Slippery Slope

This post, from Brownstoner (coupled with this one from Gawker) draw attention to the winds of change a-blowin' through my corner of Brooklyn. I live in the hot neighborhood du jour? And said neighborhood extends all the way to 24th Street and 3rd Ave.? Jigga wha?

Real estate agents are fond of hyperbole; we all know that. But even provided that fact, this definition is a major stretch. I've always thought of our block, with its charming view of the Prospect Expressway, as the southern tail-end of Park Slope. If you consult maps that are more than a few years old, where I live is not Park Slope at all, but Windsor Terrace: Park Slope ends at 15th Street, or even, on very old maps, 9th Street. And our street does have a borderland vibe: Walk one direction and you're on boutique-hipster-bar-and-restaurant-laden 7th Avenue. Walk the other way, and you're in what a friend of mine terms "vinyl siding land" -- no brownstones, no hipster bars, and a markedly different set of residents (such as FGoaB).

For clarification, 24th Street is nearly 10 blocks south of where I live, and four avenues west. I haven't been down that way in a couple years, but I think I can safely assume that it still looks and feels nothing like Park Slope. And if we want to get technical -- it's not even on a slope. The big hill that supposedly protects me and my neighbors from impending hurricane surge effectively ends at 4th Avenue.

So let's think up a new name for this neighborhood. Apparently we can't just call it Sunset Park anymore. South-South-Slope is silly. "Greenwood Heights," another real estate eupheism I've heard bandied about, is ridiculous because, like I said, there are no heights or slopes on 3rd Avenue. Maybe since my 'hood is no longer called Windsor Terrace, we can start calling this new neighborhood Windsor Terrace, just to keep the name in the family. Suggestions??

Watching The Bachelor

I realize I'm a bit late to the Bachelor/Bachelorette party, considering this season marks the, oh, eleventy billionth incarnation. I didn't even intend to start watching. It was Monday night, and I was home, and I was trying to give Uncle Jesse's show a second chance, and the Bachelor was on right after. I got sucked in. But hey, it's better than the time I got sucked in to The Real Gilligan's Island, right? Yes, way better.

I get the feeling that this show has already seen its heyday. Last night was only the third episode, and we're already down to just six girls, from 25. It's like the producers aren't even trying to drag out the suspense. But they're milking the most out of the few truly embarrassing moments that have occurred, like the "my eggs are rotting" girl and the "I'm going to fashion an orange peel into fake teeth" girl, as well as a halfhearted attempt to cast Melana as a villain (okay, so all the other girls do sort of hate her. Is it because of her "edgy" skull-and-crossbones shirt?).

Actually, I'm kind of surprised how sympathetic I am to most of the women. I'd always assumed they'd be man-hungry, overly emotional bimbettes, but a lot of them do seem smart and accomplished. There must be something about the promise of true love in a magical, made-for-TV setting that makes emotions run high and reduces at least two people per episode to tears in front of a camera that always waits that extra moment before cutting away. Either that, or -- and here comes my big Bachelor theory -- it's the alcohol. There is not one single scene on this program in which the drinks are not flowing. Seemingly within an instant of arriving on any given location, everyone has a (free, neverending) cocktail in her hand. Which of course leads to things like karate chopping demonstrations, yelling "pull my f*cking hair!" at your fellow contestants, and throwing yourself at a hot-but-kinda-bland guy who probably isn't even your type (actually, he's everyone's type -- that's why he's so bland. Ooh, another epiphany!) -- not to mention a crying jag or two. It's like watching our home movies from college: amusing, occasionally uncomfortable, and not something I'd want nationally televised.

Oh, and someone totally needs to give Ali G. (the my-eggs-are-rotting doctor) her own show, where men compete to fulfill her desire to, as she so clinically puts it, "reproduce." It can be like a reality show version of Grey's Anatomy. Call it... Who Wants to Fertilize a Bachelorette?

"upscale" "modern" "boozin'"

Holla! It's Restaurant Week! I'm going here on Thursday, and yes, yes we did plan our reservations around the O.C.

As Zagat sayeth, it's "upscale" and "modern." As real people I know sayeth, it has "slammin'" "pomegranate" "margaritas."

Coincidentally, I received my office football pool payout yesterday. What did I tell you?

Case of the Mondays

Just because... here's the Office Space quiz:

What Office Space character are you? [Quizilla]

I'm Lawrence, the mulleted, porn-watching next door neighbor. F-in' A, man.

I wanna rock your potty **

The one and only instance in which I would use a Port-a-John:




** shut up. I had to.

Pit Stop [People.com]

Calvin & Hobbes, birth control and RIPSTERS

It's always fun to read essays that name-check my institute of higher learning -- aka the apparent birthplace of "ripsters." Cue tears of pride.

And for the record, there ain't no "local Blockbuster" in the Vern. You mean the Video Update, beeyatch!

Hips of Steel [Village Voice]

Hey, preppy

Is it wrong that the very name of Mark-Paul Gosselaar still makes me swoon, in all its be-hyphened and double-aa'ed glory?

He looks a little splotchy here, but you can tell the preppy schemer still lurks within. Congrats, Zack Morris and non-Kelly Kapowski wife!

Mark-Paul Gosselaar & Wife Expecting [People.com]

Unlucky day my arse!

Be still my yupster heart -- a new Anthropologie is opening in Rock Center, mere yards from my place de indentured servitude!

Heralded by hundreds of levitating marshmallows (no really, that's what those are), it shall serve as a big eff-you to legions of Winnie-the-Pooh-sweatshirt-wearing tourists.

People, it's Midtown. You've got to embrace the small victories. It's better than the friggin Abercrombie!

Update: Yes, I know you can see me in the reflection. It's artsy, no?

It's Friday the 13th...

...but don't let that get you down. Just focus on this guy and he'll make you happy, I promise.

A Better Body in 64 Payments [NYT]

Thought of the day

"Earth is a juicy little planet on the outer edge of a ripped galaxy called Ryan Atwood."

Thanks, Mad Libs desk calendar (and by extension, Denise)!

"I wish we WERE yuppies!"

Ever read the headline of one of those newsmagazine "trend" pieces and go, "oh crap, I bet that's me"?

The Rise of the 'Yupster' - Newsweek Periscope - MSNBC.com

As it turns out, I'm not a yupster. I do own music by Sufjan Stevens, but I've never set foot inside a Land Rover. (Luckily, the article says nothing about Anthropologie.)


"Young, upwardly mobile, professional...those are good things, not bad things!"

Get out of my gym: A public service announcement

New Year's resolutions are great, aren't they? A whole new year and a fresh start at joining a gym and working all that junk out of your trunk. Aww. That would be really charming and admirable if you were actually going to stick to your resolution past February. But you're not -- you just don't have the willpower -- and in the meantime, you're taking up space on the elliptical trainer.

We all have to start somewhere, and I applaud anyone who makes a commitment to developing even a modicum of physical fitness. I gorged myself during the holidays, too, and the need to work it off is strong. But if you won't be here in March, June or September too, do us all a favor and don't use all the towels in the locker room. Think instead of the time you could be spending at home. I'm sure your couch misses you.

And "I don't know where the paper towels are" is not a valid excuse for not wiping down your machine. Find them. I'll wait while you do it.

Sheesh.