your formal education comes from New York City, it’s likely they’ll whittle hobo signs on your forehead with rusty box cutters and leave you bleeding in the dirt. A life of privilege, whether economic or academic, cannot be trusted amongst the no-income set. There are too many rich kids playing poor for sport, and although I’m not one of them (I’m genuinely broke, just look at the scars on my feet from stepping on piggy-bank shards), a degree from NYU lumps me in with the snootiest of the snooty. After all, I did go to school with celebrities and Middle-Eastern nobility. I’ve attended parties where bags of cocaine were handed out as party favors. I’ve skateboarded through the spiraled Guggenheim. I’ve ridden more subways than steam engines.
There are, however, times when I lean on my laurels. At hipster parties pretty much anywhere outside of New York, you mention the letters N-Y-U, and the girl who wouldn’t pass you the warmest Pabst from her messenger bag will suddenly see you as a cool, intellectual way out of her empty, Hot-Topic life. She’ll lead you into the nearest bathroom and let your genitals share stomping grounds with her Bubblicious.
This was one of those nights when it was advantageous to mention my association with the neighborhood where this concert took place. I was at a house party in New Mexico, far from Avenue A, so the Big Apple’s clout worked to my advantage. Some girl named “Andromeda,” hooked on Pop Rocks, actually thought I’d be crafty enough to play Perseus and freight her away from the monster her life had become. For about twelve minutes, I let her believe it.
[via Ryan Walsh and The Stairs]](http://24.media.tumblr.com/azxD5kcjldpotnbxFZzVMh2J_400.jpg)
I went to college in New York, a fact that I tend to omit from most train-yard burn-barrel conversation. Boxcar dwellers don’t look kindly upon the formally educated, and if your formal education comes from New York City, it’s likely they’ll whittle hobo signs on your forehead with rusty box cutters and leave you bleeding in the dirt. A life of privilege, whether economic or academic, cannot be trusted amongst the no-income set. There are too many rich kids playing poor for sport, and although I’m not one of them (I’m genuinely broke, just look at the scars on my feet from stepping on piggy-bank shards), a degree from NYU lumps me in with the snootiest of the snooty. After all, I did go to school with celebrities and Middle-Eastern nobility. I’ve attended parties where bags of cocaine were handed out as party favors. I’ve skateboarded through the spiraled Guggenheim. I’ve ridden more subways than steam engines.
There are, however, times when I lean on my laurels. At hipster parties pretty much anywhere outside of New York, you mention the letters N-Y-U, and the girl who wouldn’t pass you the warmest Pabst from her messenger bag will suddenly see you as a cool, intellectual way out of her empty, Hot-Topic life. She’ll lead you into the nearest bathroom and let your genitals share stomping grounds with her Bubblicious.
This was one of those nights when it was advantageous to mention my association with the neighborhood where this concert took place. I was at a house party in New Mexico, far from Avenue A, so the Big Apple’s clout worked to my advantage. Some girl named “Andromeda,” hooked on Pop Rocks, actually thought I’d be crafty enough to play Perseus and freight her away from the monster her life had become. For about twelve minutes, I let her believe it.
