As you loyal readers may have gleaned from reading my blog over the past four years, I am not much of a fighter. I have terrible hand-eye coordination and am easily distracted by shiny things such as passing headlights and York Peppermint Patties. I tend to wear unsupportive footwear and constrictive Muppet mittens, and my only real weapon is my ability to shriek repeatedly at glass-shattering decibels. Despite my alarmingly frequent fantasies about cage-fighting my enemies, Matrix-style, to a soundtrack composed entirely of Ludacris and House of Pain, I am, at the end of the day, an eater, not a fighter.
That said, I must stand up for my home turf.
Now, Park Slope is essentially the least tough place in the world to say you're from*. The only hometown that sounds less tough than Park Slope is Avon-by-the-Sea, because it sounds like you are saying you are from Puddleby-on-the-Marsh or The Hundred Acre Wood or some equally butterly-infested children's paradise. Except that Avon-by-the-Sea is less than 19 miles from where the Jersey Shore house is, which means that you could be dealing with a hardbodied, roid-raging, hair product-abusing guido and so should probably not make fun of his town's sissy name.
Park Slope, of course, is generally thought of as a sissy place. It's become the poster community for yuppies, an urban sanctuary where young, rich white people can move into multi-million dollar brownstones with their babies so that they have more space in which to sip their lattes and stow their bugaboo strollers and write New York Times bestsellers about being sanctimonious vegans. It stands for a sort of entitlement that it didn't used to, back when it was an immigrant community in the early 20th century and even back when it was just starting its gentrification in the 1980s, when me and my family moved onto a fairly gritty block that back then was still a popular site for prostitutes to stroll. Which is precisely the problem I have with Courtney's blog.
It's a free country and she can write whatever she wants. God knows I'm still shocked that people read my ramblings. But being a (presumably) quite wealthy and non-working person and writing a blog about how to bring fabulousity to a community you've only just arrived in is a little bit insulting to those of us without much disposable income who've been here for awhile. Here is how Courtney says hello to her new neighbors:
Apparently, I’m the only one in Park Slope who wants to stay warm…and fabulous at the same time. I got some pretty interesting looks on my outing, and it’s about time. To be honest, I was happy that they were taking notice that there is something else out there than long black The North Face down coats and mittens made in Nepal. I don’t understand, you are missing out on all the fun it is to be Fabulous! I miss seeing other people all dolled up, contemplating what the new “it” bag is, and seeing the most incredible new Loubitons on the girl across the street.Well, it looks like someone won't be joining the Food Co-Op.
But seriously, look, Courtney, I like being fabulous and fun. Really I do. I throw a great sweatpants dance party to Prince's "Pussy Control." It's just that I don't believe in wearing fur and I like my sub-zero down coat that makes me look like the Michelin Man because it keeps me from freezing my ass off when I walk around judging other people, and also I can fit an entire sandwich in one pocket. I would contemplate what the new 'It' bag is but it would be kind of pointless seeing as I can't afford it anyway and also, then what would I do with the other 23 hours and 59 seconds of my day? And as for seeing the most incredible new Louboutins on that girl across the street (that would be... you, I guess?), well, mostly I would just wonder where exactly the fuck she thinks she is.
We may be sissies, Courtney. We may be yuppies. But we're from Brooklyn. We know better than to pound this cracked-to-shit pavement in $700 shoes.
Yes, that's right. I am beaming my Brooklyn pride out through my pits, that's how fucking proud I am.
(OK, now that House of Pain has stopped playing and I've stopped levitating and shrieking, I'm going back to being non-confrontational. Somebody jump in my way if she tries to swat me with her Burberry umbrella.)
*Park Slope is made even less tough by its nickname, "Dyke Slope," alluding to the unusually high number of gay women who make their home here. Nope, not kidding.