For those who haven't set foot in the hallowed space that is the Park Slope Food Coop, it may come as a surprise that any member, whether working or not, can just pick up one of the phones on the floor and make an announcement/request/whatever over the intercom. (Local?) Comedian Willy Appelman made this YouTube video of things he's overheard at the coop. Coop members -- what's the craziest thing you've heard on the intercom?
There are so many dating/hooking up services now. What about just being friends? You know, without the reason being because one of you doesn't want to get busy with the other one. Swing by the shower I'm crying in sometime and I'll tell you all about it. Having friends to chill with is pretty neat. If you're in your 30's and in the friendship market hit these ladies up. Bonus points for dogs!
One day my grandmother, a monster of a person, called to let me know she had something special for me. Foolishly forgetting all gifts from Satan come with a terrible price, I ran over to Woodside to pick it up. My grandfather, who passed away in the mid 1980's, had left two bottles of booze in the closet. She explained she knew how much I liked drinking and since I never really got to know him she wanted me to have it. Weeks later I tried the first bottle. It was a half finished pint of rum. There was hair on the lip and it reeked of paint thinner but anything good enough for Daddy Jim was good enough for me. So I fired it down the hatch. My world turned black as I burned everything from the back of my throat to the bottom of my stomach. This was the water that flows through the river Styx. It's not for human consumption. It's meant to ferry the dead along to some unimaginable hell. It was a long and painful night for me. I called grandma the next day to ask what the deal was. She confessed it wasn't from Daddy Jim but it was from the mid 80's. She found it on the bus. 30 years ago.
Anyway, this idiot forgot his beer on the bus. Hopefully somebody drank it immediately.
I may never get over the loss of my favorite neighborhood retailer, Scaredy Kat, which closed its President Street and Fifth Avenue location about a year ago, when the owners decided to move [back?] to North Carolina. Or maybe it was South Carolina. Whatever; they’re gone, and now I’m forced to buy sub-par stationery and tchotchkes at [gag] “Possibilities on the Slope” (or “Toys" or whatever the fuck that store calls itself now). That place depresses and/or angers me every single time I enter it.
For fourteen years, in its three different locations (all within a 90 second walk from my house), Scaredy was my reliable supplier of party invitations, gifts, and loot bag fillers that were quirky, uncommon, a little kitschy or ironic, charming, and just generally-speaking not-generic-mass-produced crap. Most essentially, Scaredy offered a large and irresistible array of letter-press greeting cards: I would estimate that 92-95% of the birthday, anniversary, and Valentine’s Day cards that my husband and I exchanged for close to 15 years, came from Scaredy. And each one was as delightful as the next. Our shared, unspoken agreement: as long as the card comes from Scaredy, you know I’ll like it.
In the throws of summer, sometimes the only escape is drowning your sorrows. Smelly strangers, scalding subway stations, unrivaled humidity. What better way to circumvent the realities of your everyday than taking a trip to the old packy—if you know what I mean.
Each event this week can be wonderfully accompanied by the booze of your choice—a couple even feature the stuff. I’m not advocating over-drinking and showing up stupid outside someone’s window holding a boom box. I’m suggesting you take the edge off. It’ll get you through the tepid coughs of relief from window units and probably improve a lot of these events.
Whassup? This is WHASSUP:
Thursday, 7/17, Walking With Dinosaurs, Barclays Center: This has to pull the heartstrings of kids and inner kids alike. These fuckers are life-size, animatronic, lizards that have come to our rusty arena to amaze and scare the fossilized shit right out of you. $45-$114, 7pm
Friday, 7/18, Doggy Fashion Show, Freddy’s: This. Is. Happening. On Friday a section of 5th Ave. in South Slope will be closed to crazies and the furry friends they love to dress up. Be sure to click on the link. The poster says it all. FREE ENTRY, 6:30pm
Wendell Jamieson’s essay in last Sunday's NYT’s travel section is the antithesis of Fucked in Park Slope. “Why’s that, because it’s actually well written?” you might ask. Funny, dick. No. Jamieson walks through Brooklyn and sees it with a loving eye, talking about what he thinks are positive changes and pointing out old businesses and cultural centers that still thrive here. And he’s completely earnest. We, on the other hand, tend to come at it like a bunch of immature assholes who can only express ourselves sarcastically. We talk shit about every new idea and whine when we can’t have something we didn’t even care about until we were told we couldn’t have it.
When Jamieson says “Brooklyn has come to represent: stylish yet relaxed, ironically embracing its industrial roots,” he generally means it in a positive way. “Of course, there are more than two Brooklyns, and it’s impossible to visit or name or know all of them... But these worlds feel in sync now. I wonder how long it will last,” the motherfucker writes later in the essay, as he actually enjoys living in the present and seeing the good in things.