The Nightmare of Brooklyn Real Estate: a reality check from 1905

As many events in my life are, this post was sparked by a discussion on Gawker (lately, it’s the rare one which doesn’t center around how awful Kinja is becoming, and god knows, it started out badly).

Yuppies have apparently Burst Williamsburg’s Borders, Spilling Out in All Directions.

I imagine that looked something like this.

…and was welcomed by the locals in much the same spirit.

Now, I’m going to make a radical proposal. There will be mucho blowback on this controversial statement; of that I am well aware. My lawyers are standing by, along with a team of trained PR ninjas, to ensure we all come out of the ensuing melee with our orthodontistry intact.

I’m going to say that the gentrification of Brooklyn has been going on for more than a century. It’s true! There never was a time when it was “the undiscovered country!” And there never really was a time when anyone was happy to move out of Manhattan and across a bridge, unless they were getting out of the MCC.

Here’s your proof. Memory is a wonderful thing, my friends, for lo, it has enabled me to read a Gawker post about sprawling colonialism in Brooklyn and tie it to this comic, from Dreams of the Rarebit Fiend, a marvelous collection of turn of the last century but one comics, all based on nightmares from having had too much Welsh Rarebit. I must test this theory out on the ol’ drinkscoaster blog someday, and snarf a whole Welsh Rarebit just before bed, preferably with the kind of beer that just gets gassier the farther along the gastrointestinal tract it gets.

From the brilliantly twisted mind of Winsor McCay, and from the readers who sent in their dreams for illustrations (or the stories he made up when nobody was forthcoming; was this the first Overheard In model in history?), not to mention the good people at the Comic Strip Library,  comes this panel. True then as now, down to the olde timey get-ups and the novelty smoking equipment.

Brooklyn Real Estate Dreams of the Rarebit Fiend

Brooklyn Real Estate Dreams of the Rarebit Fiend

About these ads

Party On, Rude!

And fuck your manscaper too!

And fuck your manscaper too!

spend more time on your eyebrows bro

fuck you too

Those are the immortal words of the unnamed shutterbug behind my new favorite Tumblr, “FuckYouPartyPhotographer.”

In an effort to appear badass, and perhaps attempting to top their appearance on DouchebagsLoveGreyGoose, douches and douchettes all over the Vangroover club scene are begging someone to take their picture, only to flip them off when they do.

Yes, I said “Vangroover.” Never was a more perfect coinage minted, for that is where these people live: a strange, ill-lit land where everyone is desperate to give the impression they’re not actually from Surrey.

White Rock means never having to say you're Surrey, Simba

White Rock means never having to say you’re Surrey, Simba

Now, one man is striking back. One man, alone, armed with nothing more than an apparently eye-catching and high-quality photo rig, and a permanent place on the VIP list. And it is glorious.

Fuck you, Combover Boy

Fuck you, Combover Boy

FUCK YOU TOO

who are you, Prince William, duke of assholes ;)

If you go out clubbing in this city and fly the colours for the party photographer, and the colours read “Fuck You,” you can be pretty sure that, sooner or later, you will end up on this Tumblr, and NO, he will not take it down.

What are you gonna do, swear at him?

PS I’m pretty sure that on a lot of those tongues flapped out, Miley-style, that bump isn’t a tongue stud, it’s HPV.

The Ultimate New Media Smackdown! Gawker vs Hulk Hogan

This is astonishing. Stunning. Staggering. Entirely mind-blowing. This video describing the sex tape drama between gossipy website Gawker and immoral wrestler and tanning product abuser Hulk Hogan will cause you to question the very nature of reality, if not the point of existence itself.

I know what you’re wondering; you have the same question as me. We all want to know the answer.

How does that studly himbo Gawker get his logo to float in front of his shirt like that?

Sunday Songlist

Worship Cthulhu

Worship Cthulhu

Welcome to Sunday. Sunday is, quite obviously, the most important day of the week.

It is the day the restaurants close.

In an age of over-adequate labour supplies and chefs, sous chefs, and assistant-sub-sous chefs, there can, of course, be only one reason for EVERY FUCKING RESTAURANT I WANT TO GO TO being closed on a Sunday. TWICE IN A ROW.

Everyone on staff has gone off to worship.

Cthulhu worship

Cthulhu worship

For those of you picturing neat rows of Episcopalian pews filled with shiny, freshly-scrubbed food and beverage staffer faces, allow me to shatter your dreams now. Think back to the last time you were at a good restaurant. The bartender, the waitstaff, the chef, the buspersons…did they look familiar from church? Did they even look like the type of person who goes to your church? I think not. I very much think not.

Yet, Sunday closures. Therefore, they must be Cthulhu worshipppers. It’s the only logical conclusion. When everything impossible has been eliminated whatever is left, however improbable, must be the truth, and you KNOW those people  don’t show up at your church, now do they? So does it really matter what flavour of damnation they choose, whether it’s Lutheranism or SisterWifeism or Whateverism? No. But restaurant staffers, if they’re clever, know exactly how to play the angles. They know how to pick a winner and glom on to him like there’s no tomorrow, which is why Gordon Ramsay’s busboy is the same as he was twenty years ago, only with more scars.

Hence, Cthulhuism.

Cthulhu Worship for doubters

Cthulhu Worship for doubters

Now there’s a religion that pays out for your investment. The stars are going to align almost any day now and when they do, acolytes of the Cult of Cthulhu such as myself and all non-fast-food restaurant staffers are going to be on the top of the world, along with loathesome, towering monstrosities of which you’ve never dreamed in your worst nightmares. If you really, truly doubt that Cthulhuism has infiltrated, influenced, and irrevocably changed mainstream culture, listen up: has there not been a VAST increase in the number of women insisting on being eaten first?

I rest my case.

Now, let us sing, Cthulhian-hipster style.

The Fishy Song

Hey There Cthulhu