Come On, Let's Go.


This Friday, I was sitting at work listening to NPR when a short feature on hyperlocal blogging came up. Needless to say, anytime the phrase "future of journalism" comes up, as it did, I become somewhat skeptical. The end result of my skepticism was a tweet-off between my friend Sarah (with a few contributions from her husband RJ.) This is a bit inside-baseball for those of you not residing in the five boroughs, so feel free to ask me to further disparage my hometown in the comments. Now, without further ado and in no particular order, a series of potential hyperlocal headlines for Brooklyn:

Gerritsen Beach: Tales of insane backyard wrestling and the east coast's only Juggalos.

Boro Park: Is your sheitel out of style? Summer '10 sheitel street fashion.

Kensington: Is there such a thing as too much tacky fake fur? The results may surprise you. (Answer: No.)

Marine Park: Local stuff do to: nothing.

Sheepshead Bay: Jesus Christ lady you're 55 time to put away the leggings and miniskirt.

Brighton Beach: Tourists: tired of having horrible opinions about Harlem? have we got the neighborhood for you!

Carroll Gardens/Fort Greene: Not Park Slope but an incredible simulation.

East New York: "East Bushwick" is too a neighborhood, realtors say.

Red Hook: Hello? Anyone out there? We have a Safeway. Hello?

Park Slope: Are baby carriages awesome? We survey Frank from down the hall.

...and one for Queens:

Astoria: More shit to do in Astoria because you sure as hell aren't going anywhere and no one is visiting you.


Certain Prides Thus Obliged

I rode the wrong train home, adding an eight block-long walk to my odyssey from Brooklyn's hip north end. As I plugged away at retaining consciousness on the preceding line, a headful of red wine shifted my attention away from the conductor's garbled announcements and toward the bored young blond sitting across from me. My shirking faculties robbed me of heed for the proper transfer and I boarded my second-choice train, which arrived with a merciful expedience.

It was the wrong end of five in the morning when I came to and debarked – staggered off – at the correct stop in my neighborhood. This was a laudable accomplishment in itself; I was afraid that enjoying a drink and living in Brooklyn's southern boondocks would, yet again, add up to a firm rise-and-shine prodding, indelicately administered by a police officer walking the graveyard terminus beat at Coney Island. I had originally planned to sit out the night, made timid by the radio's apocalyptic pronouncements of the upcoming weather. Fortuitously, the snow had lingered long enough for my night to resolve itself, and lazily tumbled from the stars as I plodded home through the orange silence which descends hand-in-glove with every nocturnal snowfall.

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Parenthetical Girls - This Regrettable End


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