WHO GIVES A SHIT: WHAT'S YOUR LIVING SITCH?

A couple of recent Times pieces about housing in New York have me curious: what's your living situation?  Is anyone voluntarily destroying his/her sex life by living with parents on the cheap, or doing the (apparently illegal) apartment-as-sardine tin with a bunch of others?  Or are you all real live grown-ups with your own places?  (Related: Nothing charms a single New Yorker as much as a dishwasher and in-house laundry.)

Personally, I share my place with a couple of actors.  While I'm obviously jetting the hell out of there to my own space the second I can afford it, I have a decent apartment and I've never had it interfere with, um, personal matters.  And, even though I suppose I could, I don't live with my folks.  (Also related: This is probably the only reason they still love me.)

BALLERS, DINKS, BREEDERS with 2.3 perfect children, tell me in the comments!  And feel free to go stealth anon if you don't want that Coop chick you've been courting on OKCupid to know that your mama's still washing your skivvies.  You just haven't told her yet, I'm sure.

FORNINO HEADED TO THE SLOPE

Of my top five favorite things in life, one of them is pizza (a few of the others are not suitable for publication).  So, when new pizza comes to the Slope, I welcome it with open arms...and an open top button on my pants.

Cue the (re)entrace of Fornino, currently nestled into your (probably least) favorite stretch of Bedford Avenue in Williamsburg.  Fornino will be opening up a location right on Fifth Avenue at Garfield (where Brooklyn native chef Michael Ayoub actually originally opened up, oddly enough), bringing their acclaimed pizza into the old Tempo space.  Rumor has it there will be an attached store with pastas, cheeses, sauces, and prepped foods, too (a la Russos?). 

This is right across the street from La Villa, so I'm expecting something of an epic pizza throwdown to be had.  Thoughts on a winner?  And if Williamsburg is now slowly but surely migrating to Park Slope, please bring Motorino immediately, and leave behind the...well, I don't have to say it, do I?

(via Slice)

FIPS MARCH MADNESS POOL: JUST DO IT

It is officially my favorite time of year.  The birds are chirping, the sun is shining, my friends start questioning my commitment to my social life, and my dad says things like, “I’m so glad I had a son.”

IT, MY FRIENDS, IS TIME FOR MADNESS.  MARCH MADNESS.

Besides discovering this week that I was a childhood punk, you will also learn that I am an out-of-my-mind insane college basketball fan.  Whatever, let it go.  The point to this self-indulgent post is that FIPS has a March Madness pool on ESPN.

Click here to join (password is “fips”).  You only have until NOON today to get in on the action, SO DO IT.  Beyond the obvious glory of winning the Internet, there may be a prize TBD that is even better than watching me publically embarrass myself with all of the unreasonable upsets I chose.

Do it, Slope.   Just fucking do it.

EAT YOUR HEART(BURN) OUT: TACOS!

Fuck this writing thing.  I've found my new calling: competitive eating.  Of course, I'm not a Japanese dude, and I'm basically done in after a slice and a half of pizza.  But no matter.  I'll be getting my start* at the Barrio Taco Eating Contest.

Yes, let me say it again: BARRIO TACO EATING CONTEST.

Thursday, March 18, drag your asses down to 210 Seventh Avenue (you know, that gigantic pink and orange place that's equally as offensive to the eyes as it is freaking delicioso) at 7pm.  Bring a shit ton of antacid.  Only rule: first clean plate wins.

I've always found eating contests (Wikipedia says "competitive eating" is actually a thing) to be the most repusive thing in the word.  Like, I physically shudder every time I pass the countdown clock at Nathan's on Coney Island.  But there's something about Coop-crazed, latte sippers stuffing their faces with upscale fair that tickles me pink (and orange, I guess).

You game?  Email Barrio to let them know you're in.  Prize is a $100 gift certificate, and I guess the glory of being the grossest yuppie on the Slope.  I promise up and down I will post photos if you send them to us.

(via 24/Seven)

*This is a gigantic lie.

GET DRUNK ON CUPCAKES: DEEP FRIED REDUX

St. Pat knows his fucking cupcakes. (Cupcake photo: Amber)

Unless you're totally illiterate actually blind, by now, you know that the FIPS staff basically come at the mere mention of Robicelli's deep fried cupcakes.  Lest you forget, they're like sex.  Or drugs.  Probably both at once.

Since you're already all going to be smashed to smitherines, drunk as fuck, or whatever collegeate-derived substitute you use to describe your incapacitated, alcoholic selves on St. Patrick's Day tomorrow, why not visit cupcake nirvana, too?  ESPECIALLY if you missed Part I at Union Hall.

Robicelli's will be instating the return of the deep fried cupcake at The Double Windsor tomorrow night, frying up Car Bomb cupcakes (chocolate Guinness cake with Jameson whiskey ganache and Bailey's buttercream, yes pul-leaze) from 6 p.m. until the cupcakes run out, or everyone at the bar is too gone to work a deep fryer.  Or stand.  Whichever comes first.

I'm not sure who else from the FIPS crew will be there, but this shit's right around the corner from my place, so I'll see you all there.  I'm boring and sober, but hand me your cameras, and I promise I'll document all of the things you don't want to remember on Thursday morning.  And I can tell you who won't be there - motherfucking babies.