The Arrival

I wondered for a very long time if I would ever start a blog. While in college I had several super great ideas about starting blogs based on super cool things I like. Those ideas never made it past the abstract phase, thankfully. However I am getting ahead of myself.
My name is Jordan and I have moved to New York City exactly six hours and fifty minutes ago. I do not have my own place, I do not have a job, and the circumstances that prompted me to move here are less than ideal. But I am here.
When I told my friend Roman about the move he immediately suggested that I start this blog and document my process of becoming a New Yorker. With that being said I will make my first post about my friend and how he happens to be incredible. The first time I gave Roman a ride in my car was in 2006. Upon sitting down and closing the door he said, "I feel like doing shooting a gun, picking up a prostitute and doing a line." I drive a 1990 Mercedes S 360 SDL.  Sadly, he did not actually do those things, but the fact that sitting in my car made him want to was rewarding in its own way.
Upon my arrival to Astoria, where I am staying with a close college friend, who also happens to know this Roman guy, shared with me a great story of his own experience. He told me, while at a party involving the amazing Union County, that Roman's drink of choice for the evening was the infamous White Russian. Being a fan of the Dude myself I was interested in where this tale was going. The story went on to a terrifyiing obstacle to anyone who has ever decided to commit to a dairy-based adult beverage: running out of milk. As everyone knows, this is an essential ingredient to the White Russian and needless to say, Roman was rather unhappy. So according to to the story, Roman searched the fridge, which was not his own and found some Whipped Cream via spray can. Being a man who enjoys using improvisation to get him out of any proverbial pickle, Roman then filled a glass with said cream, mixed it with water and looking up at the storyteller, he claimed the glass, "milk."
Some of you may be wondering what this story has to do with me moving to New York. The moral is, no matter how creative or uncreative or passionate or apathetic or sober or inebriated or just plain average you may be, you can always improvise an acceptable milk-substitute. 
I'm a fan of Almond Milk myself. In a pinch that is.
I cooked dinner for my gracious host, using coconut milk. Another good substitute.