I’m the hero.
I’m going to be the hero in this story,
This here’s a quaint and masterful tale, involving a nice group of indie kids who live in New York City, and pretend to have magic when they know of course they really don’t. Except they really do, or they might, but they can’t know that because it would spoil them rotten, and no one could ever tell them anyway.
A few of them live in a red brick building above a hookah bar, lounge, and café located on 2nd st and 1st ave in the Lower East Side. It’s listed in guidebooks and directories as Hadi Badi, serving 32 varieties of apple-mint hookah, and pineapple-and-vodka drinks with names like “The Sphynx” or “King Pharoah”. This situation is most convivial , which is an SAT word meaning warm, pleasant, gracious, friendly or affable. It’s also rather funny and marvelously convenient- particularly in the wintertime when we’re all much too frozen, and lazy, to walk outside.
Hadi Badi is owned and run by our half-stoned landlord, Mohammed Ramadan, whose knowledge of libido is a sure sign of entrepreneurial genius or pent-up pedophilia. The entire place is shaded in a hazy pink glow, and cushioned with blankets, pillows, nostalgic posters and seedy photographs. It takes up half the block with three rooms, and in one of them is a little loft with a second floor three feet from the ceiling.
Please note that you can’t actually have hookah there because of state fire codes, and that it’s also impossible to see anyone who goes up to the loft from eye level.
At some point in this story, I’m going to discover a way to sneak up there after the place closes, thus earning the badge of debauchery endearing to a modern day hero.
We haven’t an elevator, but the place boasts a roof and a fire escape that usually accommodate such strange and similar occurrences.
I live on the third floor in apartment eleven, which neighbors the illustrious charm of my friends Kate and Lauren. They’d probably make for better heroes, but they’re already engaged in activities infinitely cooler than telling you just how their lives work. If they had a spare moment to do so, however, they would start screening a film themed brilliantly vaudeville, with color, light, music and spectacular animation; altogether clever and terribly entertaining. But like I said, I seem to be the only one to find this essential, so I suggest identifying with me as soon as possible if you’d like to learn anything at all.
You’re probably in here, you know, or you’ll show up at some point soon. Mostly, because I’m too insecure to show this to anyone but my friends just yet.
Also, I would like to invite you at any time to text me with tips to improve the content of this debacle, at 508-963-1483 or masinov@gmail.com.
I’m going to be the hero in this story,
This here’s a quaint and masterful tale, involving a nice group of indie kids who live in New York City, and pretend to have magic when they know of course they really don’t. Except they really do, or they might, but they can’t know that because it would spoil them rotten, and no one could ever tell them anyway.
A few of them live in a red brick building above a hookah bar, lounge, and café located on 2nd st and 1st ave in the Lower East Side. It’s listed in guidebooks and directories as Hadi Badi, serving 32 varieties of apple-mint hookah, and pineapple-and-vodka drinks with names like “The Sphynx” or “King Pharoah”. This situation is most convivial , which is an SAT word meaning warm, pleasant, gracious, friendly or affable. It’s also rather funny and marvelously convenient- particularly in the wintertime when we’re all much too frozen, and lazy, to walk outside.
Hadi Badi is owned and run by our half-stoned landlord, Mohammed Ramadan, whose knowledge of libido is a sure sign of entrepreneurial genius or pent-up pedophilia. The entire place is shaded in a hazy pink glow, and cushioned with blankets, pillows, nostalgic posters and seedy photographs. It takes up half the block with three rooms, and in one of them is a little loft with a second floor three feet from the ceiling.
Please note that you can’t actually have hookah there because of state fire codes, and that it’s also impossible to see anyone who goes up to the loft from eye level.
At some point in this story, I’m going to discover a way to sneak up there after the place closes, thus earning the badge of debauchery endearing to a modern day hero.
We haven’t an elevator, but the place boasts a roof and a fire escape that usually accommodate such strange and similar occurrences.
I live on the third floor in apartment eleven, which neighbors the illustrious charm of my friends Kate and Lauren. They’d probably make for better heroes, but they’re already engaged in activities infinitely cooler than telling you just how their lives work. If they had a spare moment to do so, however, they would start screening a film themed brilliantly vaudeville, with color, light, music and spectacular animation; altogether clever and terribly entertaining. But like I said, I seem to be the only one to find this essential, so I suggest identifying with me as soon as possible if you’d like to learn anything at all.
You’re probably in here, you know, or you’ll show up at some point soon. Mostly, because I’m too insecure to show this to anyone but my friends just yet.
Also, I would like to invite you at any time to text me with tips to improve the content of this debacle, at 508-963-1483 or masinov@gmail.com.
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