In the refrigerated storage room behind Nathan's Famous, red-shirted men stacked crates of hot dog buns and tried to conceal their laughter.We did look a bit ridiculous, the five of us, huddled near the doorway beneath an enormous porcelain wiener, waiting for Richard Shea to call our names. Read more Read it in print

Whenever I'm feeling like a filthy degenerate, I like to pay a visit to Port Authority. Despite Giuliani’s iron-fisted efforts, the blocks surrounding the bus station still brim with inflatable sex dolls, airplane bottles of vodka and dollar slices of cardboard pizza. Scallywags patrol glass-strewn streets, wetting their wizened whistles at Dave’s Tavern and the Holland Bar. Around Port Authority, drinking is serious business. And business is always booming. Read more Read it in print

As a white heterosexual, New York City professional, you would think I have no idea what it’s like to be part of a minority. You would be wrong. I know what it’s like to endure puzzled looks and subtle digs from people who can’t comprehend my chosen lifestyle. I constantly find myself in awkward social situations where I’m forced to hide, or make excuses for, my dubious identity. Read more

In my short, eventful life, I’ve shoved many a breast into my mouth. Mainly, the mammaries have hailed from chickens, like the crunchy, juicy cluckers from Fort Greene’s No. 7 (7 Greene Ave., betw. Oxford & Fulton Sts.) or the East Village’s first-rate The Redhead (349 E. 13th St., bet. 1st & 2nd Aves.), which makes waist-busters as fab as anything fried down South. But no breast experience could prepare me for what I ingested in northern Africa. Read more

I SHOULD’VE EATEN that sandwich before agreeing to anything Matt Levy offered. “Come on, let’s bike to the eastern edge of Queens and tour Fort Totten,” said my friend, a licensed New York City tour guide. Read more

THE SMELL OF body odor was thick, relentless and arrogant. Tacking dryer sheets to the walls and offering to buy my college roommate deodorant and cologne were no defense against this embedded enemy. One night, I couldn’t handle it anymore. I got out of bed, found a bottle of Febreeze and went directly to the source. Read more Read it in print

Back in frigid February, the news hit like a razor-covered sledgehammer. My favorite butcher shop, Coney Island’s Major Prime Meat Market, was shuttering. Septuagenarian flesh monger Jimmy Prince was closeting his cleavers and trademark neckties. This meant no more dry-aged steaks and fresh-ground “murder” burgers. Read more Read it in print

DO I HAVE to put out?” my friend Aaron asks, that fearful look crinkling his eyes, the one so common in teenage girls following dinner and a movie. Food plus film equals third base? “Not if you don’t want to,” I say, heeding my maxim: one need not squeeze the berry for the sweetest juice. Read more Read it in print

IT’S THE END of May. Fear is in full blossom. Its nauseating scent clings to the clothing of all those graduating college seniors who just want to take their last keg stand and make out with the co-ed they’ve lusted after since freshman orientation. How unfair that the anticipation of change won’t let them give in completely to the decadence of their last days. But in a matter of weeks, college seniors won’t be the only ones facing a new reality. On June 1, Late Night with Conan O’Brien’s former host assumed the reins of NBC’s Tonight Show. Conan took over for Jay Leno, whose long stint in late-night has rendered him the beloved equivalent of what Mr. Rogers once was to daytime TV. Read more Read it in print

I have the best cheese in the world,”the vibrantly inked host says, shuffling to the fridge in his scuffed white shoes. “I like cheese!” I call out idiotically, my inside voices escaping. I pour another cup from the growler of Sixpoint’s Eight Days of Wheat, the Brooklyn brewery’s refreshing summertime sipper. On the grill, spicy sausages plump and red peppers blister. It’s a languid back-deck BBQ, the kind occurring citywide—even here in Jersey City. Read more Read it in print