You’re my first Web crush since 1997.” The window of the Gchat box flashed green, telling me David had typed a new message.When I read his confession, I felt a girlish pride for winning his attention, but also a sense of hesitation, guessing that Web crushes could only be reserved for pervs, nerds or socially awkward types. A lustful admission was a bit of a creepy thing for David to say considering we hadn’t even met. He was on the other side of the Atlantic chatting to me from Amsterdam while I sat in my Williamsburg loft, hugging my glowing white MacBook to my chest. Read more Read it in print

Virginia Bartlett, whose proud cleavage and ageless figure embodies the classic glamour of a Latina Sophia Lauren, swears incredible things happened at the Studio Coffee Shop in Hell’s Kitchen. The 68-year-old blond Puerto Rican spent over a decade as the coffee shop’s sole waitress and when she walks down the street she’s still recognized by many. The place, which was no bigger and just as grimy as a doughnut cart, once stood on the ground floor of the Film Center Building on Ninth Avenue between West 44th and 45th streets and has since been transformed into Nizza, an Italian-French restaurant. Read more

For a quintessentially Brooklyn writer, Jonathan Ames sounds awfully L.A. When we caught up with Ames, whose new HBO show Bored to Death premiered on Sunday, he was driving to a rental car depot to renew his wheels. Still, he managed to find some time for the paper he used to toil at to talk about Craigslist, Russian baths and the secrets of his success. Read more

Beyond the tourists listening to live Lennon covers at Strawberry Fields and the jazz band playing on the grass, another sound emerges from the depth of the trees in New York's Central Park: the low bass of dance music. A closer look reveals figures who look like they could have stepped out a 1970s theme movie—perhaps Roll Bounce or the equally disco-tastic Roller Boogie. The weekly dance skaters whizz by in a roped-off oval area, doing what they have done for the past 30 years. And then Lezly Ziering takes the lead. Read more

WISH I COULD blame nuclear weapons, a mutant virus or Hitler for the malformation in my Russian Jewish bloodline, but my theory is a suicide gene. That coupled with an inability to bond during difficult times. We held our sorrow separately, a silent pact—if we didn’t put words to it, nothing was awry. With a child’s vocabulary I tried to convey the dark storms in my head, but felt my efforts swept aside. “What the hell does that kid have to be depressed about?” Dad asked. Mom shushed him. I was unglued and my family found me exhausting. Read more Read it in print

Winter, December 1991, on the phone. “So you know what I was thinking?” Andreas asks. “What?” “I was thinking if maybe we might want to think about getting married.” Read more

"In the federal trial, AIG alleges that ousted CEO Maurice 'Hank' Greenberg left AIG in 2005 with 290 million shares of illegally seized stock, since sold for an estimated $4.3 billion ..." "A consortium led by Kumho Investment Bank has taken over the headquarters " The disintegrating company's news Googles into my inbox, like jagged rocks down an avalanche. I could tell you about AIG. Read more

So, you throw a five dollar bill into the hat that I’m holding out for you (thank you, sir), and then she’s dancing, just for you, sliding up and down your lap, and turning around to give you a look at those two breasts, those perfect little wonders, those pasty-covered tetas, as she brings her body close enough to make you smell the peaches and cream lotion that’s all up and down her perfect porcelain skin, making you think, oh yeah, that’s right, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. Read more

The garage reminded me of my mom. She was the only one who paid much attention to it. Situated in between my Greenwich Village apartment and Jack’s Falafel (where, as she would say, they “irresponsibly” threw rice on the sidewalk for the “flying rats” to congregate in numbers to eat), the garage and its cars constantly encroached upon my sidewalk and was “incredibly dangerous” for pedestrians. My mother constantly warned me that a car would come out of the darkness and injure me while I “daydreamed like some kind of hooligan.” And daydream I did as I walked back from Nomaan’s Falafel (for which I braved the walk for a cheaper price and more authentic sounding name than Jack’s). Read more

Thanks to everyone who entered our first 8 Million Stories Summer Writing Contest. We received over 200 entries, both fiction and non-fiction, and after careful consideration by our judges, we selected a first place winner for both categories. The winner of the non-fiction summer writing contest will be announced in next weeks issue. Read more Read it in print