Week in Pictures

Life in Brooklyn, week 1. INTO IT.

Obviously.

Coney.

Island.

Is.

INCREDIBLE.

No, seriously. Coney Island is tight. Jill and I shredded a haus music beach rave for HOURS on the boardwalk.

RIGHT?!?!?

My dude Jon on the right, KILLING the dance floor and feelintheparty.

OMG SKYLINE.

Happy birthday America!! For the 4th of July I ate this with Jacob the Mormon at the Gowanus PIG ROAST and then went to a weird farmer’s market rave (everyone that moves here becomes a de facto club kid, #notsorryboutit) and then watched an incredible summer lightening storm because Brooklyn doesn’t get fireworks (wuddever).

MY GRAF GO HARD.

And so will you if these cocktails live up to their names.

Until next time (passing out on subways).

The Spell, it Speaks

New York hot but feet cold (did I tell you I moved to Brooklyn like 3 days ago?). Summer sweat 93 degrees, is this infinity and I’m drinking it all in like I saw the sign and it’s to stay hungry, hydrated.

Yesterday I scoped Scotty (favorite yoga instructor a la Berkeley YTTP) brown-bagging on the F en route to teach hot yoga to the islanders (Manhattan, get it?!) after he had spent the morning shredding the new skate park under the Manhatz Bridge. Rapped welcomes and united in mutual appreciation of the swelter amidst seas of groans from those who don’t care to mire in their own perspiration. Tapped my window after he hopped off the train, I grinned.

Signs.

They’re not just chance encounters with once-strangers who taught me how to bend my body in platonic but not unspiritual ways. The last two people I met and digies I had to get had names of straight sibilance. Deep browns enticed near subway stops and I fell into the tender trappings of a captivating groove. Seduction sizzles sweet, seems like summer will be suavestankserenesmoothandgrimey like asphalt on street. You shiver pleasure, I’m stuck on stoops struck like… The Spell it Speaks.