I don't know if you've heard, but Sunday is a big holiday -- one perhaps rivaling Black Friday in importance. Yep, Christmas is upon us; the time of year when New York cloaks itself in the imagery of classic movies and apartment after apartment of lonely single people cry into their overly-spiked eggnog. Your friendly Whassup writer finds himself in the heartland awaiting snow, but for those of you still in the Slope, prepare to jingle your bells: It's Whassup: All the Ho's Edition:
* Through Christmas: Dyker Lights, Dyker Heights: If you've got some sturdy retinas, a tolerant Holiday-cheer-gag-reflex, and preferably access to a car, trek out to the further reaches of Brooklyn for Dyker Heights' extravaganza of Christmas lights. It's all the glowing Christianity you'll need until Christ appears before you on your death bed in all His glory. And, if that doesn't happen, well, you will have peaked in Dyker Heights. Best viewing, 7-9pm.
While on its way to yesterday's blaze on 7th avenue, a fire truck collided with a jeep, which was forced up onto the curb and into the side of an apartment building.
The accident occured at Bergen Street and New York Avenue in Crown Heights, and left two firefighters and two civilians were injured.
Be careful out there, people!
When a show as great as Bored to Death gets cancelled, its fans react in one of two ways: they sit hunched over computers sending out petitions to PLEASE PLEASE keep the show on air, or they gather with their friends, get shitfaced and mourn the downfall of television. Last night, show creator Jonathan Ames and Park Slope's own John Hodgman invited fans of BTD to partake in the latter (I don't actually know if they got shitfaced. I ducked out shortly after arriving so that I could write this before waking up way the hell too early to get on a bus to Boston).
Word spread quickly yesterday that Ames and Hodgman had plans to meet up at The Brooklyn Inn in Boerum Hill around 10PM to celebrate three wonderful seasons of the show. Ames even promised to buy everyone drinks. I arrived around 9:15 and the bar was already packed and stuffy. Once I felt inevitable boob sweat pooling, I hightailed it outside for cooler air (side note: today is the first day of winter. It should not be 55 degrees outside). I made it out onto the sidewalk just as Jonathan Ames arrived. There was a group of around 30-40 people eagerly waiting to get into The Brooklyn Inn, and he addressed them, first by recommending that they start a second party at a nearby bar.
Last night I woke to a knock at my door. It was not a gingerly-knuckled, Dear-God-I-Know-It’s-Late-And-I’m-Totally-Sorry-But-This-Is-An-Emergency knock. It was an aggravated, You’ve-Been-In-The-Bathroom-For-Twenty-Minutes-And-There-Are-Other-People-At-This-Party-Who-Need-To-Pee knock. I thought perhaps I was dreaming and rolled over. Then I heard it again, followed by a voice.
“Helloooo,” she crowed through the door.
I looked at my phone. It was 3AM. What the fuck.
“Open the door,” she called out again. “I know you’re in there.”
Well of course I’m in here, I thought. I live here.
The nasally cadence belonged to *Gail, who lived in the apartment directly below mine. I put a pillow over my head and held my breath, lest she recognize the breathing patterns of someone who is awake and in no mood for any of this. She lingered for a moment before trodding lazily back down the hall.